Hell's Portal Gutter Punks of New Orleans

By Don Nolan

Let me take you on this wild ride of my younger years hanging around true anarchists called Gutter Punks or Train Kids as they like to be called in this current day. I will break down to the reader how the whole Gutter Punk persuasion started in New Orleans and all the different tactics and rules one must abide by to chill with these rebellious people.

These nomads usually hop trains to different major cities and always end up, for some reason or another, in New Orleans. Surprisingly, you'd be amazed how many Gutter Punks I've met that come from rich, well-to-do families. Guessing that this is not the route they wanted to take in life, sadly, a lot of them end up with ominous ambitions as their goals--not all of them, though.

Almost every story in this book takes place in New Orleans, and all legal names of characters have been changed as stated on the cover. The only names that haven't been changed are the street names for certain Gutter Punks. City street names haven't been changed either.

I am a sober man today, and as I sat here in a long-term rehab thinking about my past, I asked myself, "What are you going to do with all these crazy, action-packed, macabre tales you've experienced over the years? I know! Tell the world how much fun you had. Also, let them know how much karma can catch up with you for all the atrocious actions you've taken hanging out with today's modern Pirate. Maybe it will open up the eyes of the public on how our fellow brothers or sisters got into the predicament they did. What does not come out in the wash will definitely come out in the rinse."

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889606536

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Hell's Portal Gutter Punks of New Orleans

Don Nolan

Copyright © 2023 Don Nolan

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

All names have been changed to protect the safety of people known and my own.

ISBN 979-8-88960-556-0 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-653-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Awfully Appalled

Chapter 2

How They Chose Their Victims

Chapter 3

Home Life

Home Life: Turning a Wolf into a Man?

Chapter 4

Unfortunate French Quarter Worker

Chapter 5

The Frenchway Connection

Chapter 6

Exposing a Different Perspective

Chapter 7

Hell's Portal

About the Author

Introduction

Now this is a subject that most writers would not cover because Gutter Punks are so aggressive and hostile that people are too worried something terrible might happen to them, especially writing a nonfiction book about their escapades. It's just too risky in most writers' eyes.

Ever since I was a kid, skateboarding around the French Quarters and the River Walk (the banks of the Mississippi River), I would see these darkly dressed people doing pretty much whatever they wanted to do, and they fascinated me. It wasn't until I became an adult that I got repelled by the sight of them. My ignorance of what made these people tick is the reason why I wanted to know them and hang out with them so badly. I was just a teenager then. I didn't have much common sense about the crisis of the Gutter Punks in New Orleans.

All I knew in those young years was that they dressed like they didn't give a damn what people thought of them, and the basic laws of the land did not apply to them at all. In my eyes, they were true anarchists, and I thought that was intriguing.

Of course, I heard all the stories about them, me being born and raised in the Big Easy. My parents told me that none of them are from New Orleans, and they don't give a crap about our city, so they are not to be trusted because they steal everywhere they go. I would read in the newspaper about how a local got their throat slashed for their wallet near the River Walk (a place they normally hung out). Or I would see on the news that a couple of tourists got rolled (beaten up and robbed) for their belongings in Jackson Square. (That was another big hangout for the Gutter Punks, Jackson Square, right in front of the Cathedral.)

True anarchy is how these people lived, and in my young, immature, and excited eyes, I thought they were cool as hell. I was a skateboarder, had long hair, and was a grunge rocker, and as I got older and wiser, I had to learn the hard way that Hell is not cool at all.

Back in the '80s and '90s was when locals were frightened to go to the Marigny, the ByWater, the Tremé areas, or the French Quarters itself because they thought they were going to get their throat cut. The knife, or pretty much anything heavy that could bash someone's skull in, was the preferred weapon of the Gutter Punks. They were considered extremely brutal in those days, and I thought that all this that was going on in those four areas of the city was a recent couple of decades old crisis in New Orleans. No such luck, buddy.

Hundreds of years ago, in New Orleans, they were not called Gutter Punks. No, they had a much cooler name back then. They were called Pirates. To understand this, you must look at the similarities between the two. Also, you need an intimate writer that knows and has lived with the subjects at hand.

Gutter Punks and Pirates are usually never from the major city that we are discussing, so they have no problems stealing that city and its people blind. Gutter Punks go very long periods without bathing. The stench of a Pirate was usually the first thing a person noticed when they got off their ship hundreds of years ago. Gutter Punks and Pirates are wanderers and travelers and don't have a bit of quandary of getting up and moving to the next city to be pillaged. From what I have learned about having close, personal relationships with certain Gutter Punks is that usually, they are sociopaths. They do not feel embarrassment or guilt or remorse. What Pirate have you heard of that feels these emotions? Another thing that comes with that sociopathic reputation is that a Gutter Punk or a Pirate will kill you at a moment's notice, grab every last sheckle of gold off your cold, lifeless body, then walk away as if nothing ever happened. Gutter Punks and Pirates are very well-known heavy drinkers or druggies and usually keep the company of prostitutes or just dirty, diseased women. From what I have witnessed, Gutter Punks love to gamble. Pirates were also known for taking bets they could not cover, then getting into sword or gunfights when it was time to pay up. Gutter Punks have always stabbed people during altercations and, nowadays, carry machetes (they legally can get away with that because it is considered a garden tool). Pirates also carried knives and swords and didn't have any feelings toward using them either. Pirates were plunderers of gold and silver. Now, today, with technology and everything, copper and other metals are considered today's modern gold. Where will you find all your Gutter Punks in one spot early in the morning? At your local scrapyard, turning in all their loot to be weighed out and turned into cold, hard cash.

Now from the similarities between the two you've read so far and your own personal experiences with Gutter Punks, am I lying? Of course, I'm not! It is written history about Pirates what I have put down on paper, and it is basic street smarts about what Gutter Punks are known for. You, the reader, will pick up on many more similarities these two groups of people have in common as the story unfolds.

This story is a very sick and twisted tale of my personal experience growing up with Gutter Punks and sometimes even partaking in their anarchist ways, but not always for the really heavy shit. It is up to you, the readers, to decide whether or not Gutter Punks are today's modern pirate or not. You must also understand that Gutter Punks aren't just a problem that New Orleans has. They are travelers and are in every major city in America, so they are in your own backyard. Your city just might call them homeless or squatters. But after you read this, do your homeless people do the same things? It is all your call. Do they fit the bill of the Gutter Punk? Let's find out.

Chapter 1

Awfully Appalled

My first experience with Gutter Punks was when my parents kicked me out of the house as a teenager. I was either sleeping in Armstrong Park at night or checking into Covenant House for an overnight. The nights I slept in the park, I was too inebriated on alcohol or high on drugs to go to Covenant House. The rule was that you had to be sober to check in for an overnight. I let myself down on that rule most nights, so I was out with the elements.

I don't know why, probably because I was so rebellious, but I was proud of being friends with a Gutter Punk named Pockets, and his specialty was stealing. With a name like that, I'm sure you figured that out.

Most of the time, Pockets would keep the company of another Gutter Punk named Sandman. He got the name Sandman because he would knock people out with one punch, putting them to sleep, hence the nickname Sandman. I always felt threatened by Sandman, but he never laid a hand on me, probably because Pockets was so close to me. I never understood, but that guy felt no fear at all from anyone. It didn't matter how big they were if they got into a disagreement about anything. Boom! He would hit them and, most of the time, knock them out. I guess he was what you would call a knock-out artist.

Well, because I was living on the streets with no parental guidance, learning to fend for myself in a loveless world, I was starting to feel no guilt or shame for all the stealing and violence going on around me.

Let's just say that I was not raised that way. I was brought up in a religious household and have compassion for my fellow brethren. These two guys did not show an inkling of how I was raised, and to put it short, the longer I kept their company, the more the devil would whisper sweet nothings into my ear. I was starting to enjoy all these wicked ways of living, and these two Gutter Punks were showing me all kinds of dirty tricks to take care of yourself on the streets.

Pockets and Sandman traveled frequently. They mostly would do this because their faces were becoming too well-known by the local law, NOPD, and I would see their faces tacked up on telephone poles from Wanted Posters. So once that would start happening, they'd disappear for a few months to a year, usually coming back to the city when the streets would be flooded with tourists, like during Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest. The way they looked at it was lots of purses to snatch or rich tourists to roll for their money or jewelry.

Luckily, Pockets was on my side and didn't want me to partake in anything that could land me in prison, so he would stress to me when it was time to make myself scarce so I wouldn't be involved in that sort of criminality.

It's funny because I would ask Pockets just what his first name was when we would be getting drunk together, and he never would tell me. (I never would ask Sandman that.) His response usually would be, That's just my government name, so it doesn't mean shit! You understand?

He would ask me if I understood so gruffly that I think the third time I asked, he got tired of asking me if I understood and hauled off and punched me in the teeth. Then he picked up an empty bottle and threw it at my head. I ducked, and the bottle flew across Jackson Square, hearing it smash in the distance. I knew it was time to fight back, or else, Pockets wouldn't have respected me anymore and would have called me a pussy.

I ran at him and clotheslined him so hard that he flipped onto his back and hit his head on the cement, not moving for a few seconds while I stood a few feet away from him with my dukes up, ready for a fight.

Slowly getting on his feet, he had a look of shock on his face as he felt the back of his head. He then looked at his hand, and it had blood all over it. The cement put a small gash on his head that was bleeding profusely for such a small cut. Blood was dripping all over the pavement, and he just smiled at me, saying, Nice move. I'm glad, for my sake, Sandman wasn't there. I don't even think he was in town for that little scuffle between Pockets and me.

But Jackson Square was no place to be fighting because there were so many tourists and locals and different businesses that could call the cops on you. Sho' 'nuff.

A Gutter Punk girl named Olive yells out, Five-O coming!

Pockets and I started running, but he was leaving a blood trail on the cement, so there was no way we could just disappear into the crowd without getting caught.

I had a brilliant idea because, luckily, I had twenty bucks in my pocket. I flagged down a cab, and they picked us up. The cabbie didn't notice Pockets was bleeding, so we had him drive us five blocks away, almost to Esplanade Avenue. Then I told the cabbie that we were getting out right here. When the cabbie turned his head around to collect the money, he saw blood on his seats, and he started cursing at us, I guess in Arabic. The bill was only ten bucks, so when I gave him a twenty and told him to keep the change, he calmed down.

My heart was pounding so hard in my chest because I was worried the police were going to find us. I couldn't stop talking gibberish because I was all spun out on meth. This was the first public fight I'd gotten into with the police chasing me, so I was really scared.

I started to feel a little lonely around the company I was keeping, so I called up my mom and dad to see if they missed me at all. It had been several weeks since the last time I spoke to them, and I wasn't even old enough to buy cigarettes yet.

My mom seemed amazed to hear from me, and she invited me to dinner. I asked her if it was okay if I brought a friend, and she obliged. When I invited Pockets to my family's house for dinner, the whole time, I was plotting to use Pockets as a distraction at the table so I could rob my parents blind. In my immature teenage way of thinking, I felt that they deserved it for putting me out so young. This was how twisted my thoughts were becoming, living through a rough and tumble lifestyle with Gutter Punks.

Pockets and I walked all the way from the French Quarters, straight down Esplanade to Mid-City in the Fifth Ward. This area is where a lot of upper-middle-class families lived, and Pockets was surprised by the size of the houses, a lot of them mansions. I couldn't believe that I was feeling like I was getting exposed when Pockets saw the size of the house I grew up in. But he didn't react in any kind of way to treat me any differently, so I just dealt with my inner feelings.

At first, when my parents saw me, they had smiled, then they took a closer look at Pockets and their smiles turned into frowns.

My mother said, Whew! Don! When was the last time you took a shower?

My