Mother of an Apple Picker
The first tour I took out after Hurricane Ida hit was a memorable one, to say the least. At that point it had been three weeks since that windy motherfucker had come and gone and the French Quarter, like the rest of the city, was still reeling. Most of the power had returned by now, but there was still the odd streetlight, cornerstore, or even entire half-block that remained dark. And these powerless blemishes peppered the quarter, creating a sort of patchwork quilt of dark and light that gave off the impression of a night full of danger.
There was also the disturbing chest-high stack of storm debris and black trash bag heaps that decorated a huge portion of the sidewalk curbs, to the point where many of my usual go-to tour stop spots were just not accessible, or if they were, they were right next to one of these giant reminders of the fury of mother nature, which had the unwelcomed effect of making a little ghost story seem incredibly irrelevant in such destructive times.
A good deal of the stores and businesses were still closed too. And more than a few of the doors and windows of various art galleries, souvenir shops, and tourist traps were completely boarded up, which seemed to hint at either an imminent zombie apocalypse or, perhaps even more disconcerting, a callback to the almighty quarantine shutdown from a year and a half ago.
Perhaps the most eerie element of all though was just how desolate the quarter streets were. You turned down any main street- Royal, Chartres, even most of Bourbon- only to find zero sign of human life for blocks and blocks. Instead, on these long stretches of empty street the only movement you would see were the bits of storm debris that had left their curb pile and were now frolicking up and down the pavement, dancing with a night wind that was just strong enough to give locals a hint of ptsd if they weren’t careful.
Of course, I don’t include myself in that last sentence. For one thing, I still cannot, and will never be able, to call myself a New Orleans local, as it’s been explained to me a number of times that no matter how long you live here, or what familial connections you might have, unless you can rep an elementary, middle or high school in the Orleans (or a neighboring) parish you can never truly call yourself a local.
Dem the rules.
Also, the wind couldn’t give me ptsd because I wasn’t here during the storm. I didn’t even have to evacuate either. By sheer luck I had been back home visiting my folks on the west coast when Ida hit. What had started out as a nice relaxing stay in my childhood home transformed into ten days of panic-watching the news and praying that this would not be “the big one” that would take us out. New Orleans folk know all about this prayer. Regardless of your religion or beliefs, it seems at least once every couple of years we have to get down on our knees and beg the sky above not to take our beloved city away from us.
I cannot imagine what it was like for those who stayed in the city during the storm and the awful AC-less weeks that followed. But I can tell you that for me, waiting out those days back in my childhood town was a surreal purgatory of convenient comfort and frantic handwringing. As lucky as I was to have a home with power, a fridge with food, and concerned friends with hugs (although being constantly asked, “So why do you still live there when this keeps happening?” got pretty old), one thing that became very apparent to me during that time was that I needed New Orleans to survive because I couldn’t live anywhere else. I know that’s practically a cliche for transplants to say at this point, but trying to live in an “ordinary” town for those couple of weeks really cemented how true this was for me. I was beyond question a Nola-or-die guy who was terrified I’d be facing the latter of those options.
And so every night back out west I found myself praying. Not just for the city, but for the tourists. New Orleans got its start as a sea-trading port and for a good long while that’s how we thrived economically. But that was a long time ago. Now our entire economic survival depends on tourism. Without visitors, this “city of death” would die itself. I guess I had always known that, but on those sleepless nights during the worst of the storm and its aftermath, I found myself wide-awake, anxiety flowing through me, praying that the tourists who loved New Orleans loved it enough to come back no matter what.
And all the while, one undeniable fact running through my mind over and over again:
I work for tips and so does my city.
So yes, my atheist ass prayed and prayed and prayed for New Orleans to recover and for the tourists to return to their fun-loving, cash-spending ways.
I say all this to help you understand how eager I was to impress once I returned to the city and got my first tour since the storm hit. No matter what elements faced us that night in the semi-ravaged quarter, I was determined to give my group the best tour of their life and make them believe I was their best friend.
Anything for repeat business.
So without further ado…
It’s a small group, smaller than it should be, in fact. Originally, a family of five from Milwaukee had signed up for the eight o’clock tour, a mother in her fifties and her grown children, but when I arrive I find only three waiting for me.
“My oldest daughter and her husband decided not to come,” the mother explains. “They just got married so they’ve been really busy and exhausted.”
Before I can respond to this, the young lady standing next to the mom, who I later find out is the other, younger, daughter, cracked, “Don’t worry you’re not missing anything, both of them have their heads up their asses, especially my sister.”
All three of them, the mother, the younger daughter, and the slightly younger son, laugh long and hard at this, to the point where I make a mental note that something’s up between the oldest daughter and the rest of the family.
The mother must have seen me react to this because she touches my shoulder and says, “she’s not wrong. My oldest is a bit of a bitch.”
At this, they all laugh heartily again, and the other daughter shouts, “a bitch witch!”
“An apple-picking bitch witch!” the mom cackles.
Cue the third round of laughter, this one more raucous than the first two combined.
And of course, I laugh along. No, I don’t understand what apple picking has to do with anything, or why the joke is so funny, but I’m determined to make them love me, for the sake of my ailing city and wallet, so I chuckle heartily, god help me.
The tour starts out well enough. They listen politely to my stories, laughing and gasping at all the right parts, and spare me comments about how messed up the city is right now.
I appreciate that.
And on my end, I make sure to engage with them at all times, enthusiastically answering any question they might have, laughing from the belly whenever they make a joke, and generally acting like everything they say is either impressive or witty.
I work for tips, and so does my city.
The mother engages with me the most. At first she simply asks questions as we walk from one story to the next, while her grown children talk amongst themselves. But as the tour grows on, her line of questioning shifts from “hey do you know…” to “hey, I know this, but do you?”. Basically, she starts quizzing me, trying to catch me not knowing something that she knows, because she wants me to know that she’s not a typical tourist… which is pretty typical of tourists in my experience.
“I’m just saying we’re not one of the ‘bad ones’,” she tells me, “we love this city and its history, more than most people even, especially my eldest daughter, and we’re so happy to be here.”
“Oh get it ,” I assure her, “I could tell that instantly about you, and your family. I get it. You get it!”
And it’s somewhere around here, as she’s explaining to me how she’s one of ‘the good ones’ and me nodding in agreement, that things take a turn towards trouble.
“Of course, my daughter loves this place even more than me. I know we were giving her a hard time before because she’s been a bit of a brat with the wedding and everything. But she’s honestly a unique spirit. She’s into the dark realm of life, you know? She dabbles in the dark arts.”
This is when I know I’m in trouble. Whenever a customer starts bringing up the ‘dark arts’ it almost never leads to anything good.
“Oh, cool.” I tell her dispassionately.
“Yeah, she’s a real dark spiritual person. That’s why she loves it here. The culture. Remember when my other daughter called her a witch. That’s because she is one.”
“Oh, cool.”
“Yeah it is,” she responds without missing a beat. “Hey, remember how I told you she got married yesterday? Well she actually got married in a cemetery. At night! Her and her husband broke in, set up some quick lights and exchanged vows and vowed to stay together for life in the cemetery, isn’t that amazing?”
I don’t respond to this but I hope my silence sends the obvious message. Amazing isn’t the word I would use in this case. The whole thing sounds kinda shitty to me. But I also know that I can’t judge her too harshly, because over the years me and my friends have absolutely had a wild night or two sneaking into cemeteries…
But still, the idea of tourists from Milawaukee breaking into a cemetery in a city they don’t live in and getting married amongst dead strangers just rubs me the wrong way. Seems rather icky. But I don’t say anything because part of me thinks that’d be kinda hypocritical, right?
And besides, I work for tips and so does the city.
My silence seems to irk the mother, and as we reach St. Phillips Street she slows her pace so that she’s now behind me and walking next to her other daughter. She then says, at a volume loud enough so there’s no way I can’t hear her, “I wonder what Julia is doing right now?”
“She’s probably asleep back at the hotel,” her other daughter offers.
“Maybe. But you never know with her. Maybe she’s out apple picking again. You know how much she loves to pick apples, especially in this city.”
I scratch my head in confusion at this. At the start of the tour, she had also called her daughter an apple picker. Clearly this is code for something, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what.
As I’m going over this in my head, I felt a presence next to me. It’s the mother, walking alongside me again, looking into my eyes.
“She really loves this city. We all do.”
“It sure is a great city!” I smile with fake enthusiasm, my voice and tone returning back to its full eagerness as I address all three people on tour. “Good news guys! We’ve reached the bar break portion of the tour! It’s the oldest bar in New Orleans and one of the few that’s entirely lit by candle light. What do you say we all get a drink?!”
Once inside, we find it to be empty save for a few lonely souls, and the mood is incredibly ominous with the flickering light of the candles barely illuminating the vacant tables, chairs and stools.
As my group orders drinks at the bar, I hear music coming from down at the far end of the famous establishment. I leave my group to investigate and find to my great surprise the piano player playing over in the corner.
What the hell? I think. It’s Tuesday, The piano player only comes on weekends, maybe the occasional Thursday, but never on a Tuesday.
But there he is, playing to a grand total of two people. Normally, I imagine he’d be rather annoyed by the lack of music lovers around him, but after these last three weeks of nothing, he looks as relieved as I feel just to have work again.
Sensing a good opportunity, I quickly usher my group from the bar to the piano, and they’re all beyond delighted to find this surprise waiting for them. We each take a seat at one of the stools that hover around the pianist and his instrument and happily sing along to the popular Billy Joel song “The Longest Time” which I know seems too perfect to be true but that’s what’s happening right now. For one beautiful moment, everything’s great. I remember why I love this job, this city, this lifestyle I’ve created. I remember why I prayed all those nights for all of this to come back. Damn right it’s fucking beautiful.
And then, with the others singing and laughing merrily, the mother turns back to me, mouth close to my ear, and whispers:
“These are the photos of her wedding. Look! How great is that!”
I hesitantly look down at the phone she’s holding up to my face and sure enough, there’s a picture of a bride and groom inside a cemetery at night holding hands among tombs.
“Very nice,” I tell her, hoping that’ll be the end of it. But then, with a flick of her finger, a new photo appears. It’s the same as the last one except now you could see that the bride and groom are no longer holding hands but rather holding something between them that’s round and white, something that looked very much like a…
“That’s a skull, a human skull!” she tells me in hushed excitement.
She immediately shows more pics from different angles that reveal that the bride and groom were, without question, holding what looks to be a human skull.
As I process this, she leans in even closer and I watch the wavy light of candles splash over her face as she whispers:
“That’s what I meant when I said she was an apple picker. That’s what we call it. New Orleans is so amazing and special, it really fits the gift she has. That’s why she got married here. She’s great at it and it’s great to apple pick here.”
The world’s longest pause occurs here, because I have no words.
“That’s really not cool,” I finally hear myself reply.
Her expression switches to one of defensiveness before she tells me:
“No, you don’t understand, she got permission beforehand.”
I frown in confusion.
“You mean she knew the guy before he died and asked to use his head for their wedding?”
“No, of course not. Before she entered his tomb though, she summoned his spirit and asked if it was okay. Remember she’s connected to the dark arts. She can talk to the dead. That’s why she loves this city so much.”
I feel a great fury rumble inside me. Jesus fucking christ. What do I even say to this?
And while I’m trying to figure this out, she puts her phone back in her purse and turns her attention to the music, acting like nothing happened.
Then the people around us start clapping because the song is coming to an end, and they put more bread in the piano man’s jar and demand he play that other Billy Joel song that every piano man gets asked to play every fucking day of their life. And some are rude about it and some are not, because down here we have the ‘good ones’ and the ‘bad ones’ that come to visit, and it’s easy to tell the difference. But we also got the apple pickers, who are more than willing to pick away at the culture ‘they love so much’ until there is nothing left. And they are much more difficult to spot.
But at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. Because we work for tips and so does the city…
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