The French Quarter of New Orleans is the coolest place I’ve ever seen – much less lived in. I’m told it’s more like a European than American city. I wouldn’t know for sure, because a bartender’s salary doesn’t exactly allow for worldwide travel. So I willingly accept the assumption.
Jackson’s Square sits smack dab in the heart of the French Quarter of New Orleans. The arts find their home there, and artists display their wares outside the fence that surrounds the square. There’s lots of visual artists, a couple of musicians, and a fortune teller or two thrown in for good measure. My favorite thing to do on my days off is to browse through the many diverse shops and art galleries in the Quarter and hang out in Jackson Square with the artists.
Jerry is one of the artists who displays his work in the Square, and he’s a good friend of mine. I’ve known Jerry for a couple of years now. Great guy. He paints his voodoo culture artwork on old door shutters, which makes them as beautiful as they are unique. For most of his work, he uses basic colors to create scenes of people and places in the bayou. Really good stuff. I’ve got one hanging in my apartment. I call it “Bayou Sunset Festival” and I really like it. Jerry calls it “crap” and sold it to me cheap.
Jerry is working his usual spot along the fence in the Square when I walk up.
“What’s up, Slick?” he calls out as he jumps to his feet to greet me.
Jerry’s welcoming smile and greeting are always followed by one of his huge, python-like bear hugs.
“Not much, just happy to be here,” I wheeze, pretending that he’s crushing me.
Jerry laughs and breaks the embrace.
“Where you been? I ain’t seen you in forever,” he says as he sits down and offers me the chair next to him.
“Hospital. Some meth-head, surgeon wanna-be thought he’d use me to practice his C-section skills.”
I pull up my shirt to show Jerry my horizontal railroad.
Jerry’s eyes widen.
“Shiiiitt! You OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just getting back to day-to-day life. How’s life with you?”
“Better than you I’d say. Things been a little slow in the Square, but I’m makin’ it. Babs got a raise a couple of weeks ago, so that helps.”
Babs is Jerry’s wife. She is a gorgeous, heavy-set gal with a full head of curly black hair and lips to die for. Babs uses those lips to create the greatest smile you’ve ever seen. She loves a good time and laughs like a Viking barmaid. Babs is a real force of nature. And if I am being perfectly honest, I’ve always had a bit of a crush on her.
I’ve been over to Babs and Jerry’s place a few dozen times for dinner, and we’ve gone on a couple of fishing trips together in the Gulf. Babs is also a fantastic cook. Man, she can put a hurtin’ on some Cajun dishes. Her specialty is a jambalaya that’s got, like, six different meats in it and spiced perfect with just enough heat. Oooh baby… make you wanna slap yo’ momma.
Jerry and I chat for a little bit about the usual stuff. Work. The upcoming Saint’s season. Jerry’s a little bit older than I am and has always been kind of a mentor to me.
I have a question on my mind but can’t find a delicate place in our conversation to ask it. As soon as there is a break in the conversation, I opt to just blurt it out.
“Jerry, what do you know about demons?”
There is this long, awkward pause and Jerry’s eyes narrow while his lips twist tight.
“Demons. What the fuck you askin’ ‘bout demons for?”
“Just curious,” I lie. “I found this old book about demonology at Marie’s place, so it’s made me curious.”
Jerry doesn’t know about my “gift” or the fact that I’ve memorized an incantation from the book, and I want to keep it that way.
“You don’t screw with demons. That’s what I know,” he says as he leans forward to make the point. “You spend enough time in the French Quarter, and you see some weird shit. That’s bad enough. But it’s even worse in the bayous and swamps. People down there mess with some of the old religions, and some of the things I’ve seen them do scare the shit out of me. That ain’t nothin’ you wanna be messin’ with.”
Now Jerry’s got my attention. He’s “seen” things.
“What have you seen?” I ask.
Jerry folds his arms like he is preparing for me to do anything but believe him.
“I seen a priestess bring a dog back to life.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not, Bro,” Jerry continues. ”Jack Bouchon’s dog, Boudin, is what I’m talking about. Jack lives in a little shack off Bayou Lafourche. He lets me set up on his porch to paint. The porch is huge and has a great view of the local habitat. I pay him a couple of bucks and just sit there all day and paint – until drinkin’ time, that is. Then Jack brings out a couple of glasses of Black Jack and Coke, and we drink silly and shoot the shit for a while as I finish up.
“Now, Jack loves Boudin. Really, really loves that dog. Jack’s wife died a couple of years ago and, with his children grown and moved on, he don’t have no company but that dog. A couple of months ago, I go down to do some paintin’ at Jack’s place. Sad to say, it just so happens to be the morning after Boudin died. I had no idea the dog was even sick at the time.
“Jack greets me at the door with tears in his eyes. He tells me about the dog and shows me the body still lying there in the bedroom. Of course, I offer my sympathies and whatnot. Then he tells me he’s called Miss Larou to come over.”
Jerry looks me in the eye. “You ever heard of Miss Larou?”
“Naah. Who’s she?”
“Miss Larou is a voodoo priestess in that area. Scary lookin’ bitch. She’s nice enough and all. But something about the way she looks at you just gives you the shits… like she’s looking right through you. Anyway, Miss Larou comes over about an hour later. Jack insisted that I go ahead and set up and paint as usual. He didn’t want to put me out since I drove all that way.
“So I’m sitting there painting when Miss Larou shows up. I stand up to say ‘Hi’ and she just walks right past me – big as you please. Just walks past me without even looking at me – like I wasn’t even there. Her eyes were fixed on something. Something she was seeing but I wasn’t. She don’t even knock, just walks through Jack’s front door. I just shrug it off and sit back down and get back to paintin’.
“A little while later, I start smelling somethin’. I don’t know what she was burning in there, but that shit smelled like Hell was having a barbecue. Made my eyes water. Then I hear this chantin’. I couldn’t make out the words. It sounded Creole or Haitian or somethin’. But I tell you, I started feeling sick inside. Like all of the good had gone out the world.
“Now there wasn’t even a breeze before Miss Larou got there, but all of a sudden, the wind starts blowin’ in off the water, and I hear the crows in the cypress trees behind me just start goin’ nuts. Then I see these shadows blowin’ around out on the water of the bayou. Like smoke risin’ out the water and dancing across the surface – ‘cept it wasn’t smoke. Whatever it was was dark enough to cast shadows of something that looked like demons dancing, if you ask me. That was enough for me. I thought to myself, ‘fuck this!’ and I packed up my shit and got the hell out of there.
“Now here’s the bitch of it. I go back down there a week later to check on Jack and to do some more painting.”
Jerry leans forward and almost whispers, “the fucking dog is alive!”
Now my eyes are wide.
“You gotta be shitting me!”
“I’m dead serious man!” Jerry chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Here’s the thing tho. That ain’t the same dog. I mean – it is and it ain’t. It’s the same body of the dog and all, but it’s like the soul has gone out of it. Like something else is behind those eyes.
“Now I been going down there for years, and Boudin always comes out the door and greets me in the yard – just jumpin’ up on me and waggin’ his tail. Not any more. Boudin just comes out to the porch and stands there.
“Now. First of all, I like to have shit myself when I seen him. I mean, I saw the fuckin’ dog stiff as an ironing board the last time I was there. So, seeing him standing on that porch shocked the shit out of me. I try to play it cool, and I go walking up to the porch saying, ‘Hey Boudin!’ The dog just stands there. Then he starts showing me his teeth as I step up to the porch. Made me take a step back. Good thing ole Jack walks out. He tells the dog to get in the house.
“’What’s up with Boudin?’ I ask him.
“I don’t know,” Jack says. “That damn dog been nothing but trouble since Miss Larou brought him back to me.”
“He tells me he only called her ‘cause he loved the dog so much, he just couldn’t bear to part with him. But now, Jack’s scared. He tells me he wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes and there’s Boudin… standing on the bed next to Jack. Staring at him.
“Says the dog’s taken to killing everything it can get his teeth on. Boudin used to be good with the animals Jack had around. Apparently, the first day it killed three of the chickens that were running loose around the yard. Jack beats the dog, and the dog just looks at him. Looks him right in the eye. The next morning, there is dog shit all over the house.
“Jack tells me he wakes up the other night and goes to take a piss and slips on something slick on the floor. Falls right on his ass. He rolls over to pick himself up, and there’s this slick shit all over the floor. Jack turns the light on, and there’s one of his fucking goats lying dead on the floor near the bed. Had its throat torn out and all it guts just spread everywhere. Jack looks over and there’s Boudin just standing in the doorway of the bedroom. . . glarin’ at him. The dog’s all wet – like he just went for a swim in the bayou.”
I just sit for a minute in stunned silence. I finally manage to utter, “Wow. Just… wow.”
“Jack won’t let Boudin back in the house anymore. He’s got him chained up to a big cypress in his yard. As much as it breaks Jack’s heart, he is definitely planning on putting that dog back down again.”
“So you think demons have something to do with that dog?”
“I don’t know,” Jerry confesses. “All I know is there is something unnatural in that dog now. Something that wasn’t there before. That was a good dog with a loving heart. Whatever the hell that’s driving that dog now is just plain evil if you ask me. Call it demonic if you want, but all I know is I want nothing to do with it. And you sure as hell need to stay the fuck away from it, too.”
“I hear you, Bro,” I say as I stand to make my exit. “Give Babs my love.”
Jerry gets up and looks me dead in the eye like he’s worried about me, but then he shakes the look off and gives me another big hug as he whispers, “You take care of yourself, Slick.”