I got up at 5 a.m. to go to work at the bars across the street as a cleanup guy. Rough night’s sleep between the fireworks at midnight and the revelers, more random fireworks, sirens from all types of response vehicles — kind of like most weekends living in the French Quarter. I can sleep through Mardi Gras. I often have news come across my feed about shootings and stabbings on Bourbon Street in the mornings when I wake up. I’m not often shocked anymore.
This morning, I was. I won’t rehash all of the details here that have been in the news coverage all day. I’ll share what happened in the aftermath, since it was a daylong event. As I was getting dressed for work, I heard a muted explosion about 9:15 a.m. I joked to myself, “Maybe I should go in late today.” I couldn’t blow off work, New Years Day and Ash Wednesday are two of the days that clean up people are the most essential. Spoiler alert: The bars and Bourbon Street are still a mess.
UPDATE: I just found out from my next door neighbor Andrea that the bomb squad was parked in front of our buildings. They detonated a “suspicious package” in the back of their truck at that time.
Damn it, that’s what happened to my DoorDash delivery.
I felt sick and numb from the bits of the news I watched before I went to work. I stepped outside and saw wall-to-wall law enforcement from every part of the state. I mumbled to myself, “I feel like the janitor at Nakatomi Plaza the day after Christmas. I ain’t cleaning this shit up…”
“SIR! SIR! Come over here please.” I heard a stern female voice bark. There was a Louisiana State Patrol officer on the corner of Royal Street pointing at me. I did the point to myself in a “who, me?” gesture. “Yes sir, come here.”
I was informed that my block, and many others, were closed due to the investigation. I politely explained “I live here, work there…”
“Well, I can’t allow you to re-enter the area,” the officer said.
“Can I just go back into my apartment?” I asked.
“No sir.”
Well shit. Fine, I have my camera, I’ll roam around for an hour or so and get some shots. I ran into fellow Quarter Rats who seemed just as numb and confused as I was. I saw my buddy Jett on his electric scooter (You’re too old for that Dude, you’ll fall and break a hip.) He wasn’t sure if he was even going to work. Tom from Royal Street and I had a somber exchange, and I ran into Shorty chomping on Brothers chicken for breakfast. Seeing these people somehow made it less surreal.
Bourbon Street was closed from Canal Street down to Dumaine Street, with one block closed on either side. From Royal Street to the river, the sidewalks were congested and many of the people were displaced tourists from hotels in the affected areas on Bourbon Street. It was a bit breezy and a chill was in the air. I didn’t put on a heavy jacket “because I’m only going across the street.” I went through Jackson Square and noticed the gates were still locked. It was rumored an explosive device had been found there as well.
There were many people milling about the river front. A lone bagpipe player was playing. Playing or practicing, it’s tough to tell with bagpipes. Either case, it added a somber mournful tone to the morning.
After an hour of photographing police tape and every agency in the state, I headed for coffee at the Clover Grill. It was the most stoic I have ever seen the Clover. Another local walked in, sat a few stools down and we made eye contact. I could tell that he wanted or needed to talk. The best we could do was look at each other slack jawed and shake our heads in disbelief.
After several coffees and a quick breakfast, I continued my mission of getting photos. I walked the perimeter of the cordoned off area up to Canal Street. FBI jackets all over the Quarter. Canal Street was crowded with one-third spectators, one-third cops and one-third press. I caught Brad Bohannon doing a live remote interview on Canal Street using a parking meter as his tripod.
When he finished, we chatted about what bits we knew or heard rumored. I whined about my situation about being forcibly evacuated from Toulouse Street. Brad said, “Come tell my reporter friend Cassie Schirm from WSDU.” She was the reporter I had been watching prior to leaving my building. I explained my plight. I complimented her on her earlier report. It was apparent that she was personally shook by the news but covered it like a pro.
Brad and I continued down Royal Street talking and taking photos. By this point it was after noon, three hours after I left. I again asked the same LSP trooper if I could please return to my building. “No sir, we can’t allow you to do that due to the ongoing investigation.” I might be dumb enough to try and argue with a state trooper, but I’m not dumb enough to try and argue with a woman.
This could go on all night, I feared. I needed to find a refuge and a bathroom soon. I headed down to Turtle Bay on Decatur Street and met up with Steve Smith. We discussed the breaking news and I asked for shelter. Steve of course obliged, along with soda and pizza. Damn good pizza, it’s because Steve is a Jersey boy like me.
At some point CNN had contacted the Quarter Rat editor, Dave Minsky and he being aware of my situation put them in contact with me. Not to flex here but CNN is reaching out to The Quarter Rat for comment. Not really a huge flex, it’s not like it was Tim Pool or anyone major asking. At 3 p.m., I gave a quick phone interview while squatting on the office balcony at Turtle Bay, explaining how we are locked down still in some areas.
I also griped about how useless the bollards and street blocking was. I mentioned the moveable barriers ran on tracks that quickly fill with litter making them next to useless since they were installed back in 2017. My rant about that will come in the next few days.
At 4 p.m., I again approached the LSP trooper and before I got to her vehicle, I saw her look at me and shake her head no. This is getting serious. I’m cold, my old joints are aching and my weed is back in my apartment. I better work on a plan B. It’s been 14 years since I had to roam the French Quarter looking for a safe place to crash, I don’t like having to do it again.
I only have a potato flip phone with no Facebook access. I’m an old grumpy fuck who refuses to get a smart phone. Maybe I can crash at my boss’s place, maybe Pete Oneil will let me couch surf. Dave even put a notice on our Quarter Rat Facebook page. Thanks, Brenda, for the offer, but I’m home now.
I returned to the safety of Turtle Bay and decided to have dinner, and try again at 7 p.m., 10 hours after I left. I figured a shift change must have happened and perhaps the next cop will be a bit more sympathetic. As I hobbled up Royal Street, I was relieved to see a fresh faced trooper standing by the barricade. I toyed with an idea of a last-ditch bullshit story about needing my insulin back at my apartment. I don’t like lying, not even to the cops. It never goes well. The way my day was going, he would’ve still refused me and called an ambulance. Let me try reason first.
I had my identification in my hand as I approached and offered it to him.
“You make me feel like a bouncer,” he joked
“You’d make a good one,” I replied. “Please sir, I have been out of my apartment for 10 hours, may I please go back to my building?”
“Which one is yours?”
I pointed to it 40 feet away.
“That one is yours?”
“Yes, may I please go back?”
“Well, I am NOT going to stop you from going home sir.” He lifted the police tape for me and said, “Have a good night at home sir.”
