By justclickindiva on Skatehive
There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun. It's been the ruin of many young boys. I know because I'm one.1 And I remember vividly the events that propelled me toward my ruin. You see, I'd just turned fifteen. Home from boarding school up north, I considered myself a sensible young fellow. Not given to fanciful things, hearsay, and gossip. So when I arrived down south, I couldn't have imagined a more different landscape that what I was accustomed. Of course, still prevalent was the Creole architecture. However, the vibrant nightlife of Bourbon Street and the famous French Quarter felt different. I'd read about these places that were merely a memory when I left to obtain a formal education. Eavesdropping was never to my liking. But the tone of my uncle's voice intrigued me as he locked arms with father and led him into our mansion's sitting room. "Victor, we expect to see you next Friday night at the Gentleman's Club. Most urgent business. The city is changing. The Creole'