Good, Evil, and In-Between on the Streets of New Orleans

She was born into the deep south of America, at the tender age of nineteen, born with a shoelace for a choker—the umbilical cord to the old life—caught around her throat. The one they call "Hatchet" cut her free, smacked her once, and opened her lungs. This young man became her father, and she, his most pure baby bird.

Her mother—or aunt? Or sister?— was a small, practical woman named Ren. Ren and Hatchet were not always friends. Nevertheless, they had the baby bird to foster, so they took her to New Orleans to gingerly spread her wings.

St. Patrick's church bells were heard on St. Charles Avenue that Sunday morning, as the ramshackle family strolled toward the lousy French Quarter. Bourbon Street was the very first stop. Ren and Hatchet day drank brazenly, while the nineteen year old Little Bird fluttered nervously in doorways.

"Two for one, y'all!" the bartender hollered with a grin. Startled, Little Bird backed onto the sidewalk and fell into the dizzying swirl of the crowd. Hatchet pulled her from it.

"She wasn't going to check your I.D. you know."

Gin already wet his mustache, and made his dark eyes flash. But the girl shook her head quickly and smiled with pursed lips. The atmosphere intoxicated her enough as it was.

So the day went, the older two wandering from bar to bar as the younger waited outside, watching the variety of people with wide, curious eyes. At one point, Ren felt her conscience tug at her, as she noticed how alone Little Bird seemed beside the rushing road. She rose from her stool and offered the girl some of her daiquiri. The girl took a delicate sip.

"That's not bad at all!" she marveled.

"That's how you get drunk."

Then Ren pulled from her purse a pinecone and all that remained from a long gone Popsicle.

"Here's a pinecone. Here's a stick." She presented them to Little Bird. "Make fun."

Now Little Bird held these items and considered the possibilities.

Ren returned to her barstool and gathered Hatchet. It was about time they do something as a family, she figured. She marched them all towards some wholesome family fun: beignets at Cafe Du Monde. The green flaps were down on the river-facing side of the establishment, where the three arrived at the end of a long line. Hatchet was not pleased to be drawn from his drinking for this.

"You're really going to wait all this time for a pastry?" he huffed. "I have to see a man about a dog." He took off toward the river, but not without a slight stagger.

"Fuck him," Ren said, blandly. Just then, a gloved hand emerged from the flaps and beckoned to the girls.

"Stay here," Ren ordered, as she approached the hand.

It disappeared, then reappeared a moment later bearing a bag of fresh, warm beignets, free of charge, free of wait. Little Bird's jaw dropped, strangers in line ahead glared fiercely, and Ren sauntered back coolly.

"Its because we look like rock stars," she observed, then took Little Bird's arm and directed her to some great big steps falling into the muddy Mississippi.

There at the bottom they found a near biblical scene. A vagabond punk ministered unto his ragged band of disciples, strewn sleepily over the steps. He spoke something like a sermon to them, while Hatchet knelt at his feet, nuzzling the stranger's subdued pup. Little Bird gasped at the connection.

"Is that the man he had to see?" she asked, delighted, "about a dog?"

Ren peered down and saw that Hatchet had indeed found a man and a dog.

"No." She said shortly, with no further explanation. She did, however, lay some wisdom down on the naïve girl in her version of a motherly fashion.

"You will see people like these in any large city you visit." She motioned to the languid forms and their cardboard signs. "They are not bad. They are not good. It is only a lifestyle. It is not our lifestyle. We work."

Little Bird gazed down on the transients, mystified. The vagabond was pointing to distant smokestacks on the crescent river bend and inviting Hatchet to stay with them there on Halloween, and to bring his ladies. Ren adamantly declined. She and Little Bird ate their beignets. Little Bird learned quickly not to inhale, as the pastry, mounted with powdered sugar, entered her mouth, lest the inflowing oxygen bring a thick coating of cough-inducing powdered sugar to the back of her throat. She also noted not to wear black next time.

Hatchet, drunk and friendly, took the vagabond's number then led the girls away across Jackson Square. Everywhere people smiled and called out to them, greeting Hatchet especially.

Little Bird leaned forward and whispered innocently, "The South really is so hospitable!"

Hatchet answered back sharply, "Keep your eyes down and keep walking, Baby Bird! They only want to sell me drugs."

He stroked one of his dreads self-consciously. Little Bird, newly enlightened, looked about the square suspiciously at every errant smile. She did not realize the unspoken communication transpiring between Hatchet and the plugs and pimps. She was not tuned in to the frequency he emitted.

But the Shadow Man was, and he approached Hatchet as purposefully as if they had planned to meet. They stopped on the curving sidewalk under the trees outside Jax's Brewery. A half of a transaction took place.

"Twenty-five for a gram."

Hatchet suggested twenty. The Shadow Man considered, then agreed. The cash went swiftly into his velvet suit coat pocket.

"I don't do hand in hand transactions," he spread his fingers and shrugged with leisure, "so I'll go around this corner and bring it right back in just a minute."

Hatchet froze. He knew then he'd been fooled. Even Little Bird felt doubt stir in her young heart. Ren simply stood apart from the situation, as if embarrassed to witness such a stupid trick.

The Shadow Man took from his neck a gold chain, and placed it in Hatchet's hand.

"Here's my collateral." Then, with an unsettling smile and menacing eyes, he said, "See this briefcase? I've got a piece in here. Don't you go walking off with my chain. I will shoot you." His teeth were bared. His eyes shone terribly. "Don't think you can slip away. I've got eyes all over this city. I will shoot you."

Hatchet was silent and still. Little Bird's blood ran cold.

"I'll be back."

The Shadow Man's voice was sickly sweet. In a few long strides he was gone.

"Hatch? Hatchet?" Little Bird whined, breaking their nervous quiet, "I don't want to die."

Hatchet snapped from his stupor and gently consoled, "He won't shoot us. You won't die," he muttered, in annoyance about the nerve of some people. "If he had only asked for twenty dollars, I'd have given it. No need to threaten our lives."

"I'm bored," Ren said, "let's go."

And just like that they walked off with the man's gold chain. Only Little Bird looked over her shoulder every few minutes, fearfully.

Evening descended on New Orleans and manifested itself in the brighter glow of neon, the deepening of the sky, and the wide river which reflected it all. The three friends returned to the abandoned site of the sermon, after Ren and Hatchet grabbed drinks from the brewery. On the empty steps Hatchet picked up a discarded cardboard sign and asked Little Bird, who had the neatest handwriting, to create on the blank side an inquiry for weed. Ren's teasing eyes sparked.

"Nothing comes for free, Hatchet," she said coyly, "especially in this town. You've gotta work for it."

"Or dance for it!" Little Bird pitched in with a grin.

Hatchet snorted stoically. "I'll drop that thun thun thun for it!"

That was how much he wanted it.

So Little Bird wrote: "WILL DROP THAT THUN THUN THUN FOR $1 OR WEED." She attached the sign with a hairpin to the gold chain around his neck and, noticing a curious bead on the end of a dreadlock, asked timidly, "Is that...bone?"

Hatchet capitalized instantly on her hesitation and cried "Yes!" making his eyes crazy, "made from the bones of a nineteen year old ex-mormon girl, AAAAH!"

And he roared, snapped, and snarled at the girl, who squealed and scurried back to Ren. Hatchet laughed maniacally. They watched from a bench in amusement, as he paced madly up and down the river walk, performing for anything, pointing to the water, the sky, and disinterested pigeons.

"Will drop that thun thun thun! Will drop it!"

"Don't threaten me with a good time!" he shouted at folks approaching, who'd said nothing. They passed in a wide half-circle around him.

Pretty soon he moved on to a new song and sang, drink in one hand, imaginary joint in the other.

"Because I'm getting so! Who's got! The chronic that I like? Right between the lows and the highs got me feeling alright."

Hatchet figured he'd get better business back on Bourbon. He gave the only dollar he earned (from Little Bird, as a pitiful joke) to an old man with a threatening sign: "Give me a dollar or I'll vote for Trump."

"That's good," Hatchet admired, "You gotta admit that's good.

Back in the fray, Ren and Hatchet quickly disappeared into a bar and left Little Bird alone again. The crowds were now thicker, and dotted with strange nighttime characters. Music of various genres pounded from every direction, leaving the stranded girl overwhelmed, overstimulated, and sleepy. She was not so content to be left outside alone. She leaned against a pole and closed her eyes for a moment.

Hatchet came out and caught her, and on the way into the next bar told the bouncer, "Hey, don't let her fall asleep."

The bouncer looked down at the small girl with surprise and concern, and the small girl returned his gaze with equal surprise and concern.

"You really gon' fall asleep?" he asked, thick arms crossed over a barrel chest, shaved head smooth and shining.

Little Bird shook her head so vehemently her cheeks jiggled.

"Alright," said the bouncer, "follow me."

In a daze she sat beside the bouncer on the curb opposite the bar. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered her one, but received the same wordless head shake as before. He enjoyed a long drag, peered through squinting eyes into the incessant sea of people passing by and by, and then to Little Bird expressed his disgust for them, his hatred, even.

"Humans are destroying the earth. And it doesn't matter because artificial intelligence is taking over anyway." Little Bird listened as reverently as she would on the front row of her family's church. "And we never actually made it to the moon, no," the bouncer continued, "but the robots... they'll accomplish great and terrible things, at our expense."

The girl was captivated by his 1000 yard stare and conspiracy theories. She was fascinated by his grave belief in these things. Regretfully, she dismissed herself when Hatchet and Ren came to collect her, and the bouncer wearily returned to his post.

The night wore on and spun out in a direction of recklessness. Several more bars were visited. Hatchet and Ren were tremendously drunk, and had gotten into some kind of row. They came crashing out onto the street, spitting and cursing. Ren marched over to the stunned Little Bird, looking for an ally.

"He's impossible!" She took hold of Little Bird's shoulders and swayed a bit. "Liking a finger," her whiskey breath tickled the girl's nose, "in the ass once in awhile doesn't make a guy gay."

"REN!" Hatchet roared, and in an instant he'd tossed Little Bird over his shoulder and was running down the sidewalk, shouting, "you will not turn her against me!"

"He thinks it makes you gay!" Ren called after them, then turned sharply in the other direction.

Down on the corner Hatchet set the girl upright. They sat on the curb so he could catch his breath, but he lost it all again while taking his turn to remorsefully recite his list of grievances against Ren. Minutes passed and he rambled on. Little Bird listened patiently, heart pounding. Hatchet had not yet noticed Ren coming straight for them, holding something in a tightly shut fist. He was startled by her arrival, as she dropped a baggie at his feet.

"Take it and chill the fuck out," she said, "you junkie."

It was the gram of weed he had never managed to acquire. He and Little Bird gazed up at Ren in awe, and despite her hard tone, Ren's eyes shone with the hope Hatchet would share.

The humbled man rose, sniffed once, thanked her with a "hell yeah, Ren," then rocked back abruptly, for he was sloshily drunk.

"It's getting late. Little Bird, lead the way."

He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, and with it Little Bird felt the yoke of responsibility be rested upon her. She accepted it with an unbalanced amount of seriousness, and slipped into a frazzled and strained state of mind, as she would for many years to come in any situation in which she was bestowed leadership or perceived herself to be "in charge" of others.

To her credit, leading these two drunken adults was not so simple a task, it was more akin to herding cats. Hatchet and Ren felt as loose and at ease as can be, content to merely mosey in the general direction of the rig. Little Bird, on the other hand, could think only of the 7:00AM briefing they were to attend in the morning. She was keenly aware of the lateness of the hour, and of the tantalizing distractions serving as obstacles on the course from here to St. Charles.

Men and women on balconies talked loudly and laughed and beckoned to those on the street, their drinks spilling down the sides of plastic cups. Little Bird recalled a story of an ancient dream of a great and spacious building filled with people such as these, and shook the image from her head. Then she saw in slight horror Ren going inside, with those people, to get "one for the road." She waited anxiously, while Hatchet rocked from foot to foot, feeling the world spin and chuckling to himself deviously at his own secret thoughts.

Not long after they got moving again, Hatchet spotted a smoke shop and wandered in, emerging with rolling papers just as Little Bird noticed his absence.

"What are you doing?"

Fear pricked her heart. He wouldn't dare roll one here and now, she thought.

"Stand guard," he mumbled, and crouched in a doorway to compose the joint while Little Bird stood helplessly. Before she could convince him not to, he lit it, hit it, and fell back against the wall in contentment.

"Been since Utah," he murmured dreamily.

Little Bird was dying inside at the urgency to get him away before someone smelled the smoke, but Ren was inwardly enthralled. Hatchet had fallen right into her trap. Now he would be calm, now she'd find him agreeable, and as they carried on, she began to bring up the topics she really wanted to discuss: how he could be less of an asshole to her, and how she could take a hard pass at his bullshit.

Little Bird hurried them down Canal Street, while Ren made her slurred but eloquent speech.

Hatchet stumbled along, sucking his joint like a baby with a bottle, hardly listening and murmuring like a sleep talker, "Yes Ren, I totally get you."

On the curb he tripped and fell into the gutter, mightily disrupting the stagnant New Orleans street puddle. Ren paused her speech and looked on blankly, as Little Bird steeled herself to follow him into the stank and help him out of it. When they continued, she resumed. At the crosswalk, Hatchet pushed Little Bird's arms away, saying he was fine, until falling again with a splat in the middle of the road. Now both Little Bird and Ren took a side of him and half-dragged the man across. All the while he puffed on the joint he'd held so tightly to, and Ren drunkenly ranted.

Beating through crowds, pulling past souvenir shops, and gasping through smoke and dank street smells with Hatchet's weight on her shoulder, Little Bird wondered wildly how she had become the caretaker of her caretakers. Ren blabbered on, Hatchet was practically sleepwalking, and the girl prayed in guilt and desperation for patience and strength, despite feeling overwhelmingly undeserving.

Finally, they turned onto a quiet and empty St. Charles, an uneasy stillness mere blocks from madness. Little Bird laid Hatchet down flat on the sidewalk beside the rig. First she ushered Ren, who had fallen silent, into the passenger seat.

"I think we had a really productive talk," Ren said, "I think he was really receptive to it."

Then she burst into tears. Little Bird, at a loss of how to handle the drunk and sobbing woman, pulled from her pocket two familiar items.

"Here's a pinecone. Here's a stick." She placed them in Ren's hands and fastened her seatbelt. "It'll be alright."

Next she turned to Hatchet, who was muttering something about being drunk as a kite and high as skunk, and knelt beside him. He looked her dead in the eye.

"Don't get in the car."

"We have to." Little Bird didn't know whether to command or plead. "We have to go."

"No!" Hatchet was frustrated and shut his eyes tightly. "Didn't you hear her?"

"Hear who?"

"Didn't you see her? She was standing right next to you."

Little Bird's ears rang and eyes stung. "Who? Ren?"

"No!" Hatchet struggled not to slur his words. "Not Ren. A girl, she came up to the window and told you not to get in the car."

A chill as thick as a current ran over Little Bird.

"There was no girl," she explained slowly, "nobody said that."

She had a feeling of being horribly alone with strangers drifting swiftly from sanity. She could not lift Hatchet from the sidewalk and he refused to budge.

"This happens all the time in Washington. She came right up to you and said "don't get in that car.""

Little Bird begged and pleaded, tugged on his arms, attempted to reason, but it was in vain. Then, an angel of kind man appeared.

Before Little Bird could dare to hope, he'd already asked, "Miss, do you need help?"

Relief washed over her as together they laid Hatchet into the backseat while he weakly protested.

She thanked the man and he went on his way. She thanked her god for a tender mercy. She climbed into the driver seat. Hatchet had passed out, and Ren only sniffled quietly. Another miracle. She took a deep breath, started the car, and drove them the hell out of New Orleans.