The Order Of The Quarter
By McKenzie Levi, Crusader Knight
Disclaimer: Do not attempt to do this. I am a trained and unusually experienced public safety specialist, fighter, and performance artist. I was a former resident and strip club manager in the French Quarter. I am also wearing armor, carrying a sword, and protected by God.
As the disclaimer indicates, I am a former resident of the New Orleans French Quarter. I lived at 516 Governor Nicholls Street in the top floor of a barely finished loft apartment while I was an actor and a manager at three infamous strip clubs in The Quarter. For now, I’ll skip over my incredible experiences living there and pick up some years later in October 2023 when I visited New Orleans on a trip with two members of my Cleveland, Ohio based historical fencing club. I dubbed the group the “Lake Erie Sword Lords” and set us up with an apartment in the Quarter, a practice with the New Orleans sword club, some video shoots, and an in-depth tour of the place.
As I toured them around the Quarter, I noticed more blight than usual. There was now graffiti on some of the walls of closed down store fronts. I hadn’t seen graffiti when I lived there and I was shocked that anyone would damage the preserved French Quarter buildings. We walked along and I noticed more vagrancy than I had ever seen there. I saw open hard drug use. My friends saw just people as we walked down Bourbon Street but I saw that many of these people were prostitutes walking with their pimps. At night, heavy bass from drug dealer’s cars shook the Creole townhouses as they crept down the quiet streets. One night on Decatur St., I walked by a solemn circle of crying restaurant workers as an ambulance with flashing lights quietly pulled away. Someone had died.
Before I left town on that trip, I stopped at Rouses grocery store where outside I took interest in a 1920’s reenactor woman who was typing poems for tourists on her antique typewriter. I paid for a poem and she wrote an inspirational one about my armor and me perhaps being there to save the sinful city.
When I returned back to my current domain on Lake Erie, I called the office of the New Orleans City Councilor in charge of the French Quarter. I shared my observations with his assistant who apologized for the condition of the Quarter. I briefly explained my background as a public safety personality in Ohio and Northern California and offered to come and perform some public safety rounds in there in the spring. The assistant accepted my offer saying they would be glad for any assistance.
In March 2024, I arrived in the French Quarter on my new public safety mission. I checked into the Chateau Hotel and marveled at the courtyard. My room was floor level and basic but large enough to accommodate all my armor. I had driven from Ohio in full maille so after fastening on my sword, I immediately set out onto the streets of the Quarter. My first destination was to be Verdi Marte, a small but well known grocery store and restaurant on Governor Nicholls and Royal St with a cheap atm. I walked on Chartres Street and as I neared Governor Nicholls Street, I heard insane, demonic sounding screaming. I gripped my sword in the sheathe and crouched into my stalk walk as I neared the screaming. “Would I really be fighting a demon?” I wondered. As I turned the corner, I saw the source of the wicked sounds which was just a person. This person was bald and skinny like a little golem. Every muscle of the golem person clenched as it screeched at a large group of tourists on a ghost tour. “Get the fuck out of here! Leave me alone!” it yelled at them. I stood on the corner until it noticed me. “YOU get the fuck out of here you gothic fuck!” it yelled at me. I stood for a moment then casually walked a few paces away and out of it’s sight while still watching to make sure it wasn’t actually going to attack the tourists.
A few moments later, it was still screaming. I had had enough so I walked to the spot directly across the street and boomed over. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”
“Fuck you” it spat. “Get the fuck out of here!”
“You get the fuck out of here.” I spat back. Another street person appeared in front of me. He was a man about forty.
“Hey what the fuck man?” he said.
“What is that?” I asked back while motioning to the golem’s tantrum.
“Aren’t you from around here man? Everybody knows her. She’s schizophrenic.”
“Well it is unacceptable for her to be having a schizophrenic episode on the street in front of tourists.” I explained with authority.
“It has to be acceptable!” he stammered.
“It is not acceptable. If you’re going to be a character around here, you better be a good one.” I shouted over to the golem person as I walked away.
“I’m not a fucking character.” the guy said.
“No shit, junkie.” I said back as I walked past the gawking ghost tour group and to Verdi Marte. There was no more screaming behind me.
Inside Verdi Marte, I used the atm then asked the counter lady about the screaming bald person. She responded that everyone knew “Becca” and many liked her but that she actually is a schizophrenic and acted out like that often down here. I mentioned my encounter and how I felt bad now after confirming that she was mentally ill.
“What attracts her to this area?” I asked.
“Ghosts maybe.” laughed the counter lady.
“Well if she wants to be left alone, this is a bad place for it. It’s like a stage out there.” I said.
“I think she wants the attention.” said the lady.
I thanked her and left out of the old wooden, metal, and glass doors then walked back over to the spot where now Becca and the man were quietly sitting on the sidewalk. I popped up from the street before they could notice me and threw a twenty dollar bill on the ground. “Here’s some money. I’m sorry about the way I spoke to you before.” I said quickly. “Do you forgive me?” I asked.
“Yes.” the man said eyeing the twenty.
“Do you forgive me Becca?” I asked. Becca would not look at me but nodded.
“Thank you. Have a good night.” I said as I walked away. At the corner, I picked up a can of beer that I assumed Becca had emptied and threw it in the garbage can.
I continued on, walking the streets of the Quarter with a new purpose. I had always been coming here for fun but now my eyes professionally scanned the movements of the people around me looking for any trouble. Lots of people asked me what I was doing and I responded that I was doing “Crusader public safety in the Quarter”. I walked Bourbon, Royal, Chartres, Decatur, Canal, and even Frenchman Streets at the slow pace of a patrolman. I’d stop at each corner and look around. I took a couple breaks inside and on the patio of my favorite strip club where I used to work on Bourbon Street. The girls who didn’t know me fawned over my armor. I tipped each one a handfull of bills as they came up and tugged on my coif (maille hood). One said she wanted to wear my armor on her naked body. I tipped her a twenty. A dancer who I used to date, saw me and scurried onto the elevator and stayed upstairs until I left.
I walked the Quarter one more time then went to Verdi Marte for more money and a po boy and fries to eat back in my room. On the way, I asked some vagrants laying on the outside of the Lalaurie mansion why they weren’t afraid of the spirits that supposedly curse anybody who touches the doorstep of the infamous ghost house. “It’s the person that attracts the spirits. We’re fine.” one vagrant said.
In the morning, the Quarter streets were refreshed by the sun and dripping water from balcony flower boxes. Stepping out from my hotel, I could smell the spicey aroma of crawfish boils mixed with the soapy cleaner they use to wash the streets. Tourists walked happily and the mules hauling carts clopped by me wearing my white surcoat and sparkling maille and nasal helm. Every person nodded as though they knew why I was there. A mule cart driver loudly informed his tour group that I was “French Quarter security” as they took photographs of me. I walked to Jackson Square where I found an artist friend of mine painting a piece in his New Orleans street style. I had seen him during each of my latest trips and always enjoyed a unique conversation and perspective from him. Today I told him of my public safety project and he spoke about the elusive concept of “order” and suggested some of the things I might do on my mission. “You could break up fights.” he suggested.
I walked to and down Bourbon Street which already had tourists milling about on the sidewalks and even some in the bars. As I reached Canal Street, I noticed some kind of commotion a block away at Royal Street. I could see people on the ground and then I noticed blood stained jeans. I hadn’t heard the shots but I could tell someone had been shot before I arrived. I got closer and could see an older man with a white mustache attending to a young guy on the ground. Police SUVs and an ambulance pulled in as a crowd gathered. A man on a mobility scooter with a microphone and speaker began to preach to the scene. I stood next to him and he thanked me for being there with him. I walked closer to the scene where a few police officers secured the area with tape. The victim gave a thumbs up to onlookers as he was loaded and taken away in an ambulance. Groups of tourists and locals in began to pile up on the sidewalk. Since the police were busy, I directed the concerned passerbys around the investigation and offered a light explanation: “There was an accident.”
The mustached man who had been helping the victim had spoken to the police and was now standing alone, so I approached him and asked what had happened. He said one group of teenagers in a car got into an argument with another group of teenagers standing on the corner and then the ones in the car got out with long guns and shot one guy in the legs as he ran away. The mustached man had then helped the victim and used his own belt to apply a tourniquet.
I thanked him and asked “Do you think it was random?”
He thought about it. “No, because that gang of teenagers hangs out here everyday.” he said.
As we spoke, a news reporter and his camera man arrived next to us. “You have to talk to the news.” I said to the man with the mustache. “The people should know what happened.”
“I don’t know.” he wavered.
“You saved that guy.” I said.
“I’m no hero.” the mustached man quickly snapped.
“Well you did save him and he left here alive and awake because you helped him, so you are a hero. But still, you need to tell the people what happened or they’ll just hear it was another shooting down here, you know.” I said. “Will you do it?”
“Yes.” He relented.
I informed the news reporter that the mustached man had been a witness and saved the young man’s life and that he was willing to do an interview. The reporter was gracious and immediately began to interview the mustached man. While the police investigated, I directed more tourists around the scene and calmed a few stunned passerbys.
“Is this a movie set?” Some would ask.
“No, it’s your authentic New Orleans experience.” I jested to lighten the mood.
A local man with a dress shirt, black slacks, and a backpack obviously on his way to work at some restaurant stopped and pulled his ear buds out. “Oh man, what the hell. There’s always something going down on this corner.” He complained.
“Yeah, I’m working on it.” I said as I eyed up the group of teenagers lingering a few buildings away.
“What happened?” he asked. I told him what I had heard from the mustached man. “Fucking teenagers. It’s always teenagers.” he said. Still, the information seemed to settle him a bit before he walked on to work. Another newscaster woman and her camera man arrived so I directed them to the mustached man for another interview. More tourists flowed in and out of the scene. I calmly explained what had happened and expressed that the young victim left the scene alive and conscious.
A couple of young female cops took pictures, collected the bullet casings, and poured sand over the blood on the sidewalk. The uniformed officers then rolled up their tape and pulled off in their SUV’s as tourists, locals, adults, and children all returned to their regular walking route through the crime scene with some even obliviously walking through the bloody sand. I talked to the mustached man some more about crime on that corner and gave him a twenty which he took stubbornly and said again: “I’m no hero.” I lingered there for another thirty minutes to show that this corner was being watched now.
As I walked back into the Quarter on Royal Street, I passed a couple Orleans County Sheriff’s Deputies who were outside the always troubled convenience store there. When I reached the corner of Iberville Street, I noticed a small crowd gathered around two men fighting with one man on top of the other. I darted towards the scene but then caught myself. I was there to get involved but not too involved. If I got physical, I’d have to go to court and maybe even jail. I considered how I would at least have an enemy in the man I would have to restrain or hurt to stop the fight, so instead I ran back to the convenience store where the Sheriffs were. “There’s a fight. I need help.” I said to the Sheriff’s Deputy who saw me run up. With him and another deputy in tow, I ran back to the fight. “Hey, stop!” we yelled at the fighters. The man on top jumped up and sprinted away up Iberville St. as he heard and felt our footsteps and shouts. The Sheriff’s Deputy helped the wounded man to his feet. His nose was bloody and as I looked down I noticed his bloody jeans and drops of blood on the brick sidewalk. He said he was attacked because he wouldn’t give the other guy a cigarette. The Sheriff asked him if he needed anything.
“A sprite.” answered the injured man.
“I got it. You can stay with him.” I said and I went around the corner to the convenience store. I returned to the scene where the deputies were taking down the injured man’s information and I gave the guy his sprite. “If you guys are all set,” I said to the Sheriff’s Deputies, “I’m going to walk on.” They said they were so I did.
I took a nap in my armor by the pool in the courtyard of my hotel then I walked back up to Canal and Royal Street where I saw the group of teenagers from earlier were posted back up in the spot where their friend had been shot earlier. I walked towards them intending to ask them why they weren’t nervous about hanging out at this corner. As soon as I walked towards them, they broke apart and hustled away. I walked towards one who took off in a full sprint. I considered that now I was in danger since I was hindering their ability to territorialize that block but at least they weren’t on the corner anymore.
That night I spent like the previous, walking the Quarter and checking the hot spots for any dangerous activity, even the corner at Royal and Canal. I attempted to take my break inside my favorite strip club again but this time I was blocked from entering as the manager solemnly informed me that the dancer I used to date didn’t want me in there anymore.
Instead, I walked to the Lower Decatur area where I stopped and talked with some New Orleans specific vagrants known as “Gutterpunks” that can always be found sitting on the ground there. Like the other vagrants I encountered, they were surprised I was interacting with them. “Nobody ever talks to us.” said one with a skateboard who wanted a picture with me. I gave one girl some weed which she immediately prepared in a rolling paper for them all.
I walked around the block where I passed two middle aged women suffering from the obscene drunkenness that regular people only experience in the French Quarter. They giggled at my attire and asked if I would be their knight in shining armor as they stumbled across the street.
“I am at your service.” I said. The drunk ladies laughed again and I walked on, looping the block again. When I came back around, one of the drunk ladies was laying on her back on the sidewalk.
“Oh, it’s the knight! Thank God. Please help.” The standing one pleaded. “Seriously. I can’t get her up and we need to get into our hotel room. Can you carry her?” She hesitated. “I mean, is that a service you offer?”
“Yes, I can help.” I said as I reached my hand down to her friend.
“Knight guy, it’s you…” whirred the drunken woman on the ground. “I can’t get up.”
“I can’t get her up.” the friend panicked.
“It’s ok. Are you ready to get up?” I asked the one on the ground gently as she took my hand.
“Yes knight man. Pick me up.” she said. I picked her up fairly easily then bore her weight as we entered the gate into the Provincial Hotel. I carried her up a big flight, down a small flight, then up another small flight of stairs to their room overlooking another incredible courtyard. The standing one pushed her drunk friend inside their room and handed me a fifty dollar bill.
“No lady. I am not doing this for money.” I explained as I tried to give it back. She pushed it to my chest and insisted. I insisted back that I would give it away which she said didn’t mind as long as I didn’t spend it on fentanyl. I laughed. The air sparkled with her intoxication as we stood outside on the balcony.
“I am a married woman with children...” she confessed.
“And I am a good knight who shall bid you the same… Good night lady.” I turned and quickly left down the small flight, up the small flight, then down the big flights of stairs. The hotel concierge opened the gate with a button for me as I went back out onto the streets.
It was late so back on Bourbon Street, things were quiet. A young man, who was enamored with my attire and mission, spoke to me for nearly an hour as we walked and sat on a few stoops. I didn’t mind since I was out and that’s where I needed to be. God always puts me where I’m supposed to be. Before retiring to my hotel, I stopped at Verdi Marte for food and another atm visit.
The next day, I came upon some Sheriffs Deputies who were leaning on a metal barricade on Royal Street outside of Rouses grocery store where people gather to watch street musicians perform. I conversed with the Deputies for a bit and one of them asked if I was the guy who stopped a stabbing the previous day. I said no but he insisted it was a guy dressed as a knight. “I helped break up a fight with your guys yesterday.” I said.
“On Iberville. Yeah, that guy got stabbed.” explained the officer. I said that I had seen a lot of blood so that made sense. I asked them what they planned to do with that corner at Royal and Canal Street. He said there would be a satellite police station going in there and that they already had the Sheriffs on patrol on Royal Street from Noon to Midnight. With that street under watch, I decided to focus my day patrols on Chartres and Bourbon Streets.
That day, patrol was easy with only one incident occurring on Bourbon Street at about 5 pm. A drunk, shirtless, and muscular guy wandered back and forth across the street antagonizing anyone who would look at him. He smacked a drink out of a man’s hand. “Do something!” he shouted at him or anyone willing to fight. I watched from a careful distance, close enough to intervene but outside of the man’s rage range. No one would fight him so he continued on down Bourbon Street where he rammed into an older lady with a cane. She held her cane up to keep him at bay. I stepped in between her and the raging man, and lowered her cane down.
“No lady, you are brave but I will take care of this.” I said as I ushered her the other way. The raging man looked at me and steamed. He turned around and continued to stomp down the street with his fists clenched while I continued to track him from about twenty paces away. I tucked myself into the entrances of the buildings as he spun around to look for me. “You looking at me!” He shouted at another regular guy walking with a friend.
“No.” said the guy. The raging man’s attention was diverted as I now stepped out of an alcove.
“Fuck you.” said the raging man as he stormed off. I tracked him down Bourbon Street until he reached Canal Street and left the Quarter. I walked back down Bourbon Street where a tourist stopped me. “Were you ready to fight that guy?” He asked with reverence.
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to. Did you see how big he was? I just tracked him until he left the Quarter.” I said.
“Bro, that’s awesome. Thank you.” He responded.
That was the last violent encounter that occurred during the week of The Order Of The Quarter but I was far from done cleaning the place up and having a good time.
I walked along and met a pretty climate change activist girl who was there with a group signing people up for something or another. We talked about the Quarter and I told her about geoengineering and the chemtrails which were behind the extreme weather and visible in the sky that day.
A lady artist behind the Cathedral purred at me as I walked by. I checked out her cemetery sketches which she had hung one the fence as she checked out my armor.
Later, I saw the mustached man who had saved the gun shot victim, sitting on a stoop on St. Peter Street. He was drinking a beer and cat-calling pretty tourist women that walked by which made me laugh because it was old fashioned and light-hearted. I reported to him about the police station going in at the corner of Royal and Canal which made him happy.
That night I went to sword practice with the local historical fencing club at their spot on the Marina in Bucktown. Before I left the Quarter, I patrolled slowly through the streets with my Jeep and all was well. At the Marina, the air was cold but the sword fighting was excellent.
I returned to the Quarter and went out to eat before starting my walking shift. On my way, I noticed a young women holding a sign outside of Rouses asking for anything. “How’s it going?” I said casually as I leaned up next to her. “I’m going out to eat at the Gumbo Shop over there. Do you want me to bring you an order when I come back out?” I asked her. She nodded. I went to dinner by myself where I was seated immediately at a tucked away table. A young couple from New Jersey sat next to me and in spite of my brooding and private seat, couldn’t resist asking me about my attire and experiences in the Quarter. The man marveled and the wife listened politely as I talked between bites of gumbo sopped bread.
When I went back outside, the woman with the sign was gone so I walked to lower Decatur where the gutterpunks hang out and gave the gumbo order to them. I then went out my patrol walk through the Quarter until late. That night, the Quarter was safe and the walk was easy. Ethereal synthesizers and singing from a musician tickled the air and I thought about dying and walking through a heavenly version of The Quarter. At the end of the night, I stopped at Verdi Marte again where I met the man whose music had been my soundtrack that night. I complimented him on bringing some interesting style to the Quarter and asked him if I could use his music for my actual documentary soundtrack.
In the morning, I found a guy sitting on Decatur Street, holding a sign asking for anything and I hired him to shoot some interview footage of me. After that, I walked to Jackson Square where I found my artist friend personalizing and numbering a painting of a mule cart he had just finished. We talked about my experiences over the previous days and he offered me more advice and unique conversation. It occurred to me that I had seen him many times, yet I did not own one of his paintings and that he too was a French Quarter personality who deserved my support. I eyed another finished piece depicting a mule cart which was hanging on the iron fence directly in front of me. I bought it, conversed for a while longer then said goodbye. I went to the other side of the Cathedral where the lady artist who had been purring at me was set up and I purchased one of her cemetery drawings. I took the items to my hotel then walked down to the lower Decatur neighborhood where I found vagrants lining the short block on Governor Nicholls between Decatur and French Market Place and stopped to visit them. I recognized all of them from my previous interactions; the skateboard guy, the sign girl that left, even Becca. I said hi to them and mentioned to the sign girl that I did bring her food but she was gone and her friends got to eat it. I slipped another ten to Becca as she got up to drag herself somewhere else. “I found this. You can have it.” I said.
I saw an author turned vagrant I had known when I lived there. I was thrilled to see him still alive. We talked for a bit and I gave him a twenty. “I can really do something with this.” He said as he got off the ground. (*I gave away a lot of twenties during the Order of the Quarter project. The people of the Quarter had taught me to be generous with my tips when I lived and worked there. In the Quarter, real money seems fake anyways and like some game it seemed to solve the problem of vagrants wasting away on the sidewalk, at least temporarily.)
Shortly after that, another vagrant leaning on a mailbox asked me for money. I couldn’t turn him down or give him less since I had helped those other people so I opened my pouch, dug out another twenty, and forked it over.
“I thought no one could hear me. I’ve been asking all day and no one would look at me. Thank you.” he said graciously.
I walked down French Market Place where I noticed a mess of clothes littering the sidewalk. In the middle of the mess sat a man with long hair and just a jacket over his lap. He was flipping out about something. As I walked by, he revealed that he was naked under the jacket. “I have no clothes.” he spazzed.
“Yeah right.” I thought sarcastically since I could see clothes all over the sidewalk and I walked on.
“Someone stole my clothes.” he shouted after me. I turned around and walked back and stood before him.
“You have no clothes?” I asked as I assessed the mess more closely. It was various pieces of women’s clothes. He pointed to a dress hanging on the garbage can in front of him.
“That’s a five x.” He pointed to a shirt on the ground. “That’s a four x. These are all women’s dresses and there are no pants.” he panted.
“Ok. I will bring you clothes but I only have medieval clothes.” I said. “Will you wear them?”
“Yes. Please.” he responded.
“I will be back in ten minutes.” I said. I bounded across the few blocks to my hotel where I gathered a fresh pair of braies (medieval underpants) and a tunic (long shirt) from my luggage. I rolled them up and carried them back to the naked man. He took them politely and now spoke with the tone of any other clothed and sane person as he extended his hand and gave me his name. “Perhaps we can talk when I’m having a better day.” he said as we shook hands.
“That sounds good.” I said. When I went by his spot later, he and the mess of clothes were gone.
I walked back up to Royal and Canal St. where I checked on the gang people hanging on the corner. When I appeared, they walked off again but this time more slowly. I could tell they were getting sick of me popping up there. I walked up the block to Bourbon Street where another vagrant called me over. “I need a pair of pants. I can’t say why but I need fresh pants please.” he begged from the ground. I knew telling him that I just gave away a pair to another guy would do him no good so I told him I’d be back with some pants for him. I had no more spare medieval clothes so I went into the stores on Canal Street until I found a pair of cheap sweatpants. I delivered them back to him and he beamed with appreciation. “Let me read your palm for free.” he offered.
“Divination? No thanks.” I responded.
“Hold up your hand.” he said and I did for one second. “I got it.” he gloated. His eyes widened. “But we need to talk about this later.” But like many of the others I had helped, I didn’t see him again.
On my last night of patrolling, I took a couple breaks in a more seedy looking establishment on Bourbon Street since my old club still wouldn’t let me in. The girls at the new club were sweet and one who knew I wanted to have an old fashioned strip club experience latched on to me and treated me like an atm, withdrawing handfuls of singles from me every few minutes until I had to use the club’s actual and overpriced atm. Finally, she led me to the bartender to change my twenties to singles so I could throw them on her from the second floor while she danced on the pole.
“I need fifty singles please.” I requested to the bartender.
“He needs a hundred.” the stripper corrected me.
“I need a hundred.” I concurred.
I went upstairs and dropped the pile on her. The money trickled all over her, the stage, and floor so that the hospitality worker had to use a broom to sweep it all up. I tipped all the other girls “for dressing up” and the doorman for watching my sword.
In the morning, I visited the atm at Verdi Marte for what seemed like the hundredth time and bought a couple little Hubigs pies to take home to my Mom. Then I performed one more walk of the Quarter. The crowds already filled Jackson Square as I arrived there and saw the 1920’s reenactor woman typing poems while her boyfriend juggled knives for a crowd behind her. I shared my appreciation for her impeccable outfit and dedication to being a personality in the Quarter. She approved of my vigilantism.
I bought a silver ring made from a spoon by a pretty woman selling them at a table. I said goodbye to the activist girl and made sure her trip was fun. I exchanged numbers with a local man who told me that my mission had made the Quarter a little bit better and suggested I come back again soon.
The Order Of The Quarter will return.
*Names were changed or deliberately omitted to protect their reputations. These characters are all still down there.
**Update: All the “teenagers” involved in the shooting above were found to be adults in their mid twenties. The victim is alive and the shooters were arrested one week after the incident.
Photos by Chuck Ellezay
Painting by Stuart South
drawing by Taylor Chartrand
photo by Chuck Sees. Ring by Maranda Davis. 
Courtyard at the Chateau Hotel
