Blank expressions looked at the first officer. Several people sniffed and cleared their throats. One woman sobbed softly into her hands.
Hall brought his gaze up for a few moments and then focused back on his tablet. “I have some more bad news. For reasons not reported, the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport has suspended all incoming and outgoing flights at this time.”
An excited and discontented murmur grew amongst the crowd.
“I’m authorized to bring everyone over to The River Walk,” Hall said and lifted a pointed finger to his right. The huge riverfront mall was fifty yards away. “The airline is sending representatives to the mall where they will give you vouchers for lodging, transportation, and will then reschedule your flights.”
“Why is the airport closed down? Is it terrorists?” Stinky asked with both fists implanted to the side of his hips.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but as I said, the reason is undisclosed.” Hall stared at Stinky for several moments without anyone else asking a question they knew he wouldn’t have an answer to. “Now, because the New Orleans airport is on lock-down, our representatives are coming from Baton Rouge. That means it will take several hours before a team can assemble and make the drive down here. In the meantime, there are restroom facilities and restaurants in the River Walk. Delta will pick up the tab for any food and refreshments you might need.”
“Are you buying us cocktails too?” Stinky asked. “You owe me an endless tab for that ride you put us through.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Delta cannot accept liability for alcohol. You’ll have to buy your own adult beverages.” Tucking his electronic tablet underneath his arm, Hall said, “If you will, please follow me.” The first officer stepped toward the River Walk with Sharon Henderson on his arm like a date going to the prom.
Kathy watched as the passengers turned and followed. Jayla Watkins walked on ahead, too. Kathy waited to bring up the rear and noticed Dave Einstein turned the opposite way. Before she redirected him, Stinky said:
“Hey, Einstein? Where the heck are you going?”
“I’ve got an apartment a block away from Jackson Square. I don’t need to make a connecting flight. I’ll go tomorrow to the airport to file a claim for my luggage.”
“For real? You got a place to cool your heels in the French Quarter?”
“My father bought the place for me to live close to Tulane University. I take the streetcar there every day. He plans on selling the apartment when I graduate. He’ll make enough in profits for me to have lived there for free.”
“Hey, buddy,” Stinky said with contrived charm in his voice. “I bet you know all the best places to get a drink? I’m talking about where the locals go. Where you get the most bang for your buck.”
“Johnny Black’s is right by Jackson Square on St. Peter. Most people go to Pat O’leary’s, but Johnny Black’s sounds like the hole-in-the-wall joint you’re looking for. It’s one of my favorite hangouts,” Dave said.
“Since we’re going to be stuck here for a while, I don’t plan on drinking some high-dollar, watered down drink at a mall. Tell you what, buddy. You show me the way, and I’ll buy the first round,” Stinky said with the sincerity of a snake oil salesman.
Kathy went to protest with the intent to keep all the passengers together. But Dave didn’t need to stay, and Stinky’s idea sounded really good right now. Especially as she watched Sharon dote over the first officer. If she followed them to the mall, there was no telling what creative things Sharon might find for her to do. Going missing for a couple of hours wouldn’t hurt anything. Technically she wasn’t on Delta’s clock anymore, and she needed to self-medicate in the worst sort of way.
“Hold on,” Kathy said as they neared. “I heard you two talking, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I tagged along?”
Dave raised his eyebrows and lower lip. “I don’t mind.”
“I guess you can come, but I’m not buying you any drinks. The way I see it, you still owe me the drink I wanted on the plane,” Stinky said.
“Don’t worry, Stinky. I’ll buy the first round,” Kathy said, realizing the mistake the moment the words left her mouth.
Dave burst out laughing.
Stinky’s mouth became a tight O resembling an external sphincter muscle hidden in the nether regions. “Hey! Who are you calling Stinky!”
After nearly crashing on landing and watching a dinosaur eat the captain, Kathy wasn’t in any mood to take crap from anyone, especially a self-centered passenger. “Well, if the shoe fits, wear it.”
*
“We won’t get no satisfaction till they tear down Andrew Jackson!”
“We won’t get no satisfaction till they tear down Andrew Jackson!”
“We won’t get no satisfaction till they tear down Andrew Jackson!”
In the center of Jackson Square, the twenty-thousand-pound Jackson equestrian statue stood high on its granite base. The memorial captured General Jackson’s image as he lifts his plumed hat, returning a salute to his troops on the morning of January 8, 1815. His horse is ready to advance, but Jackson restrains it as it balances on its hind legs.
To either side of the commemorative statue memorializing the Battle of New Orleans, protestors faced each other, raising signs, and chanting for their causes.
One side comprised of members of the Alt-Left organization. Each member easily identified by black clothing and concealing headdresses of various designs. These protesters didn’t come empty-handed. Everyone had a makeshift weapon of some sort. Chains, hammers, flags on thick wooden poles, and some wore weighted gloves to deliver the mightiest blow in hand-to-hand skirmishes.
The Alt-Left were there to back up Tear Them to the Ground, a group led by Rev. Martin Scott, the key activist leading the cause for removing any historical vestige commemorating white supremacy paid for by tax dollars.
The Alt-Right stood on the opposing side, along with the Sons of the Confederacy, and many unaffiliated citizens in favor of preserving memorials of Southern history. Protest signs, Confederate battle flags, and fists raised in support of keeping the Jackson memorial centerpiece in Jackson Square.
The New Orleans Police Department maintained a visible presence to keep the two sides away from each other. None of the officers wore any riot gear but were quick to get in the face of anyone on either side who attempted to breach civility. Several officers policed from horseback; their shotguns secured in holsters on the horses’ sides.
Rev. Scott raised his hands as a cameraman from a local TV station and a reporter approached him. His supporters dialed back the chanting to give their leader a chance to justify their cause.
Surprisingly, the other side stopped their return banter, and the background noise lowered to a minimum.
Rev. Scott removed his cap and ran his hand through his short, graying hair before returning it to the crown of his head. His dark face glistened with sweat, and he righted his shoulders as the reporter stepped up and stuck a microphone toward him.
“Rev. Scott, Jay Weathersby here for WGRZ Eyewitness News. You and your supporters are out in full force today trying to get your message out. Can you tell our viewers why you are here and what Tear Them to the Ground hopes to accomplish?”
“Thank you for the opportunity,” Rev. Scott said; the scowl on his face just moments before had melted into a grandfatherly smile. “There is nothing complicated with what we are trying to accomplish. The motive of Tear them to the Ground is to achieve real racial reconciliation. The only true way that can begin is by removing obvious symbols of white supremacy. Our children are born and grow in the shadows of our oppressed history, thus perpetuating the sins of the past. We want to break the chain of inequality. To do this, we must remove taxpayer supported monuments, street names, and public schools named after white supremacists. Then—”
“Then why are you here, Rev. Scott?” a man, who looked to be in his thirties, dressed in a business-casual long sleeve navy blue shirt, gray sla
cks, and polished shoes yelled from a few feet away on the protestors’ side. He held a sign that read: History Is Not Racism.
The reporter shook the microphone the man’s way and waved him to come over with the other hand.
Rev. Scott’s eyebrows fell, narrowing his gaze.
With a moment of hesitation, the man followed the reporter’s beckon and walked over next to Scott.
The reporter asked the man, “The Alt-Right and the Sons of the Confederacy are here today to preserve the statue. Which group do you represent?”
“Neither,” he said emphatically. “I’m here because no one has the power to change history. History is a teacher. We should know and preserve our history. And, we should better ourselves based on it.”
“That’s a tired argument,” Rev. Scott said. “These statues are nothing but reminders of history’s horrid legacy of white supremacy.”
“This statue commemorates Andrew Jackson’s role as The Hero of New Orleans. Jackson led five thousand men against fifteen-thousand British soldiers,” the man said. “If that doesn’t deserve a statue, I don’t know what does.”
“Jackson murdered thousands of Native Americans and owned over three hundred slaves. If that doesn’t depict a white supremacist, I don’t know what does,” Rev. Scott shot back.
“You cannot use today’s moral standards to erase history. We can debate but not without keeping the issues in proper perspective. Jackson’s statute is here to commemorate the Battle of New Orleans and for no other reason.”
The two sides erupted in opposing jeers and taunts, drowning out any further discussion. Signs, fists, and flags poked at the sky. Police raised their hands to calm the tension.
The reporter pushed the microphone near the man’s mouth before he backed away. “Please, sir, can I have your name?”
Looking at the camera and speaking in a loud and clear voice, the man said, “My name is Andrew R. Jackson. I am a descendant of General Andrew Jackson.”
*
“I said I was going to buy the first round, and I plan to keep my word,” Kathy Stevens said to Dave Einstein, who had told the bartender to set up his friends with whatever they wanted to drink.
She, Stinky (AKA Melvin Posey), and Dave had bellied up to the bar at Johnny Black’s. The bar was only half-full. Kathy wondered if that was because of the time of day or if that protest in Jackson Square ran some of the normal business away.
The bartender served the drinks. Dave got a Parish Rêve. Stinky got a cocktail called an Absinthe Frappe.
Kathy chose another legendary New Orleans libation, the Sazerac. The bartender gave a chilled glass a quick rinse of Herbsaint, an anise-flavored liquor, a stiff pour of rye whiskey, sugar, and added Peychaud’s bitters.
“I thought you ordered a beer?” Stinky said to Dave. “That looks like coffee.”
“It’s a style of beer called stout. They make this beer in Lafayette with coffee local to the brewery.” Dave lifted the mug and sampled his drink.
“What’s it taste like?” Stinky asked.
Rolling the stout over his tongue before swallowing, Dave said, “Silky…like sticking your face in a whole bag of coffee beans. Very well balanced…medium mouthfeel. A surprisingly clean finish. Would you like to taste it?”
“Oh, you’re one of those craft beer snobs. Figures with your daddy buying you a house in the Quarter. No thanks. If it don’t come from Milwaukee, it’s not beer,” Stinky said.
Dave shrugged his shoulders and pulled out his cellphone, socializing the way Millennials did by ignoring present company in favor of those linked by cell towers.
“What was the drink you ordered again?” Kathy asked Stinky.
Stinky held the tumbler filled with a greenish liquid and cubes of ice. He brought it to his nose and sniffed slowly and deeply. “This is an absinthe frappe. They outlawed absinthe in the early nineteen hundreds. Absinthe then had wormwood in it, which can cause hallucinations and other mental disorders.” He tasted the drink and ran his tongue over his lips. “Interesting…kind of licorice tasting. Smooth…and a little mouth numbing.”
“Hopefully it won’t numb your mind. You don’t need to get s-faced this early in the day. Don’t forget we’ll have an hour here before we start heading back. You’ll want to check in and get your new itinerary,” Kathy said and tasted her drink for the first time. Her first impression was mixed. She liked the tang of the sweetened rye whiskey, but the bitters left a slight medicinal taste on her palate.
“Are you always this bossy?” Stinky asked.
“No. I really shine after a few drinks,” Kathy said, refusing to let Stinky intimidate her. The previous ordeal of the day had reset her normally accommodating attitude, and she wanted to keep Stinky in his place. He was the type who took a mile if you gave him an inch.
Annoyed, Stinky turned his focus on a TV screen replaying the 2009 SEC Championship Game with the Crimson Tide of Alabama battling the Florida Gators.
Johnny Black’s was typical of many small businesses in the French Quarter. Store frontage was a premium, so the bar was eight times deeper than wide. Two sets of narrow double doors were propped open; an invitation to thirsty patrons passing by to stop in and hydrate.
The Sazerac took off some of the edge of the day but didn’t bring Kathy to the happier place she wanted to go. Well, it was only her first drink. She looked at a handwritten menu on a chalkboard for her next selection.
Street noise pushed past the gameday excitement streaming out the TV speakers. Kathy turned on her seat at the bar and looked out the doors open to St. Peter Street.
A young couple ran by, desperately trying not to spill the frozen drinks carried in their hands.
Yells and cries of pain increased in volume as more people dashed past Johnny Black’s.
By this time everyone in the bar had their attention diverted to the building turmoil outside.
Stinky’s mouth hung open like he was trying to catch flies.
Dave had an eyebrow up and downed the last of his beer.
Kathy thought she felt small tremors shaking the bar.
A ferocious warning in the distance erupted from an unknown creature; sounding something like a love child of a bull elephant and a locomotive.
Some of the patrons ran to the open doors, screamed, and promptly ran to the back of the bar.
Frozen in her chair, Kathy’s resolve shattered from the events that happened earlier that day made her legs feel like soggy pasta.
Then, she saw it. The beast plodded in front of a door and raised its head, unleashing another cry. It was as large as a school bus, from what she could tell. Its shape reminded her of a four-legged mammal, most like a rhinoceros, but was brownish-green in color. It had a beak-like mouth, two brow horns set above its eyes, and a smaller horn jutting from its nose. A bony frill fanned the top of its head. One thing for sure, the animal looked like it could burst through a brick wall.
The hair on the nape of Kathy’s neck stood on end. This was really happening: the impossible. Just like before when the prehistoric creature took the life of Captain Wesselman, a beast out of time had invaded the present.
“Triceratops…three horned face. Interesting,” Dave said. Then, he hopped off his bar stool with a phone in hand and attempted to take photographs.
Shockingly, a bum with layers of dirt on his clothing staggered down the middle of the street, holding a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag in one hand.
“Run away,” Kathy said only loud enough for herself to hear. She wanted to scream her warning, but her body would not cooperate. “No!” she managed to say a little louder.
The bum put the bottle to his lips and pointed the bottom to the sky. After a few chugs, he brought it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A smile widened across his face, and he approached with an outstretched hand with the delight of stroking a miniature horse at a petting zoo.
The triceratops pulled its head back and then thrust it forward. One of the brow
horns, over three feet in length, stabbed the bum dead center of his chest.
The bottle fell from his hand and smashed onto the street. He hung limply in the air with blood dripping from front and back, cascading from the triceratops’ horn.
Kathy felt more tremors; stronger this time. The pacing was different too, like a creature walking on two legs.
A quick flick of its head and the triceratops slung the bum to the side, and directly in one of Johnny Black’s doorways.
People screamed so loudly that Kathy thought her ears would burst. She noticed Stinky had finished his drink and waved to hail the attention of the bartender for another. Never had she encountered such a selfish individual. What made that man tick?
The triceratops brayed once again, and what she could only describe as a thunderous, reptilian hiss, fired back. There was no doubt the ground shook now, and the reason why became obvious when a new dinosaur entered the scene.
The dinosaur resembled a bipedal lizard. It was over fifteen feet tall, and counting the tail, almost twice as long. It had grayish skin with darker stripes running from its spine down its side. Two small arms bounced in front of its chest, and the tail shifted to balance its body on powerful looking legs. Even Kathy knew a T. rex when she saw one.
A T. rex…in New Orleans. What is the world coming to?
The T. rex opened its monstrous mouth, showing rows of sharp, jagged teeth, and hissed again.
The sheer mass of the two dinosaurs astounded her. The triceratops didn’t stand as tall as the T. rex, but it was noticeably longer. And even though the triceratops didn’t have teeth, its beak looked powerful enough to chomp the rex’s leg in two with one bite.
The T. rex dipped its head forward and shifted its body about, threatening to attack.
Holding its ground, the triceratops brayed loudly. It lifted its head and pointed its brow horns at the rex.
The death dance began with the T. rex stepping toward the tetrapod and biting empty air near its head. The brow horns narrowly missed the rex’s mouth, and the animal stepped back in retreat.
The Dinosaur Battle Of New Orleans Page 5