Easter
on the River
of Bourbon Street
by
Leonard Earl Johnson
© 2025, Leonard Earl Johnson, All Rights Reserved
✍
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Jackson Square, NOLa
photo credit: J. R. Tullos |
After Easter Mass, L. A. Norma and I left the piercing witch hat towers of Saint Louis Cathedral and headed for the soaring two-story balconies of Bourbon Street.
There we were lifted on the chaliced wings of whiskey. Served from temples bearing names like Bourbon Pub and Oz.
There are nightclubs named 'Oz' and 'Pub' on streets like this in most every port city. But only New Orleans has them flanking such an intersection as Bourbon and Rue Saint Ann.
In the world-famous French Quarter
𝌾 𝌾
It is here that red hatted tourists turn back to their hotels and edited narratives. A tourist-drawn line in the cultural sands of Big Swamp City.
A line once crossed mostly by gay men. Then, gay men and gay women. Today? A mix of those mentioned and those who might read about them and follow their beacon through the lighted screens of YouTube.
L. A. Norma lit a Camel Cigarette, and said, "Without a nitwit's concern over how those at the next table might trip the Freudian fantastics."
Allured by Louisiana's polyglot accents, today's Sidonie-Gabrielle Colettes and Marco Polos follow the path.
"The wafting 'odeur douce,' the aromatic linguistic Sirens," L. A. Norma says, as we crossed the line.
We found seats on the balcony above the Pub's swinging shingle, and watched the masses below with their arms upraised in jubilation of Christ's Resurrection ~ or more beads.
There, touched by Easter's spirit and the elfin Mr. Booze, we saw Jesus walking down this street of sin. He wore a crown of thorns over His long black hair. He wore sandals, too, and was naked save for a loincloth cut like the one in the paintings. He was thin and looked like He might be Filipino or might be Timothée Chalamet ~ but mostly He looked like Jesus. Everyone on the balcony saw Him.
A few years back, a few blocks up the street, the late Chris Owens ~ an elderly Bourbon Street dancer and nightclub owner with staying power ~ conducted her annual Easter Parade with self-anointed grand-marshal David Duke crashing the street party.
"It's Bourbon Street,"
L. A. Norma said,
"you don't need no stinkin' invitation!"
A brass band made-up of midgets played along, while elder ladies of the snatched-bodies cult and a half dozen or so young bunnies in pastel furs marched down the street and rode atop pedicabs throwing Spring colored underpants and beads.
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Easter maidens, Margarita and Chiquita Bergen
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None among this human eddy gave any notice to our walking Jesus, except a tourist family standing against the downstream wall of then Pete Fountain's (now Club Oz) directly across the street from where we sat.
The father was wide-eyed. The girl, about seventeen, waved up to us. The pubescent son giggled and hugged his mother. Then along came Jesus headed straight for them. The tourist mother looked offended. She gathered her brood and paddled them off back towards Canal Street. Jesus did not seem bothered by their departure.
"After all," Norma said, "He wrote the book on forgiveness."
The sinners went on with their sinning. The Pope appeared on the Oz balcony. He stood directly above where the tourist family had been and he was dressed head-to-toe in yellow and white satin. He blessed all who passed beneath him. He looked across the River of Bourbon Street and blessed us, too. We waved, and he motioned us over. We crossed the street and took our seats at the Pope's table.
The Pope handed out Wild Turkey and iced water, "Holy Water from the Holy River," he said.
Three real nuns, in old-fashioned black-and-white habits, came trotting down Rue Saint Ann, returning from a later mass. They passed our intersection headed towards Cathedral School. The Sea of Sinners parted. We all cheered.
"What would they think of seeing Jesus," L. A. Norma asked of no one in particular. She leaned over the balcony rail and yelled to the crowd below for Carnival beads. A photographer looked up and took her picture. I yelled down asking if he had seen Jesus. "No!" he shouted back. Would he like to? "Yes, of course, yes!"
The Pope laid his hands on my shoulders, and said, "Watch that woman, do not let her fall over the communion rail."
Green Carnival beads landed on the Pope's pointy hat. They looked interesting, but he took them off and tossed them to two college boys on the street below. Norma told him the two boys should have opened their pants. He frowned and said sternly, "This is not Carnival!"
I said, "It is not Laughingyette either," but the Pope did not hear me ~ he was gone to find Jesus. Norma looked past my forehead and talked of far-ranging things.
The Pope returned without Jesus. He was balancing fresh drinks and passed them round the table. "He can not be found in this wicked den," said The Pope, handing out Wild Turkey and water.
When we looked up from our drinks we saw Him again. He was at our old balcony table across the street, waving. We waved back. His naked arms were lifted heavenward. His loincloth flapped in the whiskey-flavored air. The man with the camera jumped and shouted, "Your cross, your cross, show us your cross!"
Jesus looked down and bellowed: "Don't you know what holiday this is? It is Easter, I have no cross!"
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LEJ wearing a younger man's beard
Atop the Presbyter copula, Jackson Square
During Katrina evacuation, 2005-06 |
The Pope, assorted communion-rail leaners, and other followers passing on the street below shouted, "Is it Carnival?"
It wasn't. It was Easter on the River of Bourbon Street.
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Copyright, 2025, Leonard Earl Johnson, All Rights Reserved
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For more L. E. J.'s Louisiana, Yours Truly in a Swamp go to
✍
If you wish to read any month's story go to the archives at www.LEJ.world (stories are posted on the first of each month and polished for the next few years.)
Hope you do, I love talking with you, Leonard Earl Johnson, Columnist to the elderly and early weary. |
© 2025, Leonard Earl Johnson, All Rights Reserved.
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Next Month's Column
⭐Continuation of the Red Women Warriors Series⭐
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| Old Man on The River, New Orleans |
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Old Man with Sunday's Bunny
Jefferson Street, Lafayette |
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