Varhaus No. 10
FATHAUS
January 25, 2029
11:11 am
Jason got fired from his own idea.
“Hey. Gotta sec?”
“Of course, Mike.”
“We had a meeting about Fathaus. I want you to hear about it from me. We decided that you can’t be involved with it.”
“It’s my event! You had a meeting about it without me? I’ve thought about this party since the beginning, longer. It’s my fucking dream event, Mike. I want to do it for BB.”
“BB was in the meeting, dude.”
“huh?”
“Look Jason. All of your ideas about Fathaus were discussed. You’ve been driving us crazy about it. Everyone argued in favor of carrying out your dream with you. Then, BB said: ‘it will never be as good as he sees it in his head no matter how hard he tries’. Everyone agreed. So, you’re out.”
Silence.
“Ruth said that the idea was so real in your mind that you were blinded to what is actually possible. You’re trying to force it.”
“I can see that.”
“You’re not fired because you can’t do it. You’re fired because we want to do it right, for our guests. We want you to enjoy it for once. We’ll send you the invite. We can’t wait to see your reaction in three weeks.”
Jason hung up the phone. He went back to the front of his festival tent. He checked for customers and finding none, he sat down.
He smiled.
February 10, 2029
5:15 pm
A white shipping tube arrives in the mail. FATHAUS. By now, you know what a package from Varhaus means. Party. The tube is too heavy to contain paper goods. Something bulky slides back and forth as you tip it. You set your work bag down to open the tube.
A little umbrella? You walk back out to your front porch to expand the folded nylon to its full dimension. You open the parasol to reveal a white hanky hanging from the spokes of it’s armature.
The white linen handkerchief is embroidered in purple:
March 5, 2029.
Look Dope.
Dope = Purple, Gold & Green.
There is a patch sewn into the linen. QR code.
March 5, 2029
6:00 pm
You’d been directed to an address six blocks from Varhaus. This is your third rodeo. The address is no accident. You pull up to a dark corner to find people are gathered round the curb cut. They’re wearing jumpsuits and each carries a parasol like the one in your backseat. You pull up.
A young woman leans down to declining window. Her unexpected accent directs you.
“Good Evening. Park anywhere facing the street. Stay in your car and wait for the beignets and coffee. The parade starts in thirty minutes. You betta be ready to dance. Did you bring your hankie?”
You produce the linen from your purse and drive on. You look around for the coffee and find nothing. So, you sit.
You scan the lot from looking for familiar vehicles. Who else is here? You notice many rental car plates on the cars to your front. Still no coffee or sweets. The lot is lit only by one flashlight at the entrance and the running lights of the parked cars.
You look left, a group of women laughing in an Enclave. Right, two familiar faces in a little black car. You know them, but they seem out of place, limiting your recognition. The woman was driving. The man sits quietly, impatient or anxious, but still.
A fire engine pulls in, full lights and making that low buzzing noise they make when there’s too many sirens. Not a warning, but an ‘I’m here’ sound. It stops halfway into the lot allowing a pickup truck pulling a teardrop-shaped camping trailer enter. The folks holding the flashlight follow behind the gold, purple and green trailer. It stops, they gather, and turn toward the cars carrying trays of Styrofoam coffee. Some carry brown paper bags seemingly stained with hot popcorn butter.
As Cafe au Laits are delivered, a parade begins. More firetrucks, towing wreckers, police cars. They go by slowly, lights, no sirens. They disappear down the street as you finish the last bite of warm beignet.
“What’s this parade all about?”
“That was just something to look at while you eat your treats. The real parade starts in a few minutes. Stay close to the women. They’ll show you how we get down for Mardi Gras.”
“We’re the parade?”
“Yup. Don’t worry. You’ll know what to do. Laissez les bons temps rouler.”
Two vehicles pull up in the street. A police cruiser pulls to the far end of the block. A ladder truck stops short of the drive. One large siren blast. Pay attention.
Handkerchiefs are waved at the cars. Get out. Let’s go.
A man walks to the police cruiser and sticks his head in. He comes out pulling the police officer’s microphone out the window. His left hand hits an air horn even though everyone is already watching. He brings the mic to his mouth and broadcasts through the cruiser’s speakers:
“YOU KNOW, I USED TO LOVE HER, BUT IT’S ALL OVER NOW!”
In one move, the entire lot is illuminated by men carrying brass. The lights flicker. Three tubas have mounted the firetruck. A low bass line. A beaten trumpet and plunger emerge in the bandleaders hand as he returns the policeman’s tools. He’s wearing a hat you’d find on a man operating a trolly. Parasols go up with the women’s voices:
“BABY USED TO STAY OUT, ALL NIGHT LONG.”
A line of musicians, women strutting and dancing while waving parasols and white hankys. They make their way to the front line of cars, they stop and play a verse. The women go car to car removing the passengers from their mini theaters. “Come on! Where’s your umbrella! Wave your handkerchief like this! You got it, girl! Let the good times roll!”
The ensemble weaves thought the cars from near the street to the back of the lot converting passengers into participants for their Second Line Parade. All end on the sidewalk between the parked emergency lights. The band gathers and finishes the song.
“TABLES TURN AND NOW IT’S HER TURN TO CRY,
BECAUSE I USED TO LOVE HER, BUT IT’S ALL OVER NOW!”
The second line band breaks it down, tuba bassline short bursts. The bones keep a soft march. The main trumpet. The man steps forward.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! They call me Crawl-Daddy. These are the wondrous, most fabulous, world-famous, gritty, grimey, down and dirty Bayou Thunderbirds. You Yankees don’t know nuttin’ about a Second LIne Band. I ain’t gonna explain it to ya. Cause you in one, now. You betta dance. C’mon!”
Clapping and laughter. Silence. A huge man carrying a tuba stepped through the crowd: “My spyboy tell your spyboy, sitting on the bayou”
Crawldaddy: “My spyboy tell your spyboy, i’m gonna set your tail on fire,
talkin’ ‘bout”
Thirty cajun Thunderbirds joined the chorus and began the march:
“HEY NOW, HEY NOW,
IKO, IKO, AN DAY
JOCKOMO FEEENO AH NAN DAY
JOCKOMO FEENA NAY”
You gingerly set off waving your hanky trying to look as cool as the culture you’re following. An army walking down Michigan Avenue dressed like a King Cake led by police lights and trailed by a firetruck.
You dance three blocks to a song you’ve heard in movies and never understood. You ask. Nobody really knows what the words mean, but everyone knows how it feels. The procession stops on the corner of Michigan and Penn. The hospital. The band turns to face the guests. Crawl-Daddy holds his hand up. Points to the entrance.
“A lot of people ain’t got it like we got it. Lots of people having their worst day in there. So we gonna give ‘em some of what we got. Let’s have a moment to think about them, let’s ask God to help. Ya’lll ready?”
The band plays a soft parade through automatic doors of the hospital. The common area’s perimeter, occupied folks in gowns, assisted by folks in scrubs. Wheelchairs and walkers and rolling IV trees. Families and friends stand with hands on the shoulders in front of them. Single file, the Thunderbirds slowly gather with the patrons in the rear.
In the middle, a baby-grand opened wide. Crawldaddy sat at the piano and set his trumpet aside, bell down. The brass gathered behind the bench. He made no introduction.
“I’VE SEEN TREES OF GREEN, RED ROSES TOO”
Upon finishing his Satchmo tribute, the band played for two more songs. The ladies handed out handkerchiefs to the crowd. Danced with the families.
A woman in a Varhaus jumper appears and walks directly to a man in a beard. You recognize her. Her name is Ruth. He’s the anxious man you saw in the car next to you. He and his wife smile. She motions. Come with me.
The music ends shortly after. Crawl climbs to stand on the piano bench.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. We are the Bayou Thunderbirds. We are celebrating Fat Tuesday and the beginning of Lent with our friends at Varhaus, down the street. We live in New Orleans. You may know what happened there during the hurricane. It’s a tough place. Six months ago, I was walking down the street. Outside this church was a little shed. It looked like shit. It had graffiti all over it. It seemed like a million people wrote their names on it. I don’t know why, but I had to check it out. I later found out it was called the Joyful Mystery. The Door was open, so I went in. The inside was the same as the outside. Names and names and names. There was a huge Crucifix made out of old rusty nails and I could tell that the walls used to be beautiful. It was a prayer room of some sort. There was a place to sit and a place to kneel. I found a little card on the chair. I have it here.”
“Let me tell you what it said: ‘The Joyful Mystery. Pray here. Especially pray the Rosary. Write the name of the person you are praying for. We’ll pray for them too. Will you pray for us, too? So I did!”
“I found out that this structure was made in Lansing Michigan. Never heard of the place! I found out that a group of people made it to send around the country. Now, those people are my friends.” And he raised his voice for one more line:
“WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD”
A quiet drumroll from the back of the band.
“The Joyful Mystery has returned home. In the last year, it’s been to 12 states and 50 cities. From Venice Beach to Venice, Florida. From Millennium Park to Mobile, Alabama. Do you want to see it? It’s right over there. Let’s go look at the prayers and leave some of our own.”
The crowd moved slowly around the corner. The parade waited for the sick to go first. As the group arrived, a man and a women could be seen holding hands through the open door of the shed. They realized that the group had arrived and exited as if they were interrupting.
The exit from the hospital is one block closer to Varhaus. The band passes through the double doors, the sound explodes like a trumpet’s mute was removed. The bones buzzed at the firetruck escort. “We’re ready.”
The hospital trip stays in your blood for last leg of the second line march. The parasols go back to work. You try to make your hankie dance like the cajun queens leading the charge.
A block away you see a building in a floating purple aura. A glowing regality. A spotlight shines golden from the building across the street. As you get closer, illuminated and dancing on upon the facade of Varhaus, a giant Fleur-de-lis, welcome to Fathaus.
You cross the street to the entrance. The leading police car keeps driving into the night and back to work. The last marcher plants his foot on the Michigan Avenue curb as the trailing firetruck speeds away with full sirens.
The band steps to either side of the open entrance and allows the guests to enter. Parasols reduced for good luck. The Thunderbirds follow, tubas bowing forward to avoid the doorframe above.
You crowd into the entrance to make room for those behind you. Pitch Black. Silent. Slightly uncomfortable close murmuring. Boom, one illumination from behind you to a wall directly in front. A sparkling and beaded message bounces light in a million little disco ball directions:
LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL.
The man in your front lets out the gasp of a little boy. He regains his composure as you step to his side to view the signage. A woman approaches him with a mug and a hug. She plants a thought in his ear and he nods. His wife, leaning in, nods too, and receives her hug. The wife grabs the man’s hand as if to say: hold still for moment.
From an unseen location, a lone trumpet invites you into the party. It takes a minute. The crowd moves together past the entrance inside the building, but into the night. A cobblestoned floor, lined with trees smelling of southern perfume. The trees secured to the earth by a million sparkling hanging strands of beads. Old tennis shoes. Lacy bras. A whiffle ball bat. Somehow outside. Somehow in a city. Welcome to Varhaus.
The cobblestone path leads you to the fat cheeks of the trumpet. The soloist plays a familiar tune, slowly, so slow in and with so many extra accents, you can place it, but you can’t call the name of the song.
The women with the hankies meld into the soulful virtuoso. They move as if the music lives within them...and they pass that energy through their fingers into their kerchiefs.
Without warning, parasols are popped. The spin like a kaleidoscope restricting your view of trumpet and dancers. They form a sort of creole version of the spartan phalanx. The parasols sidestep to the left, left and left...leaving an almost empty stage save one small boy in a tuxedo.
He raises his hands from his waist and softly fills the silence with his falsetto:
“WHEN THE SAINTS, GO MARCHING IN, WHEN THE. SAINTS. GO. MARCH. ING. IN”
He takes his time with the standard. His arms remain outstretched and his bright facial expression reaches out to you. Welcome to my home.
A long tall woman enters behind the boy...she peers over his shoulder approvingly. As the boy begins the second stanza, she adds a low moan repetition slightly behind the cadence of the cherubic performance. They complete the chorus and he looks back at her without moving his feet to do so. As if to say: “now?”
A whiskey growl comes from both of them...
“THERE IS, A PLACE, IN NEW ORLEANS, THEY CALL THE RISING SUN.”
An amber bath of edison bulbs come softly from the light fixtures. Red, Green, Gold paper confetting falls like Mardi Gras snow. Crawldaddy and the Thunderbirds go for broke.
You don’t realize you need a drink until Hurricanes arrive.
“He hasn’t said one word. He’s just sitting out there watching people dance and party. He’s thrilled by Crawldaddy though.”
BB was washing her hands while directing her voice over the bathroom partition. A voice answered.
“Has anyone tried to talk to him? It seems funny that nobody asks him any questions. Not like, ha ha funny. Maybe the event takes over the focus, not the creator. I know he likes being a little in the background. But I wonder if it matters to him?”
The bathroom door opens.
“Good timing. We must have had the same number of drinks.” Sara checks the mirror by BB and smiles.
“How’s he doing?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re blowing him away.”
“and you?”
“I’m in heaven already. This is my favorite thing you guys have ever done. I’m biased though. Are you having any problems?”
“We only have one problem: controlling Crawldaddy. He’s the genuine article. Legit performer. Just have to make sure he doesn’t run away with the show.”
From over the stall door: “It’s the best problem to have! I say wind him up with Sazerac and get him talking about us!”
“Hell yes, Ruth. That’s why you make the big bucks!”
BB dried her hands and began to leave: “Let me know if I can help.”
From the toilet: “You’re already doing your job keeping Jason out of our hair.”
Sara smiled and cocked her head at BB: “Just go dance. We know you’re dying to shake it up.”
The party keeps moving and the Hurricanes flow until the bricks holding the building were drunk. Mardi Gras Marches. Blueberry Hill. Sazarac and frozen yards of iced alcohol.
Three people step on the stage. Ruth has the Mic.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to Fathaus. It is our joy to share our favorite place with you: New Orleans.”
She handed the microphone to Sara. “Bonsoir. Laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll! How about a giant applause for Crawldaddy and the Cajun Thunderbirds! Being a Louisiana native, living here can be a little lonely, I’m thrilled to share some of my home with you. I am as thrilled to have some of my home come to me. Before we eat, I’d like to ask our entertainer for the night to say some words!”
“Thank you Sara. Thank you Ruth!
They call me The Crawldaddy, but my momma calls me Marcel Baptiste. These Thunderbirds are family. Nola is a hard place. Floods and huge bugs and thick air. New Orleans is an old city...dirty and kinda raw. We have the best music, the best art and the best food. We don’t have the best culture. We are the best culture. Pressure makes diamonds and humidity makes joyful souls.
So why am I here? Some crazy yankees sent a prayer shed to my neighborhood for no reason. I had to find out about these people, here. It all boils down to one prayer:
Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and Blessed the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God,” He stopped and looked at the crowd knowingly.
“pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.” He nods his approval toward the crowd.
“Some people say that this prayer changes the world. It travelled the country collecting prayers and names so we can pray for others and they can pray for us. I found it. That led me to Varhaus and you. It now rests in the hospital down the block and will eventually end up here.
The people making this party sent it out into the world like bait, and caught the Crawldaddy.”
He hands the microphone to Ruth while they waited for the applause to end.
“Before we reveal tonight’s Fat Tuesday meal, the last feast before Lent, I have one request. When you head to the kitchen, you’ll notice cameras. Give them a wave. People from around the country are on the other end, people whose names and prayers helped fill the Joyful Mystery. After dinner, you can interact with them in the art studio.”
And now, Let’s eat.”
Mike spent months building a functional kitchen event in the Garage. A taste of Nola. Crawfish Boils and Jambalaya. Poboys and Grilled Oysters. Without ventilation, he devised the cooking area outside the open garage door. He created a tent with a huge door screen to keep bugs out of the food and out of the eating area. He designed a dining table that fit 40 people with an inset trough.
People sat down and Mike carried a restaurant-sized pot to the table and dumped boiled crayfish, shrimp, crab, corn and sausage in front of them. The best mess possible.
A sign hovered over the entire operation:
Varhaus: Ruining your clothing since 2026
Ruth’s furniture expertise provided a varied and unique options for eating. Standing tables, little bar tops near the cooking stations. All sorts of arrangements. 2 people or 10. Near the oysters or near the Etoufee. You could try one oyster or get a boil or just ask for a piece of andouille and never leave your seat.
Around the table Mike build were simple chairs save one. An executive armchair with a name card: Jason.
Jason saw it immediately but resisted acknowledging it. He stood and watched Mike work, smiling gently trying to have his attention. Mike was too busy for such sentimentality as Jason’s comfort. BB grabbed him by the hand gesturing toward his place at the table.
He resisted with all his might. He even told her no explicitly. She persisted with a wife’s slow emphatic, almost patronizing, head nod. Yes. He sat in the chair and BB sat next to him. The others joined him at the table.
“What?” He asked.
Ruth reached into the pocket of her Varhaus Jumpsuit, producing a purple envelope. She handed it to Jason.
He opened the envelope, a card that said “Acme” on the front cover. He opened the card and another card fell out onto the floor. He leaned, retrieved it from the floor.
A gift certificate. Acme Oyster House. $500
He laughed and thanked them.
“It’s not from us. Read the card.”
“Jinx, you owe me a coke, BB.”
“Dear Jason,
Thanks a million for talking about us.
We think we figured it out.
Enclosed is a $500 gift certificate and 200 pounds of oysters for Fathaus.
You’ll have to come visit us for the butter beans.
Lagniappe!
ACME Oyster House
P.S. Tell Crawl-Daddy we said hello.”
There were 100 signatures on the card.
His friends and loved ones wanted his response immediately, but he could not give it to them. He sat and stared, reread and smiled. He pretended to read every name written like they didn’t know he was hanging on by a thread. Finally, he put his head down. BB grabbed his hand. Mike came behind and gripped his shoulders. He reached for his coffee mug. Lifting it, he read it for the 1000th time. He raised up to hug every single player without saying a word, except Mike who was already back to work.
A new friend.
“Hey Marcel, I’m Jason. Thanks a million for what you’ve done. I have so many questions about how you got here.”
“I got some for you too. We’re already brothers. When you coming down to visit me?”
The rest of the crew went back to work. Marcel went wild on the stage. Jason sat down in his oversized chair next to his wife. They set out to discover how many oysters they could eat.
March 6, 2029
9:12 am
Cam Gault woke up late the next morning. Too much Hurricane. He got up, grabbed his phone and hydrated. He sat down in the kitchen while his coffee brewed and opened his messages.
5:00 am. Jason.
“It is finished. It’s ready. They’re ready. Can you find me a 1000 sf unit? Tall ceiling. anywhere close to our house.”
Cam replied: “Are you sure? You want to talk about it? How do you want to get paid?”
Immediately: “Who is John Galt?”
“That’s my uncle.”
“Lol. I have some ideas about how to set it up. Catch you next week?”
“Yup.”
Thanks for reading!
Lagniappe!- a little extra.
Dr John. IKO IKO & It’s All Over Now
I’m speechless with this one. Amazing!