When I think of the times in college that I naively took chances, I shudder. I think of the old saying “fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” One particular incident that I remember happened in New Orleans back in the early 1980s. We were warned, but with the confidence of youth, went our own way.
I attended a small liberal arts college in North Texas. The school was small and didn’t have the large band I was accustomed to playing in. The performing group that I, as a brass player, wanted to join was the Jazz Band. I had a basic knowledge of playing trombone and with lessons and practice, I became adequate.
The Jazz Band, along with other musical groups, toured in the Spring. One year we went to New Orleans. The members of the Jazz Band were particularly excited. Although we did not perform in New Orleans, the idea of touring the French Quarter and hearing jazz was irresistible.
The French Quarter was not safe. Or, at least parts of it were not safe. Our band director gave us detailed warnings and instructions. We were to stay in groups of at least four people in order to be safe. Fewer people than four in a group was not enough. So many years later, it is hard for me to understand the risk my younger self took.
The group I was with included one musician who was more eccentric than most. Although one of the other girls and I wanted to go on and meet up with the rest of the group, he stopped for every distraction. Especially, he stopped for to listen to every street musician. There were a lot of street musicians in the French Quarter. After the last extended interval, my friend and I had enough. Others of the group had gone to Pat O’Briens.
We were casual friends; I don’t remember her name. We must have had a map of the Quarter. We decided to leave the obsessed musician with his girlfriend and go our own way. We looked at the map and planned to cut across from our present location to Pat O’Briens. We decided that with two of us and the small distance we were going, we would be fine.
As we walked the streets of the Quarter, the surroundings became more dilapidated. The people seemed foreign to us and threatening. I was having regrets about our choice. I grew up in a small town and I had never walked in neighborhoods like this. I had never even seen neighborhoods like this. I don’t remember particular sights just a strong feeling of menace around me.
Suddenly, in the crowd, we saw a man in uniform. It was a relief. We approached him to ask if we were going the right way. Really, I think we approached him because he seemed like a safe haven. He wasn’t a policeman; he wore a Wells Fargo uniform. He carried a nightstick instead of a gun. He was extremely surprised to see two college girls in the area and said so.
After shaking his head grimly over our presence, he decided to accompany us toward Pat O’Briens. I could not have been more grateful if he had been a superhero. As we walked beside him, people called out taunts to him and to us. We walked briskly and he was watchful. His increased alertness brought home to me the danger we were in.
Those blocks we walked were the longest I have ever walked in my life. Intermittently, we carried on conversation. The Wells Fargo guard wasn’t very friendly, but I didn’t care. Walking beside him felt safer. But, somehow we did find out some information about each other.
Part of what he told us was that there were areas that were safe for tourists. But, these areas were connected by other areas that weren’t safe at all. Unknowing, we had walked into one of the very dangerous areas.
The guard told us that he wasn’t from New Orleans either. In fact, he was leaving for home that very night. He had just seen his wife with another man. His life and his marriage was destroyed and he was going home. He was leaving New Orleans immediately. Although he was off-duty when he saw us, he wouldn’t leave us alone in dangerous surroundings.
Eventually we reached the street for Pat O’Briens. The guard, our rescuer, showed us the way and said he needed to go. I felt bereft without his presence at my side. We thanked him, but nothing we said seemed enough.
He was from a small town, too. He was a good man. He was broadsided by seeing his wife with another man but, he had taken time to help two naive, foolish college girls.
Sometimes the most significant events in your life happen with strangers. If I knew his name, I don’t remember it. I wouldn’t know him if I saw him again. Yet, his intervention was crucial to us. An unlikely angel, he had arrived at just the right time before he disappeared forever from our lives.
