Metairie Madness

Stepping out of the Uber, I set foot on firm ground. My destination – a budget motel – located directly across from the highway that slices through Metairie's spin on suburbia, about ten minutes drive from Louis Armstrong International. Twirling around, I quickly snatched my overly stuffed, heavy backpack from the back seat with a grunt and moan, shouldering it. Orange and blue, with the distinct sheen of exposure to the elements, it looked wearier than I did. The entrance to the hotel was covered with an awning that extended out of the main structure of the building. It looked like an attempt to emulate a classier, less austere atmosphere of a place that it was not. Somehow, this feature still added to its authenticity. A primary feature of cheap hooker motels was pretending to be anything but. “I can relate to that,” I thought.

Instinctively, I patted my pockets that contained my pint of peach flavored vodka, my phone, and my wallet in that order. All present and accounted for. Stepping into the lobby I positioned myself in a corner to wait my turn in line. I was not the first early morning arrival, despite being there well before check-in. I had been kicked out of the bar I spent the last nine hours inhabiting. The fellow patron who had said he would be back with the drugs that I needed to stay awake had never showed and sleeping there was against the rules, apparently. So here I was, hoping for an early check-in, taking in the Christmas lights draped from the ceiling. On either side of the lobby were refreshments and snacks for sale.

Waiting to find out when I could drink myself into a single digit IQ, I began to sweat profusely. I often did when I couldn’t keep pace with my body’s chemical dependency on alcohol. Remembering where I was, I took a swig from the pint I had purchased at the gas station. New Orleans made it easy to be a degenerate in public. “The front desk” was little more than a scratched and worn Plexiglas plated hole in the wall. Little, hamster-cage-like holes were punched out enabling employee to interact with customer. The man in front of me appeared to be hard of hearing. He leaned down on the small bit of desk that jutted out containing pens and notepad paper, craning his ear towards the holes poked in the Plexiglas, saying something unintelligible. This went on for a few minutes. After a few moments of back and forth, the clerk manning the desk visibly leaned over towards the hamster holes, belting out “The ROOMS ARE NOT READY YET.” The older man scuffled out one of the side doors of the lobby.

Approaching the Plexiglas, I shouted “EARLY CHECK-IN?” as if it was the only phrase I knew in English.

“No, give it an hour. We should have rooms available.”

“Excellent. Can I store my bag with you?”

“Yes, come to the door on the left.”

The employee disappeared into the back and I could hear a multi-system lock being disengaged behind the otherwise flimsy looking, paint worn door. Handing him my bag as he opened, I expressed my appreciation and reiterated what he had said about the rooms before ducking out and back into the rain that had started pouring since I had arrived.

Relieved, I collapsed onto the wooden bench next to the door to consume the rest of the pint I had brought with me. Protected from the rain by the awning, and freed of the weight of my backpack, I soaked in the moment. Southern Louisiana in the rain always felt distinct from anywhere else in the world. Rain here felt nonthreatening, like a blanket of morass. I took another sip of my peach flavored vodka, checking my phone to see a response finally from my off and on again, certifiably insane long distance girlfriend. Saving that shit show for later, I finished my pint of peach, tossing it into the plastic waste bin outside. Grabbing my phone again I searched for gas stations in the area. I found one a block away and started to head in that direction, appreciating the lack of a back pack to lug with me. I felt light, and free for a moment. On the way I made a pit-stop at a twenty-four hour daiquiri establishment. Ten o'clock in the morning, this wouldn't be possible anywhere else. I counted my lucky stars I was in New Orleans, not Utah.

Once I confirmed my room for the night and received my room key. I passed a guy who was talking about some kind of stimulant analogue. I stopped to approach him, feeling hopeful. Stimulants were my favorite variety of play-date for the booze in my system. Tweaking would be preferable to sleep. He wasn’t very receptive to my questioning. I reluctantly backed off, making my way to the exterior entrance of my hole-in-the-wall room.

I got into my room, and extricated my orange Bluetooth speaker that had been given to me by a girl I met in a treatment center who I ended up going on a relapse run of booze and beam-me-up in an extended stay a few states over with. That was an adventure of rather ghastly proportions as well however not a story for the current intentional writing I am doing which is meant to remind the reader as well as me, the author, about how fortunate I am despite my rather tepid circumstances of dread and existentialism. This one gets nightmarishly boorish. In no time I was drunk and disappointed that the alcohol was not doing the same trick that the old dog always had with my mood, demeanor and outlook. Funny how that happens. I spent the better part of the next two and a half hours glued to my phone, fighting with my now ex-girlfriend about all manner of things.

We were very good at arguing and did it quite horrendously well. It had become regrettably routine to have lengthy, soul shattering arguments full of unforgivable words no one could ever hope to retract.

Real fright night shit.

The vitriol flew in this text-based combat. During this argument I remember so very well and specifically that she used the opportunity in a malicious attempt to hurt me to tell me that she had miscarried my child “the other day.” Whether this is true or not I will never really know since it’s her word versus mine and only she will ever know the god’s honest reality.

Nonetheless the round hit its mark, 3/3 in the black. I was devastated. Brutalized. Distraught. My coping mechanism had been made impotent by the shock factor upper cut I could never have expected. The vodka was ineffective, and I was bleeding out. My efforts were useless. Grain alcohol in the face of an angry woman that I loved hurting me was an exercise in futility. Discovering the loss of a pregnancy I had no prior knowledge of. I threw myself around my shithole hotel room. Trying to escape the feeling, I genuinely absorbed this sadness and despair like a sponge.

Betrayal, by omission. What would have been different if I had known that she was pregnant?

“Maybe I would have gotten sober or conducted myself differently. Why would she not cast the lifeline of a pregnancy to a man drinking himself to death? Didn’t she know that was the only kind of thing that might have brought me back from the brink of the abyss I now faced?” Masochistically I dwelled on the what if’s and why’s.

I sobbed like a fucking woman for a few minutes and then resigned myself to the fate I had brought to fruition. Drinking myself into a stupor, I drank most of the fifth of cheap rot gut poison I had purchased until I fell unconscious, my belongings strewn across the bed and floor. Surrounded by the grimy mess of a room, I fell into the only escape I had left and slept.

Waking up with a start I came to and began to assess the damage and scramble to check my phone for the time. 11AM was rolling around quickly and I needed to figure out what I was going to do. Eventually I came up with more money to pay for the second night at this hotel and resumed my debauch. I sauntered back to my room and drank a bit before sleeping a while longer and finally woke up when it was dark. Groaning and feeling a sense of dread panic in my throat, I looked at my phone and the time.

“Three AM, fuck.”

The witching hour had always felt depressingly vacant and filled my heart with nostalgic sadness and dread when in crisis. With every second that went by I was closer to true homelessness, and I knew it. I got drunk and then set out to wander the property’s parking lot and surrounding area a little bit, to see what I could see. This consisted of a parking lot area around the structure with no fence or boundary from the street. It was easy walking, and I could see for a long way who and what was around.

Exploring my surroundings, I noticed two people reclining on the ground of the parking lot. Closest to the street, covered in a blanket next to a light post they had found access to some kind of outlet which appeared to be sticking out of the fuse box next to the light post. Movies played on their phones shined the characteristic but subtle blue digital glow on their faces in a pleasant and reassuring way. Phones had a sense of passport to them, in today’s day and age. A silent reminder of membership in society.

I questioned them about the safety and security of the location they were at, and whether it was a viable place to camp out.

“Yeah, nobody fucks with you.”

I made a mental note that nobody fucked with me there and wandered aimlessly a bit more in the parking lot before running across a guy pacing on the upstairs exterior entrance corridor “balcony.” He walked down the stairs, he opened the driver's side door of a vehicle parked in a spot to the left of them. A Dodge Charger, or something like it. American Muscle. Loud, low to the ground and noticeable. I walked in his direction, and he spotted me approaching. Not put off by me, I was surprised when he began to talk to me.

He asked me if I had anywhere to stay, to summarize the brief and limited conversation that we initially had. I told him no, not after tonight. Not after the next three to four hours. He asked me if I wanted to stay in the room with him, but that he was only there one more night – adding in that he had a “little bit of dope” if I wanted it.

I should have been far more leery thinking back on it, but I was in a very scraped spot and the allure of an indoor retreat that had access to drugs I liked was a little too tempting for me to resist at this phase in my life. I walked up the stairs to the exterior entrance corridor’s second story with him, and he passed me the small bag of goodies that he had, as we entered the room. Immediately setting out to put it up my nose, I questioned him about his situation and how he landed at this hotel. He described briefly how he was kicked out of the house by his wife and couldn’t go home. He also mentioned that he had business to attend to. When I asked him what made him invite me to the room and help me out – he said he didn’t like to sleep alone. Fine by me.

I did not sleep that night.

I stayed up the remainder of the early morning hours and into the daylight. Once my newfound friend woke up I grabbed my things and we eventually made our way to his vehicle and set out on the road to a smoke shop to get a smoking device for the rest of the stuff we had. He was asking me a few different ways where I wanted to get dropped off, so that he could go conduct his business in the armpit asshole of the Mississippi delta that was obscurely enough described that I could put two and two together and realize that something shady was the nature of his business.

From what he’d said the night before, and again now in the car, he claimed to be a Latin King gang member, and somehow the conversation also revealed that he had a pistol on him. A subcompact .380 that disappeared, when not in use, into the plastic drawer he was using for a suitcase. After we picked up the pipe and talked some more about a potential drop off, I elaborated upon the reality of my situation. In truth, I had nowhere to go. I had no money. I did not know anyone who would let me stay with them in the area.

After some discussion he agreed to bring me along to the ass end of the Mississippi and his business there.