Hundreds take the tour every day, every five minutes around-the-clock, the restless line stretching out from the ticket kiosk for the streetcar named Desire. The long wait is eased with the yeasty scent of baguettes coming from the French bakery, especially soothing on a cold morning. But no one ever complains of the long stay in line. They use the time to think about how they could be changed by their visit. Some are not ready when they are at the entrance and step out of line. Those that take a deep breath and enter Desire find that time doesn’t tick or flow like when they were in line⎯it stops and curls around their hearts quietly, like a snake trying to get warm.
Everyone who purchases a ticket is required to have a retinal scan, and is never allowed to experience Desire again. Not even the owners, a pair of forty-something twins from Terrebonne Parish, have ever visited twice. Every week, you see a small article in The Times-Picayune, page seven or eight, about so-and-so who had to be dragged away from Desire, not being able to stand the thought of leaving the streetcar. While the urge to return is ever-present, everyone knows it’s for the best, yet . . .
I feel drops of sweat ride my skin from under my armpit down my side. I am now only twenty feet away from the curtain. The owners, or someone, decided many years ago that it was too distressing to those in line if they could glimpse the inside of Desire while in the presence of others. I am now only ten feet away. I wonder if I should be doing this, exposing myself to something so powerful yet unknown. My confidence corrodes with each step closer. I begin to flush, fidget, sweat. The ticket-taker has been watching me and is becoming nervous, tobacco juice dribbling out of the right corner of his mouth into a forest of greasy black stubble. I place my ticket into his white-gloved hand as a shiver passes through my gut. After a moment of hesitation, I step though the crimson satin drape.
As I edge inside, the first part of Desire I see is its rusted wheels stuck in cement. I look up and see a gray metal box. Is it gray? The quiet inside the shroud is stunning. A hint of a word echoes around my head, carried by the lazy air, but I can’t make it out; it is just out of reach. As I move my head, I notice that paint is peeling everywhere, but the effect is curiously inviting. Or is it dangerously seductive, like cracks in a wall hiding some treasure? The Gaudi-shaped windows are blinded with dust, or are they Desire’s eyes? Is it looking at me through them, thinking about what I am bringing: my hopes, my failures, my future? Is it worth the wait, the fifteen dollars? I know it is; no one has ever complained about the money or time after their visit. I put my right foot onto the first of four steps, worn, cracked oak—remnants of a now-sacred anonymous tree—set with tarnished brass carriage bolts, and look up to the platform in front of the door bordered with a filigreed rail, small scrolled D’s hanging in the center of each panel. Then my other foot follows onto the second step. By itself? When I arrive at the top, I pause, my anxiety washes away as I turn the ivory handle on the door and it clicks softly. I try to look through the glass as I push in, but only see my timid face staring back.
No one has ever spoken of what they see within Desire. At the end of the five minutes, the lights flicker, breaking the spell. There are always a few uninitiated souls waiting near the exit to examine the faces of the newly vested for answers. But while all the eyes look tired, everyone’s jaws are set, their lips are dry, and there is no clue of what has changed inside the new visitors. You’ll just have to go yourself, the veterans say. Even those shysters, whose sole purpose is to sell their story of their visit, never finish their plan. When confronted, they just shuffle their feet, look down, and give the stock answer, “I thought I could tell, but I can’t ruin it for others. I want to tell the world what happened to me in there, but I just can’t,” then turn away.
I can only say this: Desire has many seats and it is up to you where you light. Once you are settled, and a peaceful silence takes over, Desire whispers just one special word to you, just you, the most important word you’ll ever know, the word you heard in the wind when you entered. That word has guided me all my life.
mgeisser
