It seems like months since I kissed my wife good-bye, even longer since I felt my little twins wrapped about my legs in a more genuine show of affection than any adult pony could ever show. Months since I drove away from my perfect little bakery in my perfect little town. Months since I’d ridden the train hundreds of miles, passing vast swaths of nothingness, areas that had remained unchanged for centuries.
It seems like months since we crested that last hill and beheld the Jewel of the Delta, that city of a thousand jazz songs and a thousand more unique dishes.
It seems like months, but really it was only yesterday.
I must write it down as quickly as I can, before I forget.
I grew up in in Ponyville. I never ventured far past the borders of the town as a youth. I never needed to. My mother assured me that all that lay beyond our cozy hamlet was a world of misery, suffering, and debauchery. Her words terrified me, so much so that I made it a point to never hang out with ponies my age outside of school. As consequence of my self-isolationism, I never had the typical teen experience. I dated sparsely, was purposefully so boring that I was never the one to end those short romances. I poured myself into my studies, intent on opening up a successful bakery like my father had in Manehatten.
Everything changed when my step-brother joined the Royal Guard.
On his last weekend before he was shipped off to basic training, he insisted that I accompany him and his friends to Neigh Orleans. He thought he could tempt me with tales of cheap drinks and loose mares, but I was a mere seventeen years old and could not be swayed with such things. Eventually, that old vice called money was my undoing. He offered me a princely two hundred and fifty bits, nearly a quarter of his graduation gift money, if only I would come with him and his band of merry stallions.
Two hundred and fifty bits would help that bakery open up a lot sooner.
The October air was crisp and clean when we rolled into town on that day that now seems so much longer ago than a mere decade. We checked into our hotel and headed straight for Bourbon Street, that cradle of Discordia, to begin my step-brother’s last night of real freedom.
I did not partake that night, but I was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of this place I had never even dreamed of. I gave my word I would not speak of what I saw that night, but sufficed to say that the damage had been done. My eyes had beheld glory and they could not be closed again.
In time, I graduated as well and began life as a college freshman. As the Summer Sun Celebration got closer, I saw a note on the dorm board advertising a trip back to the city that still haunted my dreams, the city that was everything I had been taught to avoid. I eagerly signed up and in just a few days’ time I again crested that last hill and beheld the city before me. I was prepared this time. I had read up on the city’s history, studied its architecture… I believed I knew this city better than I knew the back of my own hoof. I was intent on finally shedding the rigid rules of my upbringing, on imbibing forbidden drinks and knowing forbidden mares.
But Bourbon Street is not itself during the Summer Sun Celebration.
The air reeked of vomit and urine. All around me, my generation left their dignity along with their stomach contents on the pavement and the walls that had withstood terrible wars and dragon fire. Drunken co-eds leaned salaciously over the railings of hotels above, willing to trade their dignity for the paltry price of a string of plastic beads. Privileged dunder-heads who would contribute to society only what their family fortunes allowed cheered and drank and reveled. Terrified, I spent most of the trip hiding in the hotel, venturing out only for food.
The sounds of the endless party haunted me like a siren’s song, and I wanted so desperately to heed that wanton call.
But I did not, and it haunts me to this day.
Until this day.
After college I married a respectable mare, we opened a respectable bakery together, and we had a pair of respectably perfect foals. But still I was haunted by the sounds of debauchery, blaring jazz, and the ambiance of that now so distant city on the river!
My salvation came with an invitation to attend a baker’s convention in the city that called to me in my dreams. I accepted without hesitation and assured my wife that I would be on my best behavior, especially since she was unable to accompany me due to local obligations.
Days later, I arrived in the city and was on Bourbon Street within the hour.
It was late, nearly midnight, and the air was full of autumn’s first chill. Here was the city of my memories, the Neigh Orleans I had always thought of. Mobs of ponies milled about from restaurant to restaurant, shop to shop. A classy establishment offered the finest of seafood dishes and the sounds of a riotous jazz band while mere feet away a strip club sent out two dancers of diminutive stature to advertise the establishment by performing feats with their posteriors that would make stallions like myself woozy with want.
Here was the city that had lived for so long, had survived being flooded, and continued to thrive year after year. This place where history met fantasy, where one could stand in the hoofsteps of stallions like the pirate Stormy Swells and the soldier Hickory Snap all the while checking the shadows for vamponies and loups-garoux, those cursed ponies who turned to wolves in the moonlight.
Here was all I ever wanted and more.
Walking down the street, my eyes were drawn to a rather simple looking shop. There were no windows, no flashing neon signs. Emblazoned on the red bricks was an intricately painted skull and two simple words; Bon Temps.
Good Times.
I entered the shop and found myself surrounded by the same stock voodoo souvenirs one could find in any number of shops in the city. I smiled, wondering if my little Cakes at home would enjoy something as ghoulish a string doll meant to curse your enemies. My smile lasted just until I saw the shop-keeper, and I saw the he was smiling back.
He was a tall, rail thin zebra. The black of his stripes was almost as dark as the shadows the candle-light cast about his shop. He was dressed to the nines, with a stately bowler hat perched on his head. He leaned on a cane, topped with a golden skull. He continued to smile and asked what had brought me to his little shop.
To my own great surprise, I found myself spilling every secret desire and every regret that concerned the city of Neigh Orleans. As I babbled endlessly, he just continued to smile, nodding his head every so often. As my words began to wind down, I noticed that I was the only patron in the shop. I last explained my home-grown cowardice, my fear of giving in to my most base desires.
He held up a hoof and said there might be something he could do to help with that particular problem. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small velvet bag. Without taking his eyes off of me, he poured the bag’s contents into his outstretched hoof.
His cane stood alone beside him, unsupported.
I drew closer to investigate. I asked him what the small pile of sand in his hoof was.
Laughing, he called it zombie dust, and blew it into my face.
Before I had a chance to be surprised, I was back on the street. I spun around, but the shop was gone.
And I, for some strange reason, felt good.
The air smelled sweeter than I thought was possible. In the air, the sound of jazz became a cacophony of noise that rang like heavenly harps in my ears. My skin tingled with an invisible electric current, the hairs of my coat standing on end. A stupid grin on my face, I took a single step…
…I was in a casino. I panicked briefly, worried that the card table I was sitting at was a poker table.
I’m terrible at poker.
My nerves were calmed somewhat when I saw the game was blackjack. Confidently, I tossed two twenty bit chips towards the table’s center from my already sizable stack. This had apparently been my lucky night. The dealer did his job and I smirked at my hand; the queen of spades and a three of hearts. Not waiting my turn, I tapped the table to signal for a hit. The dealer did so; the eight of hearts.
Blackjack.
Two of my fellow players stormed away from the table angrily, but I didn’t care. I signaled for the waitress as the dealer pushed over my new winnings. I glanced at his face.
It was the shop-keeper, bowler hat and all. He grinned and my hoof hit the table in shock…
…Sharp pain flooded my hoof and I withdrew it sharply from the crushed shot-glass on the bar’s surface. The crowd around me cheered as I ordered another round for myself and all my new friends. A pretty little thing in a dress of aquamarine began picking the chunks of glass from my hoof as I looked around at the seedy bar to which I had come. The music in here wasn’t jazz but violently loud rock and roll. My new friends were a mix of gang types and the standard Neigh Orleans revelers. The girl at my side finished wrapping my hoof just in time for it to grab the next shot.
It occurred to me that I had no idea what the drink was, nor did I have any idea how many I’d had. I also didn’t care. I saluted the barkeep and tipped the liquid down my throat, barely noticing that the barkeep was the shop-keeper, still smiling that same smile. The crowd cheered again, filling my ears with triumphant roars and rocking music…
…Driving techno pumped through me, penetrating my very soul and willing me to dance in the packed night club. My moves are usually the equivalent of the Apple Family’s grandmother, but somehow on this night my hooves seemed to have gotten a sudden education. My pretty friend in the aquamarine dress ground against me to the beat of the music, one of her eyes hidden behind a length of her platinum blonde mane. I felt a presence behind me, detected a hint of jasmine in the air, and craned my neck to find another young lady doing her best to get my attention. The sweat on her dark coat shined in the club lights and I gladly invited her to join the dance.
The song changed but the dancing continued. I looked for the DJ to give him praise for his musical tastes, but standing behind the turntable was the shop-keeper. He tipped his hat to me, his golden skull-topped cane spinning around mid-air at the same speed as the records. My eyes, then the room, seemed to spin with it…
…I spun and fell back onto the hotel bed, my two lovely new friends joining me a moment later. We laughed and frantically pulled at each other’s clothes, not bothering to wait for the room-service we had just ordered. Their uncovered coats were unblemished and perfectly groomed, as though they were carved from stone by one of the great Reneighssance masters. Indulging in a chance I may never have again, I convinced the pair to turn their attention to each other while I waited for the food to arrive. They did so eagerly, and it took the busboy knocking several times to pull me away from the spectacle. I opened the door…
…it was the shop-keeper. He laughed and asked if I was having a good time. Before I could answer, I felt two pairs of hooves pulling me back to the bed. I tried to protest, to point out the open door, but the words died in my throat as they began their sordid work. They did things that I could never ask my wife to do, things my wife never could do, and all the while as our act of lust was going on the shop-keeper stood in the open doorway and smiled that smile of his.
I woke up five minutes ago and, noticing that my bed-mates were gone, grabbed the nearest pen and paper to write down my recollections. The sun is already sinking below the horizon. The whole thing seems like an amazing dream, but my body is sore from dancing and other activities. The room still reeks of sweat with just the slightest hint of jasmine. Next to the clock is my wallet, still bulging from what I can only guess are my blackjack winnings.
It seems impossible, but it appears that what felt like months to me all happened in a single night.
Only now do I notice the golden skull-topped cane leaning against the desk. Balancing precariously on the top is a business card with an intricately painted skull. I take the card and turn it over, smiling at the familiar words on the back.
And at the address below them.
And the time below that.
I look out as the moon rises on the city of my dreams, the city my mother warned me about.
The city my soul now belongs to.
I have to send a telegram to my wife now. I have to explain to her that the convention has been extended. Tomorrow I will tell her that the train has broken down. The day after that… who knows?
Then I have a very important appointment to attend.
Bon Temps.
Good Times.
Author's Note
I love New Orleans, and my recent visit there made this little surprise pop into my head.
