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The Devil went down to Georgia. I mean Louisiana. Close enough.
My colleague Matt recently recalled the surreal, life flashing before his eyes moment he had in a Marriott bathroom in his youth. While the tale may seem fantastical, I know it to be true (mostly).
Aside from having heard confirmation of the story years ago, I know it now to be true due to the climax of the journey occurring in a Marriott. You see time and space do not function as you know them to when inside of a Marriott. I believe they are gateway to some primordial, unspeakable, cold and empty place. I honestly feel I lack the words to properly describe it and as such I'll simply label it a hell. Whether it is the Hell or a hell of other designs I leave to you.
The reason I speak on this is because Matt's words about a drunken, relish induced Marriott based escapade caused the mental blocks I had erected around my own trauma to come crashing down.
A handful of years ago one of my friends, let's call him John, was getting married and he wanted to have a sweaty ass bachelor party down in New Orleans.
I became friends with John back in college as he was the roommate of one of my best friends from high school. We bonded over our love of beer, food, gambling, football, and food.
He eventually moved out of NYC post college and moved into a house in Manayunk about 3 minutes from the place that I shared with Tom and a girl who paid rent but was never there (it was great). He reached out to see if we were nearby and wanted to meet up as he had just moved in. Tom and I were banging on his door scaring him and his roommates only minutes later.
After a couple years of shenanigans together, it became clear that John had become closer friends to Tom than to me. It's not really important to this story, but I want to highlight that it is some bullshit and can't possibly reflect on my character but only on those two pieces of trash.
Back to the semblance of a point. Tom and I made our way to New Orleans for John's bachelor party in which like many, would be as memorable as our chemical balance allowed for.
Upon arriving at the airport we met up with John and the three of us hopped into an Uber to head to an Airbnb that his best man had setup.
The further we got into our journey, the more unsure the driver was about our surroundings and final destination.
"Uhhhh, just so you guys know, this is not the best neighborhood. Are you sure you are going to the right address?"
We looked out the windows of the car and saw a perfectly nice Airbnb. It just happened to be sitting amongst a string of very rough looking houses.
John assured us it was correct and we got out and went inside. The Uber driver did a sign of the cross and peeled out of there.
Once inside we ran into most of the other guys who arrived ahead of us having a few drinks. The inside was nice enough but another problem arose. There were 16 guys invited for the trip and 6 beds and 2 couches. The math was not looking good.
After I berated the best man for his stellar planning skills I happened to glance out one of the windows. There was a man living in a van, with no tires, right outside on the street. Our interactions with him over several days made it clear that he fluctuated between ignoring us and outright hostility seemingly at random. Things were grim.
I looked back at Tom who had some app pulled up on his phone that showed all nearby crimes by robbery, assault, and so on for the past few years with a small red dot signaling where the crime occurred. Our location looked like an outbreak of chicken pox. Even grimmer.
We locked eyes and I pulled out my phone and picked out a cheap Marriott room near Bourbon street the two of us would stay at. It was a quick decision that would keep us near all the bars we'd be going to and most importantly, would keep us alive by not having us drunkenly trying to make it back to that Airbnb in the early morning hours.
Of course now I know how foolish I was to think I had broken the system and would be free to party on Bourbon street then stroll right on back to my quiet room away from the mess of farts and bodies littering the Airbnb.
That first night, like many bachelor parties was supposed to be the 'tame' night in which everyone gets into town. And, like all bachelor parties, was the most out of control. I imagine it's just the natural inclination of a group of aging guys who have wives, kids, and responsible jobs to remember and revert to the primal animals (pieces of shit) we used to be in our younger days.
After a host of successful bar visits and many cocktails later, Tom and I went to walk back to our Marriott as the others were left struggling to get Ubers back to the house in the middle of despair lane. We cackled and left them in the dust.
On our way back we happened past a Dominos. We walked in and 10 minutes later had a 'edible' hot mess of a pizza to carry with us back to the hotel.
Tom and I walked into the Marriott and walked over to the elevator bank. As I reached out to push the call button Tom spoke up.
"I don't think this is our hotel."
My hand froze. I looked around the lobby and saw a Marriott logo behind the concierge.
"What the fuck are you talking about, of course it is." I slurred indignantly.
Tom said in a louder voice "This isn't our fucking hotel!"
A fog cleared and I realized he was right. What the fuck was going on!? I had checked us in at the Marriott. I went to look at my phone and check my email but my phone was dead. It was at this moment I could feel my grasp on what was real and wasn't slipping.
Tom looked at this phone. "Cheezus Christ Kirk". I looked down. In Tom's hand was confirmation that we had entered Hell.
That's right. There were 8 different Marriott's! EIGHT! All within walking distance of each other!
Tom and I looked at each other. We were totally fucked.
Sure two of the hotels were too far from Bourbon street so we could cross those off. But that left 6. Six hotels to traverse together, at 2AM, as drunk as we could be while still maintaining a sliver of lucidity.
What followed was a drunken walk through the abyss as we entered lobbies, went up to 'our floor' time after time, again and again, only to realize we were still in the wrong building.
We did so many loops that we passed the same guy sitting in the street asking for a slice of pizza at least four times. Each time I got angrier and angrier. This was my pizza! That's right I was still holding onto the Dominos as it was my last tether to sanity.
It was like the scene in the underrated John Cusack movie, 1408, where the haunted hotel room keeps torturing him. He thinks he's out at the end, then the walls come crashing down only to be replaced by the hotel again. There is no escape!
Tom and I devolved into shouting and blaming each other after each failed attempt. To this day, it was the only time Tom and I ever had a fight with one another. Now that I can see so clearly I believe it was God, the Devil, or some ancient entity testing us. Testing the limits of our friendship and casting our hubris into the dirt.
After an hour of walking in and out of Marriott lobbies by some miracle we found the right one. The test was seemingly over. Did we pass?
It was now 3AM and Tom and I finally sat on opposite beds in our room in silence eating cold pizza and watching a rerun of Jeopardy that was on.
About 20 minutes had passed when I said, "Hey man, sorry I was an asshole earlier."
Tom said, "Yeah man, me too."
That was it. The one and only fight had come and gone. The scars still remain to this day but they are healed over.
Sometimes we'll find ourselves sitting on one of our porches having a few drinks when we lapse into silence. One of us will say "Remember fucking New Orleans?" and we'll have a laugh.
During this time of reflection I realize what I thought then is still relevant now. How can it be possible, legal even, to have that many Marriott's so close together in one of the entire planet's drinking meccas? That's like having a cruise ship bar with the walkway to the bathroom not having a railing between you and the ocean. They want you to drown!
I haven't been back to New Orleans since and I might never go again. But if I do, I'll probably just stay at a Airbnb.