Allow me to explain. On my most recent visit back home to New Orleans, Sean and my mom and I stayed in one of downtown’s seven Marriott ho-tels. We turned in inexplicably early one night and shortly after mom passed out face-down in the hospitality guide, Sean and I started hearing some yelling in the hallway. Now, I lived in and around this city for 25 years, so drunk tourists yelling in a New Orleans hotel is decidedly not a cause for alarm. But over the course of nine minutes, the yelling steadily turned into short staccato wails and finally spiraled down into a sort of desperate keening.
It was time to investigate.
Sean and I crept into the hallway and looked down the 50 feet to the elevator. A pair of filthy, bare feet traveled upwards into chubby, scratched legs and the beginnings of a flowered sun dress. Milling about the prostrate fattie were three older, larger women in the throes of plebian medical suspense. Seems “Caroline,” the victim, was shitfaced and, upon exiting the elevator, faceplanted into the opposite wall hard enough to split her forehead.
She was not dying, she was not very badly hurt.
You’d never know it to witness the scene, however. “Nancy,” Caroline’s favorite aunt, was required by Caroline to be ever-present, and when Caroline could not see Nancy, Caroline screamed louder and longer until Nancy came back. We tired of this quickly, so to make it more interesting, Sean recorded the whole thing.
Caroline managed to provide us with forty minutes of entertainment before either the EMTs or the hotel management made an appearance. Her screams were better tolerated up close and personal; to listen to the banshee from the comforts of your own room was akin to enduring a low, constant static from a radio with blown-out speakers.
At one point, two of Caroline’s male cousins spotted us sitting on the floor and asked if we were locked out of our room or if we just came to see the fireworks.
“Why, is it IRRITATING you?” I asked. My point was duly noted.
The above video is my account of the one chunk Sean missed. When the EMT finally did arrive, Caroline did not want him to help her because he was black. Fucking bitch. In the video, I say something mildly derogatory about Mississippi and Alabama in general. It’s not meant to offend; I consider myself, as a Louisiana native, as hailing from a similarly disappointing demographic. I’m not morbidly obese, racist, trashy, or a muumuu wearer, but I harbor enough formative familiarity with this type of loser in order to, in turn, ridicule the South without consequence.
You can’t make fun of my little brother, but I can make fun of my little brother.
The below video is, in my opinion, the most accurate representation of Caroline’s woes. If you can wade through a full minute of her screaming, you will be rewarded during the last forty seconds where you are able to hear Caroline scream that her brains were falling out. You can see Nancy telling her not to worry, that it’s just her EYE, not her brains, as if this is supposed to calm Caroline down. This is when Sean was recording covertly as we “went to the elevator,” for no other reason than to get some exclusive footage. The last few seconds just consists of our reactions once we were safely inside the elevator.
If you absolutely cannot get enough of Caroline, here’s one more video of her pains, not her brains. There’s a little down-time in this one, but halfway through I perform a reenactment in mime and I host a discussion of Brains vs Eye during the final minute.
And, as a parting gift, here’s a photo of what the wall looked like mid-clean-up:
You’re welcome. Love you, come visit soon!!