Cosmic Trigger- David Ledoux -

Cosmic Trigger

You know, it’s funny how coincidences work.

About 1007 weeks ago, in late November 1991 I was in New Orleans with my buddy Herb. We had driven the 1,666 miles down I-29 in a brutal ice storm and we were supposed to stay 4 days. We didn’t have a hotel, but when you’re 23 years old you don’t sweat the small stuff.

When we got to the Big Easy the 49ers were in town to play the Saints. I had never seen anything like it in my life. The city was electric, it was alive, it was bedlam. And of course, there was no room in the inn. Every hotel, motel and dog house was sold out.

Herb and I went to the closest bar on Bourbon Street to figure things out. In times of stress it’s often wise to convene in a quiet meeting area to formulate a plan. On a Thursday at 4:40 in the afternoon we sat down at a small table next to what appeared to be a wrestling ring. Yes, it was an actual wrestling ring. In the centre of the bar. What?

Dave and Herb's Excellent Adventure in New Orleans

The waitress sauntered up and gave us the visual once over. We were both in suits and ties, looking like either young missionaries or the boys from Pulp Fiction. She was chewing gum. And looking exhausted.

“Waddleitbeboyz?”

Herb blinked. “Come again?”

She sighed. Slowly she enunciated and raised her volume in that endearing manner that Americans do when trying to get a foreigner to
“comprende”.

Herb laughed that huge belly laugh of his. “Oh, sure, cool, thanks. What kind of beer do you have?”

“Draft. Two pitcher minimum until the girls are done.”

Girls?

Herb and I had fortuitously sat down ring side at a ladies wrestling beer hall. I’m sure a madmad worked at Reese’s when he combined peanut butter and chocolate for the first time. What kind of genius combined beer with a woman’s combat sport?

We sat and watched what can only be described as “theatre absurdia”. A big tattooed humongous female with a strange little manager marched down to much fanfare and stood in the centre of the ring. The little man abusively called the patrons “humanoids” and “beer swilling trash” which would instantly draw jeers and boos.

The giant woman was the Ladies Champ. And she was undefeated. And willing to take on all challengers. The hall was silent. The manager laughed and snorted with derision at the room. He upped the ante to a $300 bonus to anyone willing to fight the behemoth. I began to take off my suit jacket. Things just got interesting. I wonder if they’d let me scrap her?

This was a beer hall. There was a definite lack of women in the joint. Suddenly a tiny voice from the back of the room spoke up. A slender blond female with an apron had been washing dishes in the back. She was willing to fight the Biker Babe for the cash.

Herb jammed his Camel in the corner of his mouth and jumped to his feet cheering like a lunatic, clapping for the scrawny waitress. Something didn’t add up. A nervous 90 pound delicate flower against this 220 pound she devil? It was going to be a massacre.

I felt transported back in time to when carnivals roamed the remote trails of America. The horrible draft beer increased my suspension of disbelief. I found myself cheering for the little twig as she fought back time and time again after getting slammed, stomped and slugged by the obviously superior Ladies Champ. The definitive roles were so clearly cast. The good girl with blond hair, the bad girl with black hair, black eyeshadow, and enormous wresting unitard.

The Ladies Champ

The little dishwasher fought bravely. Parts of her clothing were accidentally torn off during the beating. Partial nudity was an unexpected turn in the match. But ultimately the stronger Champion was too much for the little gal and she was pinned after being slammed and then Swanton bombed off the top rope.

The wait staff began clearing the patrons out. And then I clearly understood the grift. Get half drunk tourists in the door with the promise of women’s wrestling, jam 2 pitchers of cheap draft in them, and then shovel them out the door. Our waitress attempted to plunk down the bill and asked us to pay on the way out.

Herb shook his head and wagged his yellowed index finger. He decided we weren’t going anywhere. To him this place was amazing.

She sighed and kept serving us the nasty brew. Herb was no stranger to getting amazing service from waitresses. His secret was the perpetual tip. When bars get slammed service drops because of the law of supply and demand. Too many patrons, not enough staff. His tactic was to tip 1 or 2 single dollar bills every time the waitress so much as smiled at him. By constantly tipping as you went along it ensured maximum personal attention from the service staff.

We sat and drank draft for the next 6 hours. We got to see the performance 8 more times. We went bananas when the little blond dishwasher finally won! She smiled at us and gave me and Herb the thumbs up as the ref raised her victorious hand. The wave of humans came in and out every 30 minutes like the tide. Around 7 pm the huge Woman’s Champ was replaced by a different, yet equally humongous performer. And the show played on. Herb would tip any waitress within 5 feet of him. Within a few hours we were friendly with all the service staff in a world where interactions were measured in 30 minute increments.

I was pacing myself, drinking one glass of gut rot for every 3 or 4 that Herb pounded down. He belched and mumbled something about taking care of business. He wandered off towards the back.

The show started, again. Now that I had seen about 10 repetitions I was starting to grow tired of it. Same script. Different performers. This time the challenger was a red head with some meat on her. Gigantica was in for a bit tougher match.

Someone sat down in Herb’s spot and I glanced away from the action back to Herb. It wasn’t Herb. It was the skinny blond apron-wearing challenger from the first match 6 hours previous. I gave her the nod, and she nodded back.

“Hey.”

“Hello. I’m Annie.”

I stopped watching the wrestling and visited with this new development. There was no shortage of topics to discuss. How does one’s career path trajectory involve wrestling and serving beer in New Orleans?

Soon I discovered Annie’s goal in life was to build her own burlesque troop and tour the country. She wasn’t working her way through college or any cliche like that. Nope, she had a path in mind and a temporary stop as a performer was just experience to her. I found her fascinating, so different than the university girls I hung around with back in Winnipeg.

It wasn’t until last call that I realized that I hadn’t seen Herb in close to two hours.

Oh crap.

Annie helped me search the beer hall for him. She asked some of the wait staff. All had their hands full with beer, drunks and closing out their tables. No one had seen hide nor hair of Herb, but they all remembered him. We had been sitting in the place for close to 9 hours. I choked a little when the waitress brought our tab. $400. We should have asked how much a pitcher was before we sat down.

I sat with Annie at the bar at the back to survey the damage. I was alone in New Orleans. The bar tab had cleaned out my wallet. I had $85 left for 3 days in Party Town USA. Herb was missing. And he had the car keys. I laughed out loud as I recited the facts to my new friend.

She admired how remarkably chipper I was all things considering. I told her that I rarely panicked. She giggled at my peacocking. This was a girl who 5 times a night got her shirt ripped off in between body slams and slinging pitchers in front of hundreds of men. I liked how I didn’t have to pretend around her. Being oneself is a remarkably refreshing way to exist.

Annie and I locked arms as we left the hall like Dorothy and The Tin Man following the Yellowbrick Road. The cool November New Orleans air beckoned. “Come on, let me show you my city”.

She knew the French Quarter like a painter knows her colours. We went down two dark alleys and across a park. I may have been a small town hick, but even I knew that if she was taking me to a set up I would be floating face down in the Mississippi before I could scream. An image of Herb dead in the river flashed across my mind.

A dirty door off a laneway opened into the back kitchen of the coolest after hours jazz place in all the city. Forget every movie you’ve ever seen about night life in New Orleans. This place was the real deal. Annie knew the poets, the writers, the sax players, the drug dealers, and the local celebrities. And everyone seemed to know Annie. She introduced me as her new Canadian friend to everyone. I guess she had adopted me.

As we chatted into the wee hours of the night, drinking coffee with whiskey and enjoying the jazz, we became fast friends. Not in a tawdry one night stand kind of thing. The connection was deeper. She was into books. Philosophy, the occult, chaos magic, ancient history, even the paranormal. She knew more about reality than I ever imagined. She lectured me on artificial power structures in the world, and challenged me on every belief system I thought I held. I was captain of the debate team in high school, and I mistakenly thought I was well read. She danced circles around me as my defense of modern capitalism crumbled. On top of that tiny body sat a massive brain.

The hours flew by. My mind was swimming as what I thought I knew about the world was exposed as ridiculous and artificial constructs. It’s amazing how naive I was back then. Her words were hypnotic, profound, and mind expanding.

Eventually the musicians were packing up their gear, and the last few patrons were either heading home or for breakfast. Annie and I stumbled out into the fresh air at 6 am, blinking as the sun was suggesting he might appear that day. We had been hanging out for nearly 8 hours.

I gave a silent, quizzitive “what now?” look as we stood on a sidewalk that just hours ago had been a sea of humanity. She smiled and sighed. Be both instinctively knew the night was over. She had to get some rest before her next shift at the wrestling beer hall. She gave me a giant hug and said good-bye. I knew I’d never see her again.

As she turned to catch a bus, she stopped as if she had remembered something important. “One sec. I think you might enjoy this.”

Annie gave me a well worn paper back book from her crocheted shoulder bag. She hugged me a second time and scampered off into the night.

Standing silently in the French Quarter, alone, with $80 in my pocket, I glanced at the book.

Cosmic Trigger, by Robert Anton Wilson.

The next 3 days in New Orleans were truly bizarre. I chronicle some of the coincidences and strange occurrences that happened in my book How I Went From Welfare To Millionaire Without Winning The Lottery. If you get on the list below you I’ll hook you up with a free copy when it comes out on Amazon next week.

The book Annie gave me made a profound shift in my consciousness so long ago. It was life-changing stuff at age 23.

I haven’t thought of that book in two decades.

Last night a copy “accidentally” came into my possession.

I know what you’re thinking. I agree. It’s a sign.

I never saw Annie again. I hope she started her touring burlesque troop and is doing well. Today I plan on curling up near the fire to reread Cosmic Trigger. It’s been half a lifetime since I last turned its pages.

Let’s see what lessons it holds for me now.

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