Assault in Pirate’s Alley

Tits and knives. That was my first impression of Chrissy the tour guide. Tits and knives. Today I consider her a good friend and colleague, but the thing about first impressions is that visuals make up most of it. And visually, the two things I noticed first about Chrissy were her tits and knives (ed. note: I told her this recently after I finished writing this, and she laughed and approved). 

A smaller woman, about 5’3” I’d say, I first met Chrissy under the herb sign on St. Peters, as she was waiting to take out a tour. I remember she was wearing a low cut black short that intentionally highlighted certain gifts that the good lord gave her. Below that, wrapped around her waist, was a sleek black utility belt that held only knives. Combat knives, to be precise. Many, many combat knives. So many in fact that I had to take to the time to actually count each one just to see exactly how many she had. The most interesting thing about her knives- aside from how many there were- was that each knife was a different bright color. Hot pink, grape purple, Saint gold, ocean blue. All of them strapped around her waist like a rainbow of danger. 

“So you’re my shadow, eh?” she asked me. 

It’s funny, as I remember it, that first conversation of ours, neither one of us were looking at each other’s eyes. She was looking out to the line of tourists next to us, leaning against the wall of the Herb Shop, that would soon be her next tour group, while I stared down at her waist, still trying to figure out the exact number of blades she owned. 

“Yep, started yesterday. You’re gonna be the second guide I’ve ever shadowed.” 

“I’m honored,” she replied in complete indifference. 

Fifteen! Finally I had managed to count every blade around her waist, arriving at fifteen. FIFTEEN. My first thought regarding this was that that was an insane amount of knives for one person to carry. My second thought was: dear god, what sort of job have I found myself in that requires more than a dozen blades for protection…

“It’s more about intimidation than anything.”

“What?”

I looked up and realized she was taking me in for the first time. 

“My knives, I noticed you staring. Don’t worry, most guys do. I either catch them staring at my knives or my chest. No biggie.” 

“Oh really?” I say as if this was the first I realized she had a chest.  

And then she said something I’m sure I will never forget. 

“The tits are for the tips, the knives are for the dicks.” 

“Gotcha,” I gulped. 

“Relax, it’ll be easier for you, you’re a man. Women tour guides have to master the art of looking both enticing and dangerous at the same time. Male guides… not so much.” 

“Oh good,” I tell her, “because I can’t grow tits and I’m pretty useless with a blade.” 

She laughed at this. It was a good, hearty laugh. And it was at this moment here I thought there could be a chance that me and Chrissy could become friends. Which would’ve been great for me, as I was still a novice tour guide who didn’t know a soul in this odd world and was very eager to prove myself. 

“Attention ladies and gentlemen!” the booming voice of our admin began, “you lucky little devils are about to be sent out on your tour with your guide tonight, CHRISSY!” 

A big cheer came from the line of tourists as they realized Knife Lady was gonna be their tour guide tonight. 

“OK, here we go…” she said to me as she gave her group a small wave before leading them down St Peter before taking a left on Royal. 

“Remember, the only thing a shadow should do is shut up and listen. Watch and learn. That’s it.” 

“Of course.”

“You say that, but I had a shadow the other night that actually interrupted my tour and tried to correct me on one of my stories.” 

“Seriously? They’re lucky you didn’t stab them.” 

She laughed again and once more a felt a quick wave of affirmation. If I could get her too like me that would be huge. I just had to remember to shut up and listen… which was far from my best trait, if we’re being honest.

Our first stop was Pirate’s Alley, one of the two alleyways that border the Cathedral. The other was Pere Antoine’s Alley. I had recently learned an easy way to remember which alley was which was that Pirate’s Alley was the alley where Pirate’s Alley cafe- which was actually an absinthe bar, not a cafe- stood. As Chrissy stopped right near the entrance of the alley, I turned to look down the slender path, to confirm that I could see the Jolly Roger’s sign of the cafe that stood out from the wall about halfway down the alley. I remember nodding a little to myself and feeling good when I did in fact spot the sign. I know this area, I thought happily, two weeks ago I was clueless but I know it now. 

And just then, as I happened to be staring down the alley, feeling good about myself, while Chrissy was giving her introduction and going over the rules, I noticed what look to be the figure of a woman coming out of the cafe, and behind her, what looked to be two male figures following her. I noticed they were walking much faster than she was. And then all of sudden, two things happened at once. I watched, in horror, as these two male shadowy figures jumped and tackled the poor woman out of nowhere, and at the same time, hysterical, terrified screaming began to fill the entire alleyway. So loud that Chrissy immediately stopped talking and our entire group turned to follow my gaze down the alley. 

Now I suppose there could be some question of motives as to what I did next. I would like to think I acted the way I did because deep down I am a heroic figure (although the evidence of this is far from overwhelming). A skeptic might argue I acted the way I did to impress Chrissy so she would have no choice but to approve of me. Perhaps it’s a mixture of both. 

In any case, as the screams ran towards us I began to run towards the woman and her assailants. Half a step behind me, I soon realized, were two dads on the tour following my lead. 

Now running from the end of Pirate’s Alley to the middle isn’t exactly a huge endeavor, but it takes sometime. Which was probably why me and the two dads started screaming words of intimidation as we ran, knowing our voices would reach the culprits long before our bodies did. 

“Leave her alone!” 

“Get off her!” 

“Fuck off assholes!” 

(That last one might be mine). 

Now if you were hoping for a big brawl here between the me, two dads and the shadowy muggers, I have bad news for you. It didn’t go down that way. We were barely half way down the alley when our cries scared off the criminals who ran off into the darkness and disappeared. I remember both relief and disappointment washing over me at this point. I think all three of us were glad we didn’t actually have to fight anyone, but at the same time the adrenaline pumping through our veins was going through a bad case of hero blue balls and that’s never fun. We had all prepared to fight off villiany, but instead, we found ourselves in the awkward situation of standing in front of a poor woman, laying on the alley floor, screaming and crying in an absolutely heart-destroying manner I’ve never heard before, nor want to hear again. We all shared a look as if to say, “I’m not much good in these situations”, and it was an uncomfortable moment to say the least. And then an idea came to me and I immediately grabbed my phone out of my pocket. 

“I’ll call the police!” 

Flashes of regret momentarily appeared on the faces of the two dads, who realized they should have done that first. But my phone was already dialing 911 as they kneeled down to the woman and put a hand on her shoulder and meekly said, “..there, there,” which she did not register at all because of the state of shock and distress she was in. 

The following is the best transcript of my call to 911 as I can remember.  

911: 911, what is your emergency?
Me: There’s a woman here in Pirate’s alley, she’s been attacked. It was an attempted robbery I think, but they didn’t end up getting her purse, because we chased them away. 

911: Are you her husband or family member? 

Me: No, I’m a tour guide. Actually I’m a shadow, that’s when you follow-

911 (interrupts): Sir, does she need an ambulance?  

Me: Uh, I don’t know, lemme ask. (to the dads by the woman) Does she need an ambulance? 

Dad to victim: Do you need an ambulance?

Her (Screaming): NO! I NEED HELP!

Me (to 911): She says no, but she needs help.

911: Well what does that mean?

Me: I’m not sure. But I think she means she’s not physically hurt but mentally and emotionally she is breaking down. Which I can’t blame her after-

911 (interrupting): Sir, can she identify her assailants? 

Me: um, I’m not sure, I doubt it? It all happened so fast. But maybe, lemme ask. 

911: Well, if she can’t identify her assailants then we’re not gonna send an officer to her. 

Me (stunned): What? But she’s a victim of a crime… don’t you guys have to come down here and take a report, get her story and all that? 

911 (Slow and deliberate): IF. SHE. CAN”T. IDENTIFY. HER. ASSAILANTS. WE. WON”T. SEND. OFFICERS. TO. HER. 

Me: What?! You’re the police, you’re supposed to come help! That’s your job! 

911: [Hangs up]

Utterly bewildered by what just occurred, I walked back to the dads and the victim, the victim still screaming in horror and hyperventilating, while the dads still try to comfort her while looking very uneasy the whole time. 

“They hung up on me, can you believe that?” 

Before the dads could answer I heard from the other side of the alley: “Raaaaaaaaandy!” 

I looked down the slender pirate’s path and find Chrissy still with the rest of the group, waving her arms, motioning for me to return to her. I looked back at the dads and notice for the first time that half a dozen other bystanders have swarmed the victim, all of them ignoring the three would-be heroes and paying attention solely on the screaming woman. 

“Don’t worry,” a compassionate woman told her, “I’m calling the police now.” 

Hearing that was enough to make the three of us from the tour shrug our shoulders and sheepishly leave the scene of the crime and return to the group on the far end of the alley. 

Once we returned to Chrissy, she immediately guided us the hell out of the danger zone like a pro. Once we’re safely back on Royal Street, she leaned in toward me and asked what happened.   

“It was crazy,” I told her, “the robbers ran off before we arrived, so I called the police and they said they wouldn’t even bother coming down here unless the victim could identify the suspects. And then they hung up on me. Isn’t that nuts?!” 

Still staring straight ahead, guiding her group to the next stop, she replied: “Maybe in other places that’s nuts, but not in the French Quarter. In the French Quarter, you’re on your own.” 

I let those words roll around in my brain for a bit, and then I stared down at Chrissy’s waist, at her utility belt of rainbow danger. As I watched her knives jingle while she walked a lot of things suddenly became clear to me, and I wondered for the second time that night what the hell have I gotten myself into, only this time, that fear felt much more real. 

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