Fear and Loathing in New Orleans

December 5, 2009 Lost in Lakeview- the Art Heist
Play this song as you read:
House of the Rising Sun by Eric Burdon


Kelly, my coworker invited me to her best friend Lisa Dimaggio’s all-girl birthday celebration at Corks n Canvas in uptown New Orleans. This was the new "it" thing to do in town where you bring your own alcohol to the art gallery and learn to paint from a local New Orleans artist among friends. A fee is paid for the lesson and you get to take your painting home as a souvenir. Of course, the paintings are New Orleans themed and on this night the painting was titled, "House of the Rising Sun."

Kelly thought it would be a good idea for me to meet new people and possibly make some girlfirends of my own. Since I didn’t have many friends (especially girlfriends) outside of work I was hesitant at first. I nearly backed out until Jim encouraged me to go and enjoy myself. The females at this event were what I describe as "yats." They were all Italian, with a thick, obnoxious, “yat” accent. This dialect, common in "N'Awlins" grated my nerves since the first encounter with my nasally sister in law, Tiffanie.

That chilly, December afternoon was spent mattress shopping with Jim at the upscale furniture store, Hurwitz-Mintz. This ordinary task for most folks easily became frustrating to me after a few hours. "15 minutes with each mattress" Jim encouraged laying exactly five minutes on each side of his body before moving onto the next. He was meticulous this way as with everything and for an impulsive, attention-deficit wanderer like myself; it didnt take long for my boredom to take over and lose interest all together. Basically, this took all afternoon into the early evening and we were the last ones in the store and the employees were anxiously waiting for us to hurry the hell up so they could also get on with their Saturday nights.

I agree to being dropped off on Magazine Street in uptown to join the ladies for a harmless night of painting and sipping wine. Sure. I brought a few bottles of Francis Coppola’s pinot noir and sat amongst the girls chit chatting getting our art supplies and seats for the lesson. This evening’s painting selection would be from the gallery’s House of the Rising Sun collection.

I felt uncomfortable being there I guess that I am nothing like these women and their “keeping up with the Jones’” attitude, its stupid to me. But I continue and pretend to enjoy myself. I am not an artist so I didn’t take the lesson as serious as others but I enjoyed myself and my mistakes.
After the class was over, we all gather around for a group shot of us holding our own paintings. I sat mine down on the easel next to someone else’s because I had paint on my shirt. I was definitely buzzed but not drunk. I was getting a ride home with Kelly and the birthday girl so I didn’t have to worry about driving. Its still early so we decide to all walk down Magazine Street to some bar called Monkey Hill. I had two vodka sodas. Someone got a call from the gallery that the original was missing and wanted everyone to check their paintings. I knew I didn’t take it so I didn’t bother really looking once the three of us put our paintings in the trunk before heading to the bar.

Not long later at the bar, one of the girls from the party joins us and the conversation of who took the gallery’s painting. I really didn’t care because I didn’t know any of the girls and they didn’t know me, so whomever did take the art, I wouldn’t know anyway. She eventually comes to me and says, “I thought I saw you take the painting?” in a very annoying and caddy voice. This is the part where to this day I feel someone must have slipped me a roofie. This chick wasn’t backing away either after I brushed her off. I snapped. I wanted to fight. Kelly and I walk outside to talk because I’m about to whoop this bitches ass because she accused me of taking the original painting. I get pissed and jump in a cab. I start crying as we drive away because this was such a terrible way to make a first impression, my angry and violent tendencies were not under control and I was embarrassed.

We get to Lakeview and I need the cab to stop by the ATM two blocks from our house for his fair. I wept the entire way home, I’m sure he was concerned and begged me to not get out of the cab to walk home from the ATM. I wanted a cigarette and the two block walk would’ve been just the time I need to finish before getting home to Jim and the dogs.

Now things get interesting, I got turned around with my sense of direction after leaving the ATM. This is where the night gets blurry and vivid at the same time. I begin walking, and walking and walking. I eventually realize I am lost. Lost in my own fucking neighborhood? Really? Somehow during this walk, I break the face on my iphone calling jim begging for help because I couldn’t find my way home. I was incoherent. I was mad. I was screaming at the top of my lungs in the peaceful suburban gem of a neighborhood, “somebody help me!!!!” I start crawling through yards, rolling around like child but on something like an acid trip. I couldn’t tell Jim where I was, I couldn’t read the street signs. I was crying and screaming and acting like Scarlett Ohara with the dramatic wails and sighs. Thank goodness I was wearing my Burberry trenchcoat because if I hadn’t been dressed as I was, I could’ve easily been mistaken for a crazy person who’d just escaped the looney bin.
During this time, Jim and Kelly are in communication. She and the birthday girl, Lisa are driving around Lakeview looking for me. They do so for a couple of hours. Here I am just getting more and more lost. I eventually realize where I am when I reach the 610 interstate and that I’m about 20 blocks in the opposite direction from my house. What the fuck. I walk back home and by this time, I am so dramatic as I crawl through the streets, yards under the bright street lights screaming and crying in the quiet, very quiet time of night….around 2-3am.

I pissed my pants, was filthy but I made it home. Jim was so worried. I will never forget my dogs’ faces, they were so concerned as if they knew some evil demon was inside me. I am still incoherent. I run to our guest bedroom and lock myself inside with the dogs. What was wrong with me? Jim was crying, he had no idea what the hell just happened to his wife. I’m crying, I couldn’t believe someone accused me of stealing the painting and then getting lost and out of control. I like drugs. I used to like them a lot but this was nothing like that. I felt like a terrible trip on mushrooms while watching Natural Born Killers and being all alone….something awful like that.

Not long after I make it home, the doorbell rings. It’s the cops. They want to see me. FUCK!!!! I was the victim in my mind, that little girl who is just trying to live in the big world sort of thing. The cops see that I’’m ok, I told them that I thought someone had given me a roofie or something like that, I just wanted them out of the house because they were freaking me out. Apparently, entire 70124 zipcode heard about me, or just heard my screams that night. Great. Just great.

I have the worst migrained when wake up the next morning still wearing my pissy and muddy pants from the night. Jim had locked himself in our bedroom. I slowly crawl through the house trying to make sense of what happened. As I start remembering things.. "Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh" i cried out. I was so ashamed, humiliated, scared and distraught. I couldn’t walk outside my house for nearly a week except when going to and from work. We were new in the neighborhood. We were Tedescos which meant something in the blue blood circles of New Orleans' society. This was all so foreign to me and my humble beginnings. I never felt comfortable in my own skin since moving here but on this occasion I would most certainly accept the perks of being associated with the family if it meant I didn’t look like a crazed psycho killer crawling (literally) through their streets like some transient from Texas.

Jim, my sweet Jim. The next day, after he feels safe and secure enough to emerge from our bedroom He treats me like the helpless child I appear to be (after the fact) ; and gives me a bath consoling my cries assuring me that it would all be ok.

I lay in our bed all day while he watched the Saints game. I get a text from Kelly that I can barely read b/c my iphone face was shattered that read, “Why did you lie to me?” I’m like huh? The next text read that when she and Lisa get their painting from the trunk of the car they found that mine, or rather the one I took, was the art gallery’s original. Oh holy shit. These people didn’t know me. They don’t know how absent minded and aloof of an ADD person I am. Fuck. Now I become a wreck. Everyone thinks I stole the painting because in reality, I DID take the painting but it was an accident. I didn’t give a shit about it and didn’t take it as seriously as the others, now I look like a fucking thief.

I phoned Kelly to explain my side before begging and pleading for her forgiveness. I like the biggest piece of shit. How could I turn such an innocent evening with ladies into such a cluster fuck as this?

Kelly, her kind soul had worked with me for months so she knew how absent minded I can be at times. She was quick to forgive my behavior that night. I of course could not stop obsessing over what happened and what a fool I made of myself in front of everyone; not just the girls at the party but my new neighbors, Jim and even my dogs. I will never forget the frightened gaze of their eyes glowing at me during my meltdown when I after crawling home when the police were questioning me. I was so ashamed of myself. Here I am with what every girl at that party wants in life: a nice new home in an exclusive New Orleans neighborhood with a handsome, successful, loving husband who adores me. Nope, I’m out causing holy terror for no damn good reason after "accidentally" swiping the art gallery's original work. The girl who accused me of “stealing the painting” was right. I knew I couldn’t redeem myself with those ladies again. Not that I really cared because they were'nt my type. It became my number one priority to repair my friendship with Kelly. Like always, I felt like the victim of bad circumstances and the "lost little girl" once again.

What an awful time in my life.

Kelly agreed to return the original and get "my" painting back. I told her I didn’t want it and that I never wanted to see it again. She could burn the stupid "house of the rising sun". As far as I'm concerned, that painting and the events surrounding that night are the result of the voodoo curse placed on my soul. This curse set the stage for my tragic demise in New Orleans.

The song by Eric Burden has always given me a strange and eerie feeling anytime "house of the rising sun" played on the radio. Now, that song resonates with me like no other and I've yet to hear it play in it's entirety.

That song. That night. The curse. My life. Just the beginning of my downward spiral.

The voodoo curse that kicked my ass out of New Orleans and back home to Texas.