I arrived at St. Peter and Burgundy in my cab. The old guy had a little bit of a Boston accent, so I asked him about the Sawks on the way to the hotel.
He went on and on about Oil Can Boyd. How much that Sawks missed that guy. And about how fucking old he really was. Neither of us could quite see how he was just 24 years old when he made his debut for Boston.
“That guy had ta be at least 30, probably 32,” my cabbie said.
“Yeah, he certainly was and old one. I kind of like that about baseball. You can just make up an age, and people believe it. Hell, if I could do it, I’d say I was 18 right now.”
I was 21. Just turned.
Lost my virginity just a few months before. Came to New Orleans for the first time a little while before that momentous event, to a girl named Katie. She was a redhead.
“Kid, you want to be 18 again?”
“Shit yeah, sir. I want to go back to college and start over.”
“You don’t need to be 18 to do that.”
He was right. I went back to college, again, when I was 23. Put in over 8 years of school. And didn’t become a doctor.
We arrived at the final destination of this trip – The St. Peter Guest House. It was a rundown looking old rooming house that had turned into a rundown looking motel. I picked this place for one simple reason – Johnny Thunders died there. A year ago exactly.
I was almost in town the night my guitar hero died. I came there for the NCAA Women’s Final Four. I had a crush on one of the players for the University of Virginia, and I went to see them play. Plus, it was an excuse to go to New Orleans, which was quickly becoming my favorite place on earth and I’d only been there a couple of times before.
I called the guest house months ago, asking for the Johnny Thunders room. They paused for a second, then asked one question “You ain’t some kind of reporter are ya?”
“No, not me,” I replied. I was at least a year or two from becoming one, so I could answer that way.
I got my bags from the cabbie and paid my fare, tipping him 20 bucks.
“Thanks kid,” he said. “Be careful in this joint. It ain’t exactly safe.”
“No problem, old timer,” I’ve been much worse.
I went inside and rang the bell for someone to come to the ramshackle desk serving as a check-in.
A skinny guy, probably about 40 came out of the back. He was obviously gay, and in need of a haircut and a bath. But, I was the one checking into a room where one of my heroes died, so who was I to judge?
“Can I help you, young man?” he asked with a slight southern drawl. If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere in the lower reaches of Georgia. Maybe the tip of South Carolina. I didn’t ask, however, so I’ll never know.
“Yes sir, I’m here to pay for my room,” I said. “The Thunders room.”
“Oh, you’re that guy,” he said derisively. “I hope this doesn’t become some kind of ghoulish trend.”
“Nah, I’m sure no one will figure it out.” And this was a couple of years before the internet started to boom. So, at least for a little while, it would be true.
I got my key, room No. 37.
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
“Enjoy the city, boy. Not just that room,” the clerk said as he dipped back into his back room.
The room faced the street, just a couple of French doors kept the world and the room apart, and outside it smelled of dog shit. I looked up and saw broken bottles marking the line of defense for an apartment home nearby. I wondered how many of those glass shards had poked a would-be robber and left a scar on them which said “Don’t fuck with me.”
I entered the room and looked at the plain white sheet and plain white comforter and plain white pillow. It seemed silly to have so much white in a place that I’m sure catered to a pretty dirty crowd.
I looked at the floor and imagined where JT spent his last moments. And whether or not he knew exactly why he was to die there, in a heap. I wondered who was with him in those last moments. And who came in after.
The case of his death was bungled, of course, by the city cops. To them, I’m sure it was just another junkie overdosing in the Quarter. And maybe it was. But we’ll never know.
I took off my shirt and washed my face in the sink. It was old and a bit rusted, but really cool to look at. The old wooden furniture wasn’t antique, but it wasn’t new either. Cigarette burns marked many of the pieces. The old 12-inch television didn’t have a remote. Long ago stolen or broken, I’m sure.
Outside, I could hear a guitar playing. It sounded like a poor imitation of J.T.’s famous guitar solo – a simple two-finger chord with plenty of string bending.
I put my shirt back on and opened the door. Took in the song. It ended and then I trapsed on over to Lafitte’s for a beer. Or 10.
I wouldn’t get back to the room until after 3 a.m. By now, it was the anniversary of J.T.’s death.
I slumped into bed and felt an eerie chill. It was 76 degrees outside in late April, but it was cold in here. I pulled up the comforter, not a wise decision in this place I have a feeling, and fell asleep.
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