Brides, Balloons, And Bourbon Street

IT’S CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE BARTON GOES!

BARTON CHRISTMAS (YEAH, like the holiday) is not new to PADUCAH LIFE Magazine. We featured this talented young man when he was really blowing things up in his hometown of Paducah. Barton’s balloons were a standard among events and festivities when he was in high school, and apparently they’ve taken him into some unexpected territory as you will read in his essay about his experiences in the Big Easy. Barton is a 2021 graduate of Vanderbilt University and was the recipient of the distinguished Keegan Traveling Fellowship. From July 2022 until somewhere in the spring of 2023, Barton will be traveling around the world interviewing artists and creatives about the impact of COVID-19 on their lives and work. Barton will be in a different country almost every month during his year-long fellowship as he interviews and entertains alongside street performers, studio artists, and other creatives from around the globe. So, enjoy this sassy essay from Barton’s foray down Bourbon Street, and look forward to future posts from points unknown.

BRIDES, BALLOONS, AND Bourbon Street

by Barton Christmas

ANDREW JACKSON RODE HIGH ON HIS HORSE, filling up the center of the square like the beacon of military might that he always was. It seems nobody had notified him that the war was over, that we were way past 1814. President #7 just continued to rear back on his horse, devoted to the rush of battle. Where was I in all of this? Making balloon animals, naturally. And I will confess to you, it was a tough gig. Given my training on Paducah’s Broadway, I thought it’d be a cakewalk getting my balloons into people’s hands, and their money into mine. Unfortunately for me, Paducah’s Broadway doesn’t have a host of beignets, contortionists, and general Cajun pandemonium. To walk in New Orleans is to walk through a fabled whirlwind of light, dark, love, and danger. The home of Mardi Gras is just as zany as you imagine. New Orleans, first and foremost, is a city of contradictions. Some of the most beautiful architecture you could ever hope to see rests amidst the technicolor houses of the Bywater; of course, on every block, you’ll find a house that still bears the scars of Katrina. The strong Catholic presence in the city means that NOLA holds some of America’s finest private schools; however, if you can’t pay to play, the public school system is a painfully underfunded roulette wheel. These contradictions shine brightest on Bourbon Street, where you can see shoeless sixyear-olds drumming their hearts out on wash tubs for spare change. And as these percussion savants build out vast rhythmic landscapes, a car rolls down the street. It’s a fancy truck, one that has seen more body shops than interstates. Inside, based on the cries of “Go Saints!” echoing up and down the way, is a professional football player. The window comes down, and twenties flutter out into the

waiting hands of those drumming kiddos. Trickle-down economics, Cajun-style. So what does it take for a balloon artist to make his way in the Big Easy? Well, much like your average Mardi Gras attendee, I had to bend my moral code just a bit. Invading the square with an intensity that would’ve made Andrew Jackson grin, I found myself surrounded by that special collective of feminine spunk, a Bachelorette Party. “Hey Balloon Man! Can you make a p----?” I invite the reader to enjoy this game of raunchy hangman, as you take a guess at what the Maid of Honor was hoping to acquire for the bride. And after a slow afternoon with less than a dozen balloons dispensed, it still makes me a bit red in the face to say that I did in fact make the aforementioned part of the female anatomy. It was an impressive specimen as balloons go, well-inflated and ready for action. Thankfully so, as the bride-to-be took the balloon and immediately began to pantomime a certain activity, one her bridesmaids encouraged her to practice in the face of her impending matrimony. The bachelorette party moved along, taking up residence on the steps of St. Louis’s Cathedral. As the bride-to-be continued her pantomime, another tourist walked by and tossed a dollar bill in her direction. She raised it high, shouting, “New Orleans, baby!” I turned to the statue of Jackson, staring at the sky, pretending he hadn’t seen all the shenanigans going on around him. “Quite the city you’ve got here,” I said.

We’re Grateful!

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