Going Bovine

  “Dude, there’s no bus tonight,” Gonzo says. “Give it up.”

  The old homeless guy stops rummaging through his bag. “Yes there is. There is one! It’s downstairs waiting.”

  I look to Mop Guy for confirmation. He stops long enough to wipe his sweaty brow with his arm. “Well, there is one tonight, but it ain’t on the regular schedule. It’s private. The Fleur-de-Lys.”

  “That sounds like a porn thing,” Gonzo whispers nervously. “Does that sound porny to you?”

  I ignore him. “Where’s it go?”

  “Where you think it goes?” the homeless guy says. “New Orleans. That there’s the Mardi Gras bus, son. It’s Mardi Gras time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You welcome,” he says. “Might as well have fun before it all ends.”

  “Gonz,” I say, digging in my pocket for cash. “How do you feel about New Orleans?”

  “What? You don’t know for sure that’s the right bus.”

  “No. I don’t. But it’s the only bus. Look, I know this seems a little half-assed …”

  “No, dude. I’d be thrilled if this plan were half-assed. This is, like, no-assed.”

  “You’re right. It’s the most no-assed thing I’ve ever done in my life. So am I getting two tickets or one?”

  Gonzo rubs his inhaler pump like a talisman. “All right. I’m in. But if we don’t find this Dr. X in New Orleans and see what he’s got for me, I’m on the first bus back.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I open up my wallet. My credit card, the one my dad gave me to teach me fiscal responsibility, is still there. I’ve got a whopping credit limit of five hundred and fifty dollars.

  I run to the window and rap on the bulletproof glass. The clerk barely looks up. “Yup?”

  “How much for two tickets on the Fleur-de-Lys?”

  With a sigh, the clerk puts his book down. “That’ll be two hundred seventy-eight dollars and fifty-two cents with tax,” he says.

  He processes the charge and hands us two tickets, and Gonzo and I race for the last bus of the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In Which We Make a Stop in New Orleans and Gonzo Refuses to Eat Fish, Annoying the Crap out of Me and Our Waitress

  I mostly sleep on the trip from Texas to New Orleans. Occasionally I open drowsy eyes and catch dreamlike glimpses of the world. Gas stations hawking plastic cups with every fill-up. Cram-packed strip malls featuring the same stores and restaurants. Skeletal dogs picking through trash. Litter-strewn marshes. Crumbling roads snaking under half-finished highways. Factories belching toxic smoke clouds. I take it all in, and for a second, I wonder whether this planet is worth saving. Close to morning, I wake up long enough to see that we’re crossing over some ginormous bridge that seems to stretch out forever. We’re surrounded by water. It’s sort of cool, like I’m floating.

  “Lake Pontchartrain Causeway,” the lady across the aisle says. She’s wearing a WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA T-shirt, and under her flowered skirt she has on panty-hose support socks that only come up to her knobby knees. She offers me some of her peanuts. I decline, and she puts them away, pulling out a long thin cigarette that she tucks over the top of her ear. “You got family in Nu’walins?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been there?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, it’s a mighty special place. Or was. What they let get done to it …” She shakes her head. “But we survive, we survive.” She starts singing a little bit of a song to herself. It sounds old and sad and promises a better day. “Law, I hope we get there soon. I can’t wait to have me a smoke. They say smoking kills you, but I been smoking my whole life and I’m healthy as a horse.”

  Coughing hard, she turns a matchbook over and over between her fingers, working it like a worry stone. The image on it is familiar, and I cock my head to get a better look. It’s the cover of the Junior Webster album Eubie showed me.

  “You heard of the Horn and Ivory Club?” the old lady asks, holding up the book of matches.

  “No,” I lie. I don’t really want to get drawn into a conversation.

  “Good place. Here. You take these, honey.” She puts the matches in my hand.

  “That’s okay.” I try to give them back.

  “No. Go on and take it. Souvenir of your first trip to the Big Easy. You never know when they might come in handy.”

  “Thanks.” These matches look ancient. They probably can’t light anything for shit. On the flip side the cover reads The Horn & Ivory Club, 141 N. Rampart Street, with a telephone number that starts with letters. I put them in my pocket, lay my head against the seat back, and stare out the window at that bridge that just keeps going on. After a minute, the lady starts to sing her song again, lulling me to sleep.

  We roll into the city about dinnertime. The skyline glitters under a hazy, late-afternoon sun. New Orleans looks as if it’s just appeared out of the water like a myth, a modern Atlantis that shouldn’t exist. The bus hisses into the depot, which is as desolate and dirty as the one we’ve just left. Gonzo and I pour out onto the streets with the other pilgrims. Even though it’s late February, the air’s warm and sticky and a little aggressive—just another character in what promises to be a town full of them.

  Gonzo and I are starving, so we find a diner close to the depot. It’s a total tourist place with lots of fake alligators on the walls and Mardi Gras beads hanging from every hook. It’s noisy and crowded, too, this being Fat Tuesday. After a hellishly long wait, the hostess takes us to a tiny table near the back. The menu is huge and has about forty-eight different kinds of seafood specials on it. I make a quick decision and munch down on the saltines and butter they’ve got on the table. Gonzo’s still hidden behind the accordion door of his menu. His fingers tap nervously against it. A waitress with poufy blond hair puts two waters down in front of us. She has a charm bracelet with about a million charms that jangle when she moves. Around her neck is a cross necklace the size of Rhode Island.

  “What can I get you fellas?” she asks, taking out a pad and pencil.

  “Boudreax’s Seafood Special with fries,” I say.

  “Ketchup with your fries?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Gonzo finally lowers his menu. The waitress takes note of his Little Person status. It’s like it stalls her out for a minute and she needs to reboot, but the forced smile comes back.

  “And what about you, dawlin’?”

  Gonzo’s eyes are like saucers. He’s sweating and coughing a little bit, pulling at his collar. I sense a full panic tsunami coming on, though I don’t know why just yet.

  “Excuse me,” Gonzo says. He puts his menu up in front of his face. It doesn’t block the waitress’s view. It just makes him look like an idiot. “I can’t eat anything on here, man.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s all fish.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. It’s a seafood restaurant. Jambalaya Café. Says so right out front.”

  “I can’t eat shellfish. My mom says I could be allergic.”

  “Could be or are?”

  “It’s a helluva way to find out, dude. I could go into anaphylactic shock and die right here within seconds, no do-over.”

  The waitress’s smile falters. No doubt she’s picturing herself losing tips while she runs for the CPR kit under the counter. Under the fluorescent lights, she looks tired and lined, like one of my mom’s old book bags, and I feel sorry for her and totally pissed at Gonzo.

  “So order the fried catfish,” I say.

  The waitress agrees. “The catfish’s real good. It’s my fav’rite.” Her pen hovers, ready.

  Gonzo shakes his head. “Mercury, man.”

  I make a show of examining the menu. “Sorry … don’t see the Mercury Special anywhere …”

  “No, the mercury. In fish, amigo. Some fish have a high concentration of it. It can cause brain and liver damage and all sorts of wicked reactions.”

  “You know, Gonz, it’
s not like they’re back in the kitchen opening thermometers all over the food. Get a grip.”

  “Dude, this is serious. Do you know how many people die of mercury poisoning each year? It’s some serious sh—” Gonzo steals a glance at our waitress. “It’s a growing concern.”

  People are being seated in our section. People who might want to order lots of fish from the seafood menu and ostensibly leave big tips to go with that. Our waitress taps her pen on her pad. “I can give y’all another minute if you need. …”

  “Gonzo,” I hiss under my breath. “I’m freaking starving. Just order something, okay?”

  The hostess whispers to the waitress that Table A3 is ready to order. She nods.

  “We’ve got a good salad bar. It’s all-you-can-eat.” The waitress gestures to a food island in the middle of the room where vats of brightly colored food sit on little ice hills under protective glass lit by a jillion lightbulbs. It’s like a small salad city.

  Gonzo narrows his eyes. “How often do you clean that thing?”

  “Every night,” the waitress answers. Her smile is strained.

  “That’s it? Do you know how long it takes for Listeria to grow under those hot lamps, even with ice?”

  Here we go.

  “It can happen in just five hours. Five hours and you’ve got the salad bar of death!”

  The waitress looks confused. “From Listerine?”

  “Lis-ter-i-a. It’s bacteria that can cause anything from food-poisoning symptoms to coma.”

  The waitress’s smile has completely vanished. “Well, my goodness. Are you boys from the health department? ’Cause we passed with flying colors just two months ago. My manager’s got the certificate on file.”

  “No, ma’am,” I say, flashing Gonzo an I-will-kill-you-if-you-speak look. “Just bring him a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “And coffee,” Gonzo adds.

  “And coffee,” I say.

  “I’ll put that order right in for you!” The waitress takes our menus and practically runs from the table. A bus boy drops off a cup of steaming java.

  “How did you get the name Gonzo anyway? Were you born in St. Irony Hospital?” I ask once our waitress has gone to the coffee station where she’s telling the other waitress on duty about Gonzo. She pokes her head around to gawk at us.

  “Dude, you have to be careful. They say they clean stuff, but they really don’t.” Gonzo empties three packets of sugar into his coffee and stirs it with the end of his fork.

  “You know, Gonzo, that’s kind of the least of our worries,” I say.

  “That’s what you say now. When you’re puking up your stomach lining in an hour, you’ll think differently.”

  I push the saltines away. “Thanks for that visual.”

  “For real, dude, my mom read a magazine article—investigative journalism—about what goes on in restaurant kitchens. You don’t want to know.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Maybe your mom should stop reading stupid crap that exists only to keep people in a state of constant fear.”

  Gonzo’s expression darkens. “You talking shit about my mom? Maybe if your ’rents had been more on their game you wouldn’t have gotten a bad burger or whatever and ended up with holes in your brain.”

  “Nice.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  We stare at each other over the mostly empty cracker bowl. “You know what? Let’s just not talk,” I say.

  Gonzo shrugs. “Fine by me, pendejo.”

  The waitress brings our food and I eat like a man possessed. We haven’t really had anything other than JellyJuice Bears, convenience-store hot dogs, and Corny Doodles since we left the hospital. I’m not usually one of those people who gets all rhapsodic about food, but this fish is amazing—like the first time I’ve ever tasted anything. Gonzo sniffs his grilled cheese sandwich repeatedly and takes tentative bites.

  By the time we finish dessert and make our way on foot to the French Quarter, it’s nighttime. Now that my stomach is full and there’s so much excitement on tap, I forget to be annoyed with Gonzo, and I guess he’s over my shit, too. We just keep giving each other these goofy “Whoa! Check that out!” grins. It’s like another world down here—all these old houses with galleries where people sit and watch parades of tourists going by. The streets of New Orleans are like a collage—all kinds of people, things, and colors bumping up against each other, overlapping till they make something new. College kids stagger out of bars still holding hurricane glasses. A ponytailed girl leans against a garbage can, puking. Street musicians compete for attention: a guitarist in a top hat tries to outsing the lady violinist, and both of them are drowned out by the washtub band a few feet down.

  “Dude, I can’t see a fucking thing,” Gonzo complains.

  There’s an opening in the crowd. I squeeze through, pulling Gonzo along, and we position ourselves in the front. When the couple we’ve pushed aside starts to complain, I point to Gonzo. “His mom’s on one of the floats. I promised to bring him down,” I lie, and the woman, who’s drunk, gets all sentimental and starts singing nursery songs to Gonzo, which makes no sense, but if there’s anything I’m starting to learn about people it’s (a) that they are fundamentally suspicious and afraid of anyone who is “different,” and (b) that fear makes them do and say asinine things.

  Gonzo scowls. “Is she kidding me with that?”

  “Ride it out, little dude,” I say. “We’re here and you can see everything.”

  Gonzo can’t argue with that, so we stand on the parade route, taking it all in. Revelers in tall, wack-a-doodle hats and neon-bright wigs dance and sing as the floats pass by. They shout for beads and the krewes on the floats answer their calls. I nearly get beaned by a handful of bright purple necklaces. I slip some over my neck and offer the rest to Gonzo, who shakes his head like I’m giving him Bubonic Plague in jewelry form.

  “You don’t know where that’s been, man.”

  Eubie was right—Mardi Gras is amazing. A guy in a skeleton costume, his face painted like a skull, dances down the street while acrobats in glittery harlequin outfits tumble and jump around waving long paper streamers. On a float painted like a flood, a drag queen in a sash that reads MISS LEVEE waves to the crowd and they go wild. A funeral band marches right past us. The musicians come first, playing trumpets and banging drums. Behind them, the people raise their hands and dance, whooping it up like it’s just another celebration. Farther down the line, the partiers roar their approval, signaling that the next float is a winner. It’s the most elaborate float we’ve seen, a good ten feet high with these huge gates in the middle, one white, the other gray with the faint outline of a horn on it. A tall dude in a feathered bird mask stands on the edge and spreads his arms wide.

  “I am Morpheus, king of dreams,” he says, and the speakers carry his deep voice for blocks. “We all walk in a land of dreams. For what are we but atoms and hope, a handful of stardust and sinew. We are weary travelers trying to find our way home on a road that never ends. Am I a part of your dream? Or are you but a part of mine? Welcome my brother, Phantasos, for this is surely a phantasmagoria, a fantasy world, and we are all players.”

  “Dude!” Gonzo yells over the din. “That is so seriously fawesome. I want to drive one of those to school! Whoo-hoo!” He’s grinning and dancing in place. “When I kick, this is exactly how I want to go out. Just pure party. You know?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, but there’s a catch in my chest while I watch those funeral dancers marching down the street. For the first time since we got off the bus, it strikes me how crazy this all is. How scary and uncertain. I’m at Mardi Gras, sandwiched between beer-soaked drunkards, with nothing more to go on than some vague, probably delusional belief that I’m where I should be. My legs get a weird tingly sensation, and I try not to panic.

  Signs. Coincidences. The random.

  Frantically, I search for clues. Is there a “Dr. X is Here” banner on one of these floats? A billboard with an arrow po
inting the way? I rub a hand over the E-ticket wristband and hope that it will protect me from those rogue prions long enough to find Dr. X, wherever he might be.

  The streets erupt with a fresh wave of cheering, pulling me back to the parade.

  Morpheus laughs and blows some sort of glittery powder at us, coating our shirts in sparkles that make me sneeze like crazy. I reach into my pocket for a tissue and my fingers find the matchbook given to me by the lady on the bus. The Horn & Ivory Club. Junior Webster. 141 N. Rampart.

  Signs. Coincidences. The random.

  “Come on,” I say, whapping Gonzo’s arm. “Time to go.”

  “Go? But we just got here! Go where?”

  “Here,” I say, flipping the matches to Gonzo, who fumbles and recovers them.

  “What’s this?”

  “Where we’re headed next.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wherein We Have an Encounter with a Drag Queen and the Most Famous Jazzman Alive or Dead

  “So let me get this straight—we’re guiding our path based on a matchbook cover?” Gonzo asks.

  “Just keep walking.” I pick up my pace on the narrow, cobble stone street.

  There are only a few people milling around, and they’re headed the opposite way. The houses we pass are dark and shuttered and plastered with old, torn flyers that show grainy pictures of smiling people and hand-scrawled pleas for help—Missing! Have you seen? Our grandma/brother/sister/father. Please call! They’re so worn they seem to fade into the brick like paper ghosts.

  Gonzo huffs along beside me, looking left and right. “Dude. This looks like sort of a bad area.”

  Two guys in low-slung jeans and baseball caps lean against a building on the corner, arms crossed. Another guy joins them, and another. It reminds me of a horror movie I saw once, where these birds start filling up a playground while this lady sits smoking a cigarette, unaware.

  “Shit. There’s four of them now,” Gonzo says.

  “Just keep walking and don’t act scared.”

  “Dude, I am scared. They could totally kick our asses.”