And the Case

I

I’ve mentioned before that I take a few walks a day; I have two dogs, one of which is a fairly high energy beast. Normally, we head up to the river in the morning, crossing the French Quarter. At the start of the year, some asshole plowed into a crowd and killed people, and as a result, parts of the French Quarter were blocked off. It was largely re-opened the next afternoon, and I took a little extra time to walk around some of the usual spots. While I did, I listened to an episode of a podcast in which one of the hosts reads an Encyclopedia Brown story and the other attempts to solve it.

For the uninitiated, Encyclopedia Brown was a “boy detective” created by author Donald J. Sobal.  Encyclopedia solved cases in the tiny, idyllic town of Idaville. He charged 25 cents per case. The books were marketed to younger readers, and were made up of ultra short stories (no more than five pages, as I recall) in which a mystery would be presented (or would present itself on occasion). The mysteries were usually a sort of lateral thinking puzzle– solutions like “the doctor…was a woman” were fairly common. As a kid, I sucked at solving the mysteries, but I recall the little world of Idaville and Encyclopedia’s adventures being a pleasant enough place to spend some time. I haven’t re-read any of them as an adult. Sobol actually started his career writing “Two Minute Mysteries”, which were almost the same books– ultra short stories solved by a detective. Encyclopedia Brown solved crimes like petty theft. The Two Minute Mysteries detective dealt with things like murder.

They all wrapped themselves up neatly; the bad guys got exposed, the mystery was solved, I was annoyed because the solution was “spiders don’t share webs” or something like that, and Bugs Meany, Encyclopedia’s arch enemy, would scowl or something.

II

The dog needs walks, not matter what. After the asshole did what he did, we walked. I’m a creature of habit, and we walked toward the river each time. The first time, only Bourbon Street was closed. The second, a fair chunk of the quarter was closed. The third, it was just Bourbon again, and they were getting ready to re-open it. I saw a bunch of people that I know from walking around; the guy with the “jokes” sign. One of the artists who sets up in the square, a bartender. There was a genuine feeling of whiplash; from a horrible event, to a police takeover of a fairly big chunk of the Quarter, to ‘we’re ready for your business!’. 

New Orleans is frequently described as being ‘resilient’, but it felt a little bit as if resilience was being thrust upon us.

III

There’s a fortune teller I used to see more days than I did not. She would set up early in the morning, to get her spot saved, and act as a kind of den mother for some of the unhoused folks who live near the square, she’d pay them to fetch her cigarettes and coffee. We’d chat briefly from time to time; she loved the dog. I saw her scribbling in a journal one day, and asked her what she was writing. She said that she wrote for a few minutes each morning, a sort of free writing exercise. I asked her a bit about it, and she kept her answers vague, but said that I should try it.

I don’t know what she did and didn’t believe about her fortune telling. I imagined her journal as a part of some magick (always with a k, for some reason) practice. I’m not sure that was the case, as she seemed more down to earth to me than a lot of the magic with a k folks that I have met. A little while ago, she wasn’t there anymore. I learned, after asking around and eavesdropping a bit, that she’s in hospice. I want to tell her that her scribbling inspired me to start writing a journal, but I don’t think that will ever happen now.

IV

I started writing this a day or two after the asshole killed people; it’s now been a week. The news is moving on a bit, it’s twelfth night, the start of the Mardi Gras season, the presidential election is being certified, etc. I’m about to enter my second semester at school, and the haze of the holiday is receding. There’s no mystery to solve here. We know who it was, we largely know what his motivation was, but that doesn’t tie things up. The bad guy was exposed, the mystery is solved, but Idaville is not a real place; there’s no amount of lateral thinking that will get things to neatly click into place.

There was a lot of upset and discussion about what was appropriate. If Bourbon Street should have remained closed. How the re-opening should have been handled. What it means to be in a city that shoulders such a thing, and how we respond to it. We want the world to stop, and it doesn’t. The dog wants walking, the city changes, and people leave, in one way or another. I keep thinking that there will be a better or tidier answer, of that the loops around the Quarter might uncover something for me, and they fail. It’s human to want these things, and perhaps even more human to sadly realize that they are not there.