325 Bourbon Street is one
of the most infamous addresses in my old junkie mind. Before Katrina, I spent most of my time
there, working to pay for my expensive heroin habit. I can see the interior in my mind so clearly,
as if I were still there. The place has
changed since the hurricane, which is a shame because there was so much history
there.
325 Bourbon is where The Shobar stood
for years and years. It is rumored that
the site was the first strip club in America and most certainly the oldest in
New Orleans. Its history undoubtedly
dates back to the red light districts of Storyville times, as the club sits on
the edge of what was once the Storyville District. Walking inside, one became instantly aware of
its checkered past.
The doorman stood out on the street just
outside the double doors, barking at the people walking by, enticing them to
come inside. Sometimes the girls would
join him on the stoop, hawking at men on the street in attempts to draw more
business inside. The girls were not
supposed to leave the club, and most often they stood in the foyer, just inside
the doors. This did not mean that it
was impossible to leave, as I can attest.
I would often have to make a dope run just before the night shift really
got cranking.
I put on one of my most street worthy
stripper outfits, which was generally a black vinyl nurse’s uniform with red
flames accompanied by my knee high black vinyl boots. I stepped out of the doors, bullshitting for
a few minutes like I was hawking at customers.
Then, I turned to the left and darted down Bourbon to the corner. Turning on Conti, I picked up the pace as I
rushed to meet the man with no less than two hundred dollars in my boot. (Often, I had much, much more.) A man called Turtle often met me on Conti,
just a block away from Bourbon on Dauphine.
I hopped in the car and quickly made the transaction. Hugging tightly to numerous little foils of
my precious dope, I headed back down Dauphine towards Canal for one block until
I turned on Bienville. Walking up
Bienville to Bourbon, I passed several bars and fine dining restaurants. I made the block at Bourbon and was back in
the club lickety-split.
When I returned from a dope run, anxious
eyes always greeted me, waiting for their precious packages. Gathering in the dressing room, I distributed
the foils like I was Santa Claus handing out gifts on Christmas morning. Let the moneymaking begin!
Once you entered the club from Bourbon
Street, you stepped back in time. It was
dark as hell in there, and the interior was dark wood and burgundy
leather. It was always an adjustment on
one’s eyes, even from the nighttime neon of Bourbon Street. Once your eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness, you could see the inside of the place was really cool. It was old school, and you could tell it had
remained unchanged for years. I think it
is sad that it was completely gutted and remodeled after Katrina.
To the right was the bar. One end of the bar was almost on top of the
window that faced Bourbon Street. This
end of the bar was open and the bartender would come and go as he pleased. The phone was back in this corner, and I made
and received many calls about dope from that phone. I even made a few calls to that phone from
jail.
The bar itself was made of a dark wood,
smooth from years of customers drinking and sloshing drinks. I can still feel the edge of the bar
underneath my fingers as I think about it.
It was an old bar with a raised and curved edge that went all the way
around. The wood was softened from age
and wear, and I often would push my nails into it, almost digging out little
pieces of the soft wood. It was a
nervous habit I had acquired while sitting there waiting for either money or
dope.
The other end of the bar, opposite the
windows and phone, met up with the stage.
This allowed the bartender to keep an eye on the stage from where he
stood to mix drinks. Sitting at the bar,
even in the daytime, one always noticed how dark it was in there. Sometimes it seemed so dark that I could
barely make out the bottles of liquor behind the bar. Of course, that was never an issue because I
knew they had Jameson.
Behind the tables were more banquettes
that were separated for dances. All the
girls and their customers piled on top of each other, pretending that they were
alone. The private room really was not
private at all, only separated by a beaded curtain at the entrance. There was an old couch in this room that had
absorbed years of dirt and cum, I am sure.
I was afraid to stick my hand too far into the seam of the couch for
fear of coming up with a used condom. I
will say, though, when the junkie bartender and I would open up early for a day
shift, we would often search the cushions of that couch for money. Dollar bills wrapped around thighs and ankles
would often peel off unbeknownst to the dancer while giving a “private
show.” Sometimes, we discovered enough
money back there to get a bag of dope for each of us. That was the best way to start the day!
The stage of The Shobar was my favorite
part about the whole place. It looked
exactly like I had always pictured the stage of a strip club in my mind before
I started to frequent them. The reality
is that most strip clubs today try to look so ritzy, the stages do not look
anything like the ones you see in the movies or we picture in our minds.
The old wooden stage was a shade lighter
than the bar. It, too, had the same kind
of beveled edge as the bar, only wider.
This served to separate the customers from the dancers on stage. The back of the stage was lined with mirrors,
and the pole came up somewhere near the middle.
The pole, like the rest of the place,
was old and worn. Its rough edged black color had faded from years of use. And
in the middle there was always a little grime from years and years of dirty,
sweaty hands spinning around it. It was
not an extremely high pole, which did not allow for a lot of extravagant
tricks. Except for Blue, most of The
Shobar girls did not do a lot of fancy pole work. But Blue was an extravagant exception, with
her tender gracefulness and magical presence on stage, as she shimmied up and
down the pole with the grace of a seasoned acrobat. She was covered in tattoos, nearly from neck
to toes. Her high voice was the cutest
thing I have ever heard, as she squeaked into my ear in the darkness of the bar.
One would enter the stage from the
dressing room, through a deep burgundy velvet curtain. I sometimes wore these black fairy wings
someone had left at the club. They
looked really great on stage when I would make them barely flap like a resting
butterfly. I had to be careful going on
stage because it was easy to get them caught on the pole that held the
velveteen curtain. That pole was
eventually the death of the wings.
The dressing room was probably my
favorite place in The Shobar- besides the bathroom, of course! The dressing room of a strip club is where
the good stuff happens. This is where
the camaraderie begins. This is where it
all begins, starting with make-up and hair.
The dressing room had mirrors all along the wall opposite the door. Just as one would expect, there was a shelf
for make up against the mirror with chairs pulled up to it. The lights above this shelf were big, naked
bulbs, but they never shone bright, and instead an old yellowed hue emulated
from them. The girls relaxed in the
dressing room, swapping clothes with one another, touching up make-up, gobbling
down to go food, smoking a blunt, or just hanging out
The walls were the same yellowing color
of age, scrawled with graffiti from decades of various dancers leaving their
mark. The carpet was so old and worn
that parts of it did not even resemble a carpet anymore, but looked more like a
big splotch of gum that had been rubbed in.
Old, crumbling lockers stood opposite the stairs that led to the stage.
The dressing room was a gathering place
for the women who worked there. There
was often a blunt passed around, and we all shared alike. Some of us may not have contributed weed, but
we always chipped in a little money or offered up some of our other goodies.
Photo courtesy of Chad Phillips.
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