TCMH v.119: Considering A Festival, A Fight, Some Fists and A Knife
True Enough, I Didn't Move to New Orleans for The Normality
tl:dr: your author immobilized a man with a knife last night.
More words…
A month back, I joined a group of poets for a post-reading gathering, moving down St. Claude from one bar to the next. At some point, I noticed a group of people to my left moving quickly, like cartoon character-level quick. The reason was an agitated guy at the end of the bar. He was trying to hold up his pants, trying to light a smoke, trying to have a conversation with the clearly rattled bartender; this human was multi-tasking all these efforts poorly, but he did manage to clear most of the house with real style.
Having worked in bars and clubs intermittently since I was 17 or so, I told the group that I’d be stepping out of the booth. I made eye contact with the bartender; apparently, someone else at the bar had done the same and the bartender visibly calmed. There were now many eyes on the fella near the door, who was clearly having some type of psychotic break or drug-induced episode. One of Stef’s poet pals sidled up, told me he had my back and, suddenly, with little more than eyes meeting and a handful of words spoken, a few of us watched and waited and threw a cosmic shield at the intruder. To the surprise of everyone, NOPD arrived within a couple of minutes and extracted the man outta the room without the use of force.
As I told the group, I’ve developed something of a Fight ESP from working in certain contexts over the years. Which brings us to last night.
Over the weekend, I worked a four-day shift at the French Quarter Festival. It’s a hugely-popular, annual music event that draws thousands of locals and tourists to the Quarter. Working an event like this means that you’re at the fest, but only in the sense that you’re sharing a tent with 12 other people, serving up food as quickly and accurately as possible. My time was split between running a register and working the pick-up station, and I had face time with hundreds of people every day between our 10 am arrival and 7:30 departure. It was exhausting. And weirdly fun.
Over four days, things had developed a certain rhythm. Until last night.
Load-out’s a drag. There’s a lot to do with a limited amount of time and space to do it. Working a booth inside of Jackson Square Park means dragging gear through the busy zone in front of St. Louis Cathedral, guiding your hand carts and ice chests and totes around big bridal parties, preachers on microphones, ghost tours-in-progress, monk-cosplaying bead hustlers, tarot readers of all presentations, men who spray-paint themselves as silver statues. All the while, your gear’s bouncing across uneven pavement to a truck that’s parked sorta-legally right in the heart of it all.
At this point, there’s nothing left to sell. It’s all about getting home.
On a run back to our booth, I heard/saw a commotion near me. I heard some classic shit-talk. I saw a punch thrown. I heard more words from more people. I saw a man grab another man by the collar. I saw a knife exit a pocket. I saw a knife enter a body, then again and again. Within seconds and very unsure of how I got there, I was flat on the ground of Jackson Square, my body lying atop the man with the knife, my hands attempting an MMA-style wrist-lock. I saw the knife, now within a foot of my face, clasped by a hand trying to escape mine. I heard the man, laying against my body, saying he wasn’t releasing it. I felt him moving, his hand moving, his knife moving, my brain very consciously imagining the knife moving towards my face, cutting my skin, puncturing my eyes. So I clasped harder. I heard myself yelling for someone to fucking help me get this fucking knife of this fucking hand. I heard people yelling at the man to not drop the knife, saying that he was defending himself and shouldn’t release it.
Some unknown amount of time passed and, then, wow, a parks department worker claimed the knife with a few, calm words. These two knew one another from each being in the Square. That human connection’s all it took to remove the knife from my life. And then I was up on my feet. One man was in cuffs, another man was on a stretcher, people were telling stories, some of them even matching.
Over the next 30 minutes, I talked to various police officers about what (I thought) happened and then I repeated the story to my crew, who were still scooting boxes and coolers and shelving units through the Square. The back-of-house staff I work with is almost exclusively Spanish-speaking, so I was pantomiming the whole scene to them. And at some point, I stood there in Jackson Square wondering how in the world I’ve spent a huge chunk of my life working in/around kitchens without ever taking the time to learn Spanish. Shame on me.
I’ll download a language app. I’ll learn Spanish! Starting today. Which reminds me…
I woke up and grabbed my phone, as humans do in 2024. Checked the local newspaper’s website, figuring that a multi-person fight that attracted dozens of first responders outside of the most-pictured building in New Orleans would draw a news story. As of 11:49 am the day after the event, there’s no story.
But there was a story about how ride share drivers are negotiating being targeted by customers. This was interesting to me because I planned on ride share driving this week, to augment our household income and to achieve the New Orleans gig worker idyll of three part-time jobs.
There was also a story about a mass shooting at a Warehouse District bar last night, leaving one dead and 11 wounded and I found that interesting because I’d been nearby this place a couple of days ago.
There was another story about a death of a security officer at a bar, someone who’d been shot for not allowing a man with a gun into a club, which I found interesting in that I’ve done that kind of work in my life. In fact, it’s how I developed Fight ESP.
What I was involved in last night wasn’t news. It was just a thing that happened.
The exact details of it all, at least as I experienced them, were relayed to various cops last night. I imagine telling this story to more cops and maybe some lawyers in the days and weeks to come. Ayie.
I can say that there were multiple moments in which a different outcome could’ve been created yesterday. A person could’ve walked just a few steps away, instead of continuing to engage. A person could’ve not said that one. last. thing. A person could’ve not placed hands on another. A person could’ve not buried a knife in another person’s side. A person, many persons, could’ve made better, split-second decisions. Speaking of persons…
My co-workers said I did the right thing. A police officer said the same. As I stood alongside our dozens of pieces of gear, stranded on a French Quarter intersection thanks to all the police and fire vehicles onsite, a man walked by and said “you did the right thing with the knife.”
I’d like to think I did. Hope to do so the next time, too.
And now it’s time to finish this coffee, download Duolingo, maybe look into some MMA classes for the middle-aged.
Amor fati, friends.
Thanks for reading to this point. I may spam your inbox again on Thursday; may not. Have an excellent day. Peace.
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Wow, TC, that is very impressive, like something from an episode of Treme, which we've finally gotten around to watching. The weirdest part was people telling the guy not to drop the knife. Talk about the fog of war. Glad you're unscathed!
Holy cow. I am impressed and kinda terrified. I'm glad it all worked out okay. Be careful out there.