T H A T R H Y T H M M A N

I N T H E M A R C H I N G S T R E E T S
by
Moses Hershberger











On a new and sunlit shore (then a new world is in store)
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in.
______________________________________________________________________________
I wondered for some time now how to start writing this memory I had of
New Orleans, you know, because its something thats important to me. Really,
what Im asking is how I not open this piece so that it taints what follows.
All I can say is to remember what I know and not make it sound
artificial. Thats why theyre called moments and not stories. Remembering.
Hmm. Remembering is--
I figured out one thing. If you want to know how to become a writer, it
really doesnt matter how you go about it. But whichever way you do go about
it, is essential because the way towards the blank page, all depends on who or
what bumps into you and pushes you to write...
Sometimes its people.
Sometimes its those who make a dent on your life.
Sometimes its nature.
Sometimes its dogs.
Sometimes its sandwiches.
Sometimes its coffee.
To me, sometimes... its a little bit of everything. Then I remembered

Hershberger 2
Walking through the city of New Orleans for two days, Ive been feeling
this enjoyment and horror of the improbable normalcy. But that couldnt
happen because that isnt the place for it. I know New Orleans. I have some
there friends that invite me every year and I really try to go when I can. But
this last journey to there, I dont know, it wasnt special. I looked for something
in the faces of people, the streets, the lights and the smell. All I got was the
feeling of removed indignity. Really just burns in your mind, I think.
But after I left my friend Daniels house that dusk afternoon and the day
before my train was set to depart, I decided to have one more walk around the
French Quarter. I really wanted to find out what was different. Why? Because
like any God you believe in, you question the plan they have for you, your
purpose and your doubts.
Starting from St. Louis Street, again, just I walked and wandered down. I
walked and I walked. I knew where I was going, but Id like to think that I
didnt. Not much, except for the Louisiana Supreme Court building and many
wrought iron balconies. Damn. I thought I knew this city. Like, I know her and
she knows me. Maybe its helplessness. You know, like one of those funny
parodies that really challenge your sense of humor or not. Maybe its karma.
But this Paradise Ive it made it out to be, I think since the last time I
was here, I told myself that I would allow this town take me in and spit me out
as born-again writer. It doesnt work like that.
Hershberger 3
First, you take in the town and you spit it out, and then it does it to you
and you should become converted and changed. Its like what Che said, before
the revolution, Let the world change you and you can change the world. Read
into it however you want, but I try to live by that sentence every day. Because
all these visions and ideas and beads of sweat that I have, drive me to
distraction that comes from either excitement or exhaustion.
Beyond the streets ahead of me, signs of bars, bars, bars, ideal bars and
clubs glowed of all colors in the sunset light. There was a wraith of music and a
mythic haze of madness as I kept walking and observing. Maybe I was out of
my mind that night. I didnt even stop for a drink. I didnt feel like being lonely.
I guess up to that point, everything around me seem to drown out. Where do I
go? What do I do? And what for? I thought I had found my lifes work. I did,
however, stop for a moment to watch her play again.
My feet began to ache. And I felt like resting my face on my pillow,
watching her tell her drummer,
Aight, Jimmy. Heres yo song again. One. Two.
One, two three--
...all was good for the moment.
Her name is Doreen Ketchens. Man, the way she played that clarinet, it
was as if she were some voodoo priestess putting the curse on the people. But
hell no!
Hershberger 4
She held that note as if she wanted the whole damn city to know theres
another hurricane coming and this is the last sound you are ever going to hear
before you die. I dont mean that to offend, in fact, if I may so, I think that was
rather poetic. But if Im gonna get castrated for it, well, thats how I precisely
thought of it, when I walked from the applauding crowd. Im already crazy and
cockeyed and extremely strange with words and prose.
I believe every good writer must write a love letter to anything that births
them into the world of literature and the arts. There is no awakening without
observation, even if they offend your creed, your race, your gender, your
whatever. If what you see pollutes your dignity, then there it is. It must be this
way because as far as the writers observation goes, it goes like this: God is in
the details and the Devil is an occasional resident. Yes. Its hipster of me to say
all this, and I wished it werent seen as such, but dont bite at the hand that
feeds you. Even though I feel like a bug on the surface of a dining room table,
Im still moving with this exhalation that removes me from that world.
From those who have either lived there or passed by will tell you it can
only be described as the still zesty, reeking and rotten smell of Mardi Gras
asshole sweat. But then others will say its the smell of steaming jambalaya
and freshly baked beignets. Im gonna go with both because life is a little bit
like that. Mardi Gras sweat and warm beignets.

Hershberger 5
But now as I make my way through Bourbon Street, I just wanted to
walk and listen from the outside rather than, well, you know. But thats just
me. A paranoid ghost in a crowded street. I wish I could describe to you the
interaction of the people and the city. I wish I could, but thats like trying to
describe what kinds of conversations I have with friends or strangers at college
bars. Dont remember or dont care. There were mysteries around here. Looking
back, I started to realize this was no journey. It was just some walk down some
narrow streets that smelled like spice, palm tree, murky river with a hint of
sweetness. Maybe all it was me passing though apparitions of a once beloved
memory that is so far away, Im beginning to lose the details of the little things.
However, even as I round the corner and stroll down Canal Street, I cant
help but, I dont know if I would say wonder, but cant help but see what I see
in this city. I dont know, its like this one has a black and white photo quality
to it. Like the ones that used to go through those traditional photochemical
processes. And though it wasnt much of a journey, because it was just a walk
to and from a couple of blocks, I will say it was moment of, I guess prayer.
In my doubts and in my question of purpose, I have to be under this
tremendous strain to be original as writer. I have no formal education in what a
writer says, what they should say, or how they go about telling other writers
what a writer is, so and so forth, but to me its this cavalcade of all this
confusion of what is and what should be and all that.
Hershberger 6
Thats the question for writers in this life? What does it mean to be, or
better yet, this journey for originality, what does it mean? Can you find a new
story that no one has used before? Or is that outside of the realm humanity?
After the walkabout, my friend Marvin picked me up and we chatted for a
bit, and arrived home. I went up to my guest room, took off my clothes and just
crawled in bed. As I stretched out, I tried slipping away into a deep sleep
without thinking, but its impossible for writers, sorta. I antagonize myself with
degrees of pondering thoughts and tingly emotions. And that, right there, is my
own unstoppable force meeting the immovable object.
In the morning my departure, I showered and brushed, then packed and
ate a gracious breakfast that Daniels dad prepared for us. With no time to kill,
I said my good-byes to Marvin and Daniels parents and thanked them for a
wonderful stay. Daniel drove me to the station. We went through Canal Street
and there it was again. What bumps into you and pushes you to write? I still
dont know. But then again, do you ever really know? What the hell was I doing
up here? Inside, I cried for New Orleans. You gonna be all right, bruh? Daniel
had asked me when he pulled to the curve of the train station.
Yeah, No worries, dude.

You got everything, right?

Yep. All here. Hey, man. Thank you for everything. I know you guys go
to extreme lengths to make us feel good here, so thank you for this,
man.
Hershberger 7
Youre welcome, man. We like having you here. Anytime.

Alright, man. Ill see you back in Tennessee.

Alright, bruh. Peace.

After the half-assed handshake, I climbed out with my bag sling over me
and watched Daniels car slowly peel out. I was left alone with just me and the
barking and furious noises outside the station.
I wondered, what is that feeling when youre walking away from people
and streets and buildings and coffee shops and smelly bars and bright lights
and Jazz clubs and five star restaurants and on and on and on that they all
move away from you instead of you going the other way? Fuck if I know.
We and they are all specks disappearing and scattering. Its a world that
is doing its good-bye on us all. I agree with KEROUAC:
We lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the
skies. And so on, and zoom.