First Second Line

Seen a lotta Death in the last few years.
Lotta Death.
And suddenly,
I find myself in a town that understands how that is.

Got invited, a couple weeks ago, to participate in the second line of a jazz funeral for someone I'd never met. I was concerned about participating in what was such a personal event without prior knowledge of the deceased. Didn't want to intrude where the heart is so tender.

I'd been told, within my first night or two in New Orleans, that one of the bartenders at Harry's Corner was sick, hospitalized shortly before I moved to town. Three weeks later, one of the other bartenders, with that dazed look I now recognize a mile off, told me,
"Well, you heard about Freak, that he's been in the hospital."
"Yeah, of course! How's he doin?"
"He's dead."
"Oh jeezus.
"...Oh, jeezus, darlin, I'm so sorry."
"Yeah, y'know...
"I'm just tired of this shit.
"After Katrina, with all the death there, afterwards seemed like people just kept dyin. Had a friend...y'know, we couldn't get the things we needed, things were still so fucked up with the city. Had a friend who had a seizure one night. Had a seizure and died cause the ambulance couldn't get there for 30 minutes. Thirty minutes and she was dead. Of a seizure.
(and in a small, tired voice:)
"...I'm just sicka people dyin...
(*...sigh...*)
"So, look, we're gonna try and get together a second line for him this Sunday.
"Y'all should really come.
"Come down for it. Really."

Now, I'd bowed out of a lotta goings-on since I'd been in town; just didn't feel like bein in-the-swing-a-things social. But, I wasn't about to miss this. Not when the grieving, red-eyed and exhausted, had personally asked me to attend. Not when an hour of my time, an hour's worth of participation might provide a little comfort, put a tiny bit of fill in the gaping hole of Loss. I know how much those little things mean, even if you can't always remember 'em later.

Sunday, I dressed up purty, grabbed a parasol to combat the sun, and a nearly transparent hanky belonging to my dead father-in-law. Wasn't quite sure what to do with the hanky, but Otter told me, "You'll want it." Went down to the bar where people were gathering, where the Treme Brass Band was warming up, where heavy hearts and love were beginning to swell. I felt an emotional break coming soon; the air was thick with its impending eruption. One of the other bartenders from Harry's, squinty unaccustomed to the midday sun, spied me and came over to hug me. I was still a little unsure. My own experiences with Death in the Public Eye had not exactly been pleasant.
"Are you sure it's okay if I'm here? I mean, I never even met the guy."
"No, no, sweetheart, it's good you're here. You'll see.
"...You got an extra parasol upstairs?"

The band started playing on Chartres and Dumaine, right in front of the bar, and began to walk slowly down the street. The dirges with which they began, though written slow and heavy, did not weigh on us as much as elegies are wont to do. Notes deep slow sad respectful mournful, but somehow not feelin sorry for themselves. From the first bass drum shuffles, the first sousa-brass-bottom, it was obvious that this crowd understood to the bone how intractably Life goes on, with or withoutcha.

I stayed back as far as I could, bringing up the end of the line, mostly outta respect for the grieving, partly cause I wanted to see and hear as much as possible. The procession wound through the Vieux Carre, motorcycle cops on either end, and made its way slowly to the home of the deceased. People held hankies in the air, half-steppin to the beat. Soft. Comforting each other. When we reached the front door of the house, Freak's sweetheart took his ashes inside for a last tour, and then brought them back out. The crowd stilled while the bandleader, the diminutive bass drum player, began to sing in a faded, beautiful tenor,
"Just
a closer
wawk with theee..."
Some heads bowed. Most looked up and around, as if greeting the new ghost while bidding his body farewell. As the sweet threnody came to and end, the briefest of silences hung over around among us. Brief and pregnant. Like the pause at a rollercoaster's apex.

And when we began again to move?
Oh, that's when it became...
That's when I began to understand how Death lives in New Orleans: differently from any other place in this country, fer damn sure. The bass drum kicked up the tempo. The Sousaphone, improbably, became light on its feet, bouncing fat notes to the heavens and, progressively, every booty within ear shot right along with it. People clappin on those downbeats. Wavin hankies and twirlin parasols. Sweet dancin the second line, twirlin little circles, laughin mouths open to the sky.

As we wound through the tight neighborhood streets, we stopped at every bar the late lamented had worked in his many years here in the Quarter. At every bar, we stopped and payed respects. Former coworkers stepped out onto balconies and banquettes, grieving and glad they had had a chance to spend some of this man's life with him. One of the tavern owners brought out glasses of cold beer for the band and mourners, and lord was it welcome in that heat! We headed down Decatur for a few blocks; tourists staring, locals waving and grinning and dancing on the sidewalks as we passed. They knew we carried the dead, and so they danced. And danced!

On the sidewalk, I see a group of kids, aged maybe 10 to 15, hands full of shiny music, watching us and talking rapidly amongst themselves. They quickly come to a concensus and run, horns and drums in hand, to the front of the line, exchange a couple words with the bandleader, and then join the musicians, playing bright and joyful and fulla love. A block down, from the opposite side of the street, yet another band of kids joins the procession. The music has tripled, quadrupled in volume, and people are really startin to get involved.

Wellwishers and friends drift in and out of the cortege to hug each other and swap favorite stories about this beloved human. There is laughter everywhere. Two lovely girls on tallbikes ride close past us, moving air against my body, and shout joyous "Yeaaa! We love yoooou! We loooove yooou!" A young couple joins the end of the promenade, taps me and asks,
"Hey, what's going on?"
I am ebullient; I am full of greasy, bubblin goodwill. "It's a second line for a longtime bartender here in the Quarter. Come on in and dance with us fo'while, darlin!"

Christ, there is music everywhere! I have never seen a life so supremely celebrated! Never seen so many people get it, that we are so damned fortunate to be able to count among our living blessings Friendship, Laughter, Love, and a hell of a lot of good Food and Dancin. As we make our way back to Harry's, back to where we started, folks are flatout cheerin!, whoopin and hollerin and shakin bootys to beat the devil. A couple of obviously-local guys step in line directly behind me and put their hands on my shoulder, nod & grin, grills all shinin, and start singin with the band, shoutin themselves bloody and loved. "Yeh!Yeh! When I layhay...mah burden dowowown!" The crowd's Joy is palpable, is a natural Force beside within between around us, and,
and I have not been in a nexus of Love like this in a very, very long time.

While I watch my new friends carry their compatriot's ashes down the street, dancing and pumping parasol points toward the sky, while I watch these people who've buried so many, who have more cause to grieve than most anybody in this country, I am so very, very humbled by their strength, by their staggering Love. I can't help but think of the last people I helped lay to rest, and today, today! I finally feel like I am bidding farewell to them in proper style.

Oh, you who call yourselves America, you UStians! Take a lesson from the beautiful people of New Orleans: Death is an ending. Not The End, mind you, for Life goes on and on and on, with or withoutcha.

With or withoutcha.

Come
join the Caaaab-aaaaa-raaaaaaaaay!