It was 2006 in New Orleans, my only gift that birthday was a bottle of tequila, some brand with a goat on it. Trinity gave it to me with a sad smile just before I went off to explore the abandoned Orpheum Theater.
One block off Canal, the flood lines were visible at chest height, halving the posters announcing the never to be Nutcracker of 2005. One thing about chainlink fencing, unless it has barbed wire at the top, it doesn’t matter how tall it is I can climb it. A plywood board pried easily loose, and I was inside. Yes, I’m someone prone to fears of ghosts and crazed addicts in abandoned buildings, but the tequila urged me onward and the birthday made the night feel momentous. The lobby carpet crackled with a layer of dried mud and my flashlight revealed an expanse like a dried up lake and I was relieved that there were no footprints. The lobby had velvet wallpaper, the parts above the waterline still fuzzy. Down the chandelier hung lobby it opened up into a vast vertical expanse, seats at unreal angles disappearing into the darkness, below the stage a pile of destroyed chairs in a chaotic mound, like wooden rioters frozen in stampede. I climbed on stage and peered into the abyss above, many layers of curtains, rigging and painted scrim, all hung with thick hemp ropes on block and tackle. On the walls surrounding the stage were elaborate engravings and designs, characters and faces, everything shooting up towards a ceiling my flashlight could not reach. In 1918 the Orpheum Theater was built specifically with acoustic vaudeville shows in mind in order to seat upwards of 1500 without any amplified sound. The lights at the time were rudimentary and sound systems non existent, so the vertical design held the audience at a perfect acoustic cornucopia shape in order for the closest line of sight for any seat and crisp sound from any actor on stage. The third level balcony was impossibly close to the stage where I stood. I imagined music, then I heard it.
Goosebumps are vestigial leftovers from when we humans had a thick coat of hair covering our body. Like how cats fluffs up in fright, we used to, but now we just have the bumps. When I heard the piano ease in, trying a melody, then elaborating, every invisible hair on my body stood on end, like a chill, like being splashed with dish water. The sound emanated everywhere, and it took me some time to locate, but I eventually found a door stage right, down steps that spiralled continuously, light outlining suggestively and I shut off my flashlight. An almost indiscernible beat of a cymbal and drum in a mellow jazz progression floated along with the piano. The stairway ended in a silhouetted door that muffled conversation and laughter. I turned the knob and was enveloped with the smell of cigarette smoke, cologne and perfume, and light that emanated from red lamps and faces that ignored my entrance.
Everyone was dressed in their finest, I was aware that my mud stained hooded sweatshirt didn’t fit, but the lack of stares put me at ease. The light was dim and the smoke was thick, and I saw smiling faces and heard earnest conversations throughout the long couches and cozy nooks. I spotted an open bar stool, claimed it and waved the bartender over. “I’ll have a Zima.” The bartender laughed, maybe he was just being gracious. “On second thought, what’s the bartender special?” He gave me a wink and in a swirl of a bottle, cherry and glass he planted in front of me a cocktail, “A Manhattan is what a fine gentleman deserves.” The bartender reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place it. “Do we know each other?
“Check out this singer,” the barman replied and leaned in close to point over my shoulder. The baby grand was tickled by a large man with dark skin, who beamed at a woman who approached from the shadows. She had auburn hair and a black sequin dress that dusted the floorboards. “They call that darkle,” whispered the barman in my ear. She started in on the song, her face away from me, her voice a husky lullaby. She turned, face framed by bangs and lazy curls, and I knew her. She always had the regret of living hanging behind her eyes, I knew those eyes. “But she’s dead,” I told no one in particular. “Join the club.” chuckled the bartender.
