It’s 2:30 a.m. on a dimly lit street somewhere on the west end of New Orleans. The sun, and its reassurances, set long ago. A black Cadillac with wood accents pulls up. A guy I met only an hour ago, Jimmy, says, “Here’s your ride.” 

A weathered man with large dreadlocks is behind the wheel. Before the car comes to a complete stop, the unmistakable aroma of marijuana infiltrates my nostrils. 

The once-bustling dirt-gray sidewalk is now bereft of any crowd or inevitabilities. The Cadillac stops in front of us.

“You can throw your gear in the trunk,” Jimmy tells me. It doesn’t take long for me to add up the retail value of what I have slung over my shoulder. About ten grand. “I’ll just keep it with me, if that’s cool.”

“Suit yourself.” I’m offered the back seat. 

I subtly pull my camera bag a bit closer and slide in. A 20-something kid gets in the other side. He’s back-packing around the country, looking for a ride to Colorado. For now, he will settle for a lift over to a pool hall a few miles away.

Jimmy gets in the front passenger seat and hands the driver a sandwich bag of various pills and a few large buds of weed. It’s not how I typically pay my Uber driver. Then again, it’s all too obvious, this guy has no affiliation with Uber, or Lyft, or any legit transportation service.

This is the ride my new friend Jimmy has proudly procured for me. The chauffeur looks into his rearview mirror, shifts the car into drive. Off we go – in the opposite direction of my hotel. I contemplated texting my mom. You know, just in case. But it hit me. Mom has a landline. No texting. 

I’ll be fine.

**************************************************************

3.5 hours earlier…

The phone in my pocket buzzes.

“Uber immediately to the Maple Leaf Bar,” the text reads.

A second text appears a moment later. 

“Rebirth Brass Band. Lots of great people on the courtyard. Go!!!!”

It was from my friend back home in Minnesota. 

Nancie had gone to Tulane University for grad school, just down the road. I was in New Orleans for the first time, seeking out great live music. I trust Nancie – especially when it comes to music. “The Big Easy” – the birthplace of Jazz, home to Fats Domino, Dr. John, the Marsalis family, and, of course, the great Louis Armstrong – had become her second home for the past quarter century. Only a fool would ignore her advice. 

A third text lights up my phone. “Oak Street. Not too far!!!”

The parade of exclamation points marched on, “Go!!!! So worthy.”

I ordered an Uber and replied, “On my way!”

The Maple Leaf is in the East Carrollton neighborhood in what’s considered Uptown New Orleans. Opened in 1974, the legendary club, ensconced in New Orleans mojo, swirls with eclectic line-ups nightly. Crammed into a mixed-use, urban area, surrounded by houses and a couple of small shops, this intimate, grungy place with an ornate tin ceiling, brings everything from blues to R&B, rock to jazz, and funk to zydeco, night after night. 

Tuesday nights belong to Rebirth Brass Band. The band, which formed in 1983, has been a regular fixture on Tuesdays for the better part of three decades – and I was about to be officially baptized in the sweat of the authentic New Orleans brass band sound. 

The place was bulging, the band just starting, when I fought toward the stage to get some good angles to shoot stills and video. 

I wasn’t familiar with Rebirth’s catalogue, but they were putting out a vibe the boisterous crowd was giving right back. This is exactly what I had hoped for: A tight band with horns – great horns – belting out high-energy, jazz-infused mayhem. 

The low ceiling confined the humidity and the crowd, a swath of Black and white, young and, well, slightly older, dancing and singing, matching every word the band belted out. The joy of music superseding any temporary discomforts of sweat, an inadvertent hip check, or the pounding of eardrums. 

At the end of the band’s first set I found myself on the back patio, where I cooled off with a couple of beers. Seated next to me, a group of Tulane students were playing a gregarious game of charades when they spotted me chuckling at their wild gestures. I was soon invited to join them. Maybe Nancie was right about this place? 

Moments later, the lights blinked us back in. The second set was more emphatic than the first. I couldn’t help but join in the fray, jumping up and down to the rhythm – participating in the call-and-answer portions of the songs. My knees’ cry for help getting drowned out by the ruckus music. 1:30 rolled around, I was drenched in sweat and a bit fatigued. My heart was full, but my stomach was empty. 

There was a food truck outside the bar. And I’m not talking about one of those fancy trucks with four walls and a roof. Nope. This was a silver Ford F-150 pick-up with a round Black man working his magic on an F-150-sized grill. Ripples of sizzling chicken wings was music to the ears. The aroma of cajun spices haphazardly wafting in the air, luring anyone in its path.

I snapped a few photos of the grill master. He offered me a large discount on a plate of wings. The man knew the value a few professional photos can bring to business. I took him up on his offer.

I put my camera back in its case, grabbed the plate of wings and plopped myself down on the sidewalk in front of a shop, using the front door as a backrest.

The large wings were smothered in delicious cajun sauce. Abandoning all judiciousness, I dug into the deliciousness – hard. It didn’t take long for me to exhaust a small stack of napkins, and I still had over half a plate to go. 

Layers of sauce started forming on my facial hair. Then on my nose – and maybe some on my cheeks. No matter how much I licked, lapped, or slurped, the sauce was winning. The guys from the band strolled by, stopping to look down at me. I sensed pity.

The four younger members shook their heads and continued on. The two older members – maybe in their 70s – examined me, bewilderment on their faces. Then one raised his right index finger and said in a deliciously deep drawl, “Ya’ll better slow down.”

They chuckled, shrugged, and turned and left me to wallow in my sticky feast for one.

Upon defeating the wings, I noticed a loud and charismatic fellow doing rounds among the inebriated patrons on the sidewalk. He noticed me as I struggled to my feet.  

“Do you need somewhere to clean up?” He asked glancing at my hands.

I nodded and held my hands up like a surgeon prepping for an operation, trying to avoid touching anything. He claimed to be Jimmy, and we tried the bar’s side screen door. It was locked. Jimmy yelled. A guy inside responded. Jimmy seemed to be pretty well connected – at least in this world. 

“This guy just needs to clean up a bit,” Jimmy said.

“No problem,” said the man inside.

I washed up and asked him if Ubers came by at this time of night. 

“You don’t need an Uber,” Jimmy reassured me. “I can get you a ride. Where you heading?”

Jimmy knew all the angles, he could work a crowd. Shit, he got me into a closed bar. That doesn’t just happen. I trusted he could get me home.

It energized Jimmy knowing I was new to town – and looking for great music. Addicts call it being “in action” when something stirs them to perform. He was addicted to interpersonal communication and I was his current fix.

“Coming here was a great choice,” he paused. 

“Don’t go to Bourbon Street,” he said almost annoyed. “That’s where all of the tourists go. That’s no good. If you want an authentic experience with great music, go down to Frenchman Street. Lots of great music there and none of the bullshit.”

He kept up the glad-handing on the sidewalk, I think he would have kissed some babies were there any in the area. Cars with Uber lights on their windshields came and went.

“Is this us?” I’d ask.

Each time Jimmy shook his head, “no.” 

I was starting to wonder what I got myself into.

As we loitered, I met a young man who claimed to be from Minnetonka, Minnesota – only a few miles from where I grew up. He was no older than 25 and said he was traveling the country, hitch-hiking from state to state. He’d been in New Orleans for a couple weeks, but was ready to move on, hoping to make it out to Colorado in the next few days. 

Jimmy got one look at him and was in action again. Soon the kid asked if he could snag a ride to any nearby pool hall. “Of course,” Jimmy said. Everything was “not a problem” for Jimmy. 

The river of Ubers flowed on, and so did the crowd. 

There was no crowd when the Cadillac pulled up. 

“Here’s your ride…”

*****************************

I know what you’re saying. It was probably not the smartest idea to have a complete stranger make arrangements for my safe return to my hotel. Especially from someone who was, likely, a drug dealer. (C’mon, who knows that many people on a sidewalk in New Orleans?) 

We arrive at the pool hall, the kid and Jimmy exit, leaving me alone with the driver. Where the hell am I? I’m hoping at least I will have memorable Second Line parade after my demise. 

Still, I got a chill vibe from the driver and went with my gut – like I had any choice. I asked if I could join him in the front of the car and he accepted.

He perked up, when I said I was from Minnesota, saying he watched the entire Final Four basketball tournament, which had just been played in Minneapolis. We talked basketball for 30 minutes as he drove – to the front door of my hotel.

No wonder people like Jimmy.

I asked him how much. He waved me off. I handed him a twenty. He shook my hand, smiled, and I decided that my camera bag would have been safe in his trunk. I grabbed the bag, we shared a smile, then said goodbye. 

I took Jimmy’s advice and went down to Frenchman Street the following night. 

When had he ever steered me wrong?