Crossing into the Marigny, Jack glanced at his wrist—11:11. But something wasn’t right. The crisp digital numbers began to dance, morphing and sliding across the watch face like mercury. The numbers swam before his eyes. His steps faltered, and he froze. His feet rooted to the uneven pavement as Jack attempted to keep his balance. The world darkened, and the chaotic sights and sounds of Mardi Gras faded. The overwhelming smell of bleach and antiseptic replaced the rich aroma of street food and incense. In the receding hum, a vivid memory engulfed Jack.
“The hands,” his father whispered, his face vacant and his fingers trembling as he pointed toward the clock on the wall. “They’re all wrong, Jackie. Yesterday’s running into tomorrow, and I can’t…” His father’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t find today.”
Jack wrenched as he remembered the sterile nursing home and his father’s tortured face. The vibrant man he knew growing up had disappeared. His mind had betrayed him. Jack stood helpless, unable to do anything about it as the nurse tried to offer them comfort. His father’s talents and gentle demeanor had earned him the respect of friends and neighbors, lessons that served Jack well. But all Jack had learned felt useless in that moment.
A police motorcycle siren chirped, startling bystanders and snapping Jack back. The vision disappeared, but Jack’s feeling of helplessness did not.
Jack struggled to orient himself back in the moment, glancing at his wrist—11:11. Why this memory? Why now?
Jack took a deep breath, exhaled, and crossed onto the neutral ground. The intersection of Royal and Elysian burst like a sonic wall of color. Aromas from food trucks, bars, and sidewalk BBQs filled the air, an international gastronomical feast of New Orleans culinary delights. The sounds of Carnival swelled and receded like an ocean, a constant organic roar built from thousands of merged conversations, distant laughter, and random shouts that vibrated your soul. And everywhere, music drew people into the day.
Amid this sea of costumed people and sensory overload stood an imposing figure, a manifestation of heritage and tradition. Big Chief Crazy Ray stood out as a giant towering over the other masqueraders. His massive purple and gold Suit reflected his importance and stature. The Crown and Trail’s marabou and ostrich feathers danced in the morning breeze. Each bead, rhinestone, and sequin of his elaborate Dickey and Apron sparkled in the bright midday light. Big Cheif Crazy Ray embodied Mardi Gras Indian heritage and the Black Masking tradition.
“Well, if it ain’t the Big Chief himself,” Jack said, admiring Ray’s outfit and attention to detail. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a carefully wrapped package. “Got something special for you from Decatur Street, Chief.”
Ray’s gold teeth caught the sunlight as he smiled. “Now, what you got there, son?”
“Hand-rolled. Cuban seed, Louisiana grown.” Jack presented the cigar with both hands, a gesture of respect. “Had it made for you last Friday. Old Marcel said it was blessed by three generations of rollers.”
Ray accepted the offering with ceremonial gravity, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Mmm… sweet like sugarcane.” He tucked it carefully into his elaborate costume. “You always did know the proper way, Jack. Your daddy taught you right.”
“That he did.” Jack’s voice softened. “Told me never to approach a Big Chief empty-handed on Carnival day.”
“Speaking of proper ways,” Ray’s voice dropped lower, meant only for Jack, “you feeling the shift in the air today? Something’s stirring beyond the veil.”
Jack tensed slightly. “You feel it, too?”
“When you’ve walked with the spirits long as I have, you learn their rhythms.” Ray adjusted his crown. “Keep your eyes open today, son. The dead don’t always rest easy during Carnival.”
Ray stepped back and struck a broad smile. His dark sunglasses emphasized his gold teeth, which glinted in the bright sunshine, a beacon signaling the crowd to join him. Big Chief Crazy Ray began a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to rumble the ground and draw people in. Jack closed his eyes, transported back in time. The powerful call-and-response songs Jack knew so well echoed generations of history.
A bystander near Jack whispered, “You know the story behind that costume?”
Jack turned, “No…” His face exuded a faux ignorance and encouraged the stranger to continue.
“Took him a full year to make, they say. Every bead, every feather, every symbol—it’s all got meaning.”
Jack smiled at the stranger’s recognition of tradition.” Brings you back, don’t it?” the bystander said, noticing Jack’s reaction.
“Sure does,” Jack replied, his voice husky with emotion. “First time I heard that chant, felt like the whole world stood still.”
Jack wandered around the gathering throng as Ray continued to mesmerize the crowd. He caught sight of Leo gesticulating wildly, his voice carrying over the crowd. “No, no, no! The tuba goes in the back, for Christ’s sake! And you there… yeah, you with the banner—hold it higher!”
Jack rolled his eyes. Same old Leo. Always the sideshow barker.
He strolled through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces until he stood near Leo. The older man’s eyes lit up when he spotted Jack.
“Jack!” Leo’s voice cut through the crowd’s murmur. “Perfect timing. Help me get these jokers…”
“It’s a funeral procession, Leo,” Jack interrupted, his voice low but firm. “Not a circus. Maybe dial it back a notch?”
Leo looked down sheepishly and then let out a hearty laugh. “Always the voice of reason, aren’t cha? Fine, fine. But you know as well as I do, a proper New Orleans sendoff needs a little spectacle.”
Despite himself, Jack felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Can’t argue with that. You’ve outdone yourself. Lynda would’ve loved it.”
Leo’s expression softened, a rare moment of vulnerability crossing his features. “Yeah, well, she deserved the best. Now, give me a hand so we can roll.”
Jack smiled, moving to assist, shaking his head in mild exasperation. As he guided the brass band into position, he marveled at Leo’s ability to bring this all together, his irritation mingling with grudging admiration.
“Hey, Jack,” Reggie called out, tipping his hat in greeting. “How ya’ doin’?”
Jack relaxed slightly. Reggie’s presence was a godsend. He represented an island of stability in the vast sea of sensory overload that was Mardi Gras. Reggie, a mounted police officer and community activist, understood the ins and outs of social and political life in the Big Easy. In this place, knowing the right people and how things work makes all the difference.
“I’m fine,” Jack sighed, eyes scanning the crowd for Jeff.
“He’s in bad shape already,” Reggie confided—an all too familiar look passing between them.
“How bad?”
“Real bad…” Reggie’s eyes told the story. “But, at least he’s past the point of starting anything…”
Jack shook his head. He understood Jeff’s temperament all too well.
Jack spotted Jeff near the edge of the group, a bottle in hand and a vacant look in his eyes. Jeff looked up as Jack approached, a flicker of recognition passing through his grief-stricken face.
“Jack,” Jeff slurring his words, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Thanks… for being here.”
“Of course, Jeff,” Jack placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, a gesture of both comfort and assessment. “We’re all here for you and Lynda.”
Jack surrendered to the pull of memory, letting it draw him back through the years to their first encounter, a rare trip outside New Orleans. He and Leo had trekked to Philadelphia’s outskirts, chasing one of Leo’s half-baked schemes to showcase local talent in Northeast clubs. Jeff and Lynda Bellamy, proud owners of a cozy venue spotlighting rising songwriters, held the keys to a network of regional hotspots.
Leo’s grand plans always hit the same snag—a glaring lack of cash. Most joints ran on tips or measly cover charges, a setup that left musicians feeling fleeced and bitter.
“Remember how we met?” Jack’s voice broke the silence, trying to assess Jeff’s condition.
Jeff looked up, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Leo’s crazy idea. God, we were ready to toss him out on his ass.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” Jeff sighed. “Something about you… made us pause.”
Jack recalled the instant connection and how easily the conversation had flowed. His impromptu invitation for Jeff and Lynda to visit had blossomed into yearly pilgrimages as they immersed themselves in the intoxicating blend of music, revelry, and culture that flowed through New Orleans’ veins.
“All these Mardi Gras trips,” Jeff lamented, eyes misting. “Lynda loved them so much.”
Jack squeezed his friend’s shoulder, her loss, the common bond between them.
Leo stepped forward, his presence over the top as always. “Alright, pay attention. The band is ready, and we’ve got a schedule to keep. Let’s roll!”
Jack watched the tension simmer between Jeff and Leo, grief and alcohol sharpening Jeff’s edges while Leo’s need for control grates like sandpaper. Jack slides between them, a human buffer, placing a hand on Leo’s chest, keeping him an arm’s length away from Jeff.
“Today’s for Lynda,” he said softly, eyes flickering between the two men. “This city, these traditions—they were her heartbeat. Let’s make sure her sendoff beats with that same rhythm.” Jack held his breath, hoping his words would diffuse the brewing storm.
As if on cue, Big Chief Crazy Ray’s voice rose above the chatter. “Aye now, all y’all! Best step light and show that love right. We sendin’ off one of our own, a true soul of this city!”
Ray’s words galvanized the crowd, distracting Jeff and relieving Jack. Ray’s larger-than-life persona infused the gathering with New Orleans magic. The drums suddenly thundered, and the band lifted their horns and let loose a mighty wail. The horns’ bittersweet reverie and the bass drum’s percussive heartbeat echoed through the streets, the steady rhythm announcing to everyone the importance of this solemn event.
“Would you listen to that?” Jack whispered to Reggie.
Reggie, his eyes glistening. “Yeah, that’s New Orleans for you. No boundaries between joy and sorrow.”
Jack choked up at the scene unfolding before him. Leo, always the carny, led the way. Crazy Ray, a living legend of the Mardi Gras Indians, brought tradition to Lynda’s funeral procession. And, then, all these people who walked in reverence and remembrance.
“I knew Lynda was connected, but this…” Jack said in awe.
“In this city, everyone’s connected somehow,” Reggie replied. “Lynda touched more lives than we realized.”
Jack felt Frenchmen Street’s familiar sights and sounds enveloping him as the procession commenced its westward journey along Royal beyond Washington Square.
“You okay there, Jeff?” Jack asked, noticing his friend’s tight grip on the box of Lynda’s remains.
Jeff tense, his jaw clenched. “Just… feeling it all, ya’ know?”
Leo’s voice cut through the crowd from the front. “Keep it moving, folks! We’ve got a ways to go!”
Big Chief Crazy Ray took the lead with dignified gravity, each step a measured prayer in the tradition of his ancestors. His massive crown swayed like a sacred pendulum, feathers rippling as he performed the careful choreography of mourning. Now and then, he’d pivot with unexpected grace despite his hundred-pound Suit, his beaded Apron catching the light as he executed the slow, deliberate spin of respect for the deceased. The Chief’s movements spoke an ancient language—part dance, part ceremony—as he led the procession toward the river, his steps marking time with the somber dirge of the brass band behind him.
Jack glanced sideways at Jeff, his eyes glazed but fierce in his protection of Lynda’s ashes. Reggie, steadfast beside him, offered a silent vow of strength. They were not alone; they were part of something larger—a community that pulsed with love and longing, echoing through the streets like the legacy of the beloved departed.
“Look at this crowd,” Reggie whispered to Jack. “It’s like the whole city’s come out to say goodbye.”
Jack blinked away a tear, his throat tight. “That’s Lynda for you. Always bringing people together, even now.”
Behind them, mourners, like a human tide, swayed in unison to the steady beat of the brass band. Waving handkerchiefs fluttered like doves in flight while twirling parasols spun glimmers of sparks into the air, splintering sunlight into momentary bursts of iridescence. The rich scent of street food mingled with the sharp undertone of freshly brewed coffee, a sensory reminder of the city’s soul that lingered in every corner. Laughter and tears harmonized like an old jazz tune—raw, beautiful, and utterly intertwined—capturing the essence of New Orleans.
The funeral procession wound through Royal Street like a dark river cutting through Mardi Gras revelry, the brass band’s dirge creating an island of solemnity in the carnival chaos. Big Chief Crazy Ray, his massive purple and gold suit, parted the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea. His feathers caught the morning light, casting dancing shadows across the faces of those who stepped aside in respect. Behind him, the band played Just a Closer Walk with Thee, the mournful notes floating above the electric buzz of celebration.
The throbbing rhythm and strobing lights from a mobile disco transform the street into something otherworldly, a kaleidoscope of motion where past and present blur like watercolors in the rain. Revelers pulse through the narrow corridor between ancient buildings, their faces painted in carnival colors that seem to shift and change with each flash of light.
The air itself feels alive—thick with the mingled aromas of spilled beer, sweet hurricane cocktails, and the metallic tang of brass instruments. Bodies press against bodies in an endless dance, geaux cups raised high like offerings to forgotten gods, while the endless line of porta-potties serves as a reminder of humanity’s baser needs. Time feels elastic here, stretching and contracting with each beat of the music, each burst of laughter, each moment of joy that stands in stark contrast to the somber purpose driving the procession forward through the crowd.
Jack took a deep breath. “Smells like Mardi Gras.” The air and its scents triggered a flood of memories, each one a reminder of happier times.
Jack walked beside Jeff, who cradled Lynda’s ashes against his chest. Leo orchestrated the procession from the front, his voice rising above the crowd: “Make way! Make way!” The morning sun cast long shadows through the narrow street as second-liners fell in behind them, their black armbands stark against carnival costumes. Some revelers, recognizing the funeral procession, lowered their drinks and bowed their heads as the group passed.
“Same old routine, huh?” Jack said to Leo, watching him direct the crowd.
Leo’s smile held a touch of sadness. “Never fails.”
As they turned left onto St. Philip Street, Jack’s gaze fell on the MRB Bar. His heart clenched at the sight of the familiar haunt. The procession paused, the band’s notes hanging in the air like dense Mississippi fog.
“Remember when Lynda…” Jack started, his voice trailing off.
Leo placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know, buddy. I miss her laugh, too.”
Big Chief Crazy Ray’s chant rose above the crowd, a prayer in the language of his ancestors. Jack’s lids fluttered shut, memories flooding back.
“Those crawfish,” Jack said softly. “Man, the stories we’d tell.”
Jack, drawn by his memory, walked over to peek in. As Jack approached the bar’s entrance, he hesitated.
“You going in?” Leo asked.
“Just for a minute.”
Jack stepped through the entrance. Suddenly, the air thickened like Gulf Coast humidity in August, pressing against his skin as reality shifted—the ground wavered beneath his feet, and a disorienting swirl of sights, sounds, and smells replaced the familiar din of the Mardi Gras crowds outside. Colors smeared across his vision like wet paint dragged by an unseen hand, and the world tilted, folding in on itself as if time had slipped its tether.
“Oh, Jesus, Mary, And Joseph!” Jack’s stomach lurched that metallic taste in his mouth, the sensation of falling—not downward but backward, swallowed by echoes from another time.
And then, with a final jolt, everything snapped into place. The colors reassembled, sharpening like the world coming into focus after a long dream. The bar’s interior transformed around him, filled with the warm glow of ambient evening lighting and the low hum of conversation as live jazz from the courtyard stage floated in. Ice clinked as bartenders shook cocktails, and the aroma of charbroiled Oysters St Philip filled the air.
Jack blinked, disoriented, realizing he was reliving a moment from about a year ago. He spotted Lynda sitting at their usual table, her auburn hair catching the light as she sipped her vodka tonic.
“Jack!” Lynda called out, waving him over with a warm smile. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”
Jack made his way to the table, his mind reeling as he tried to grasp what was happening. He slid into the seat across from her, studying her face, drinking in every detail he’d forgotten.
“Sorry I’m late,” his voice warm with emotion. “Was in the Garden District. Streetcar never came. Had to hoof it.”
Lynda laughed, the sound achingly familiar. “Really—In New Orleans? Never!”
As Jack settled in, he can’t help but notice the empty seat beside Lynda. “Where’s Jeff?” he asked, a concerned look on his face. “I thought he was joining us tonight.”
Lynda’s smile faltered slightly, but she quickly recovered. “Oh, you know Jeff. He’s caught up in one of his business deals again. Said he couldn’t get away.”
Jack leaned closer. His investigative instincts kicked in despite the surreal situation. “Another deal? Didn’t he just close one a few days ago?”
“You know how it is,” Lynda said, waving her hand dismissively. “There’s always another opportunity around the corner.”
But Jack could sense the tension beneath her casual demeanor. He pressed Lynda further, “What kind of deal is it this time? Anything interesting?”
Lynda shifted in her seat. Her eyes glanced away for a moment. “Oh, you know… the usual. Property development, I think. Honestly, I don’t really keep up with all the details.”
“Come on, Lynda,” Jack said gently, eyes focusing on hers. “I’ve known you two for years. You always know what Jeff’s up to. What’s really going on?”
Lynda’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, her diamond wedding ring catching the light like it was flashing a warning. Lynda’s facade cracked for a moment, worry flashing across her face. She opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better. “It’s… complicated, Jack. I don’t want to burden you with the details.”
“Lynda,” Jack said, reaching across the table to take her hand. “You know you can trust me. If something’s wrong…”
Jack’s vision blurred, and the scene with Lynda faded like mist in the morning sun. He reached out as if to grasp the fleeting moment.
But it was too late. The sounds of the funeral procession crashed over him like a wave, dragging him back to the present. He found himself standing in the doorway of MRB, the burden of more unanswered questions settling on his shoulders.
Jack blinked, his mind reeling. “How could I have forgotten that evening? That conversation? And why don’t I remember the answer?”
With a heavy sigh, he turned back towards the street. I’ll get to the bottom of this, Lynda. I promise.
