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A woman from out of town spilled from a bar onto Bourbon Street double-fisting a pair of fluorescent alcoholic drinks known as hand grenades. Not far away, a reveler wearing only a thong and a black cowboy hat straddled a column outside of a club. And another few blocks over, Joseph Holmes, 25, tap-danced on the sidewalk for tips, just like he had since he was 5 years old.
Still, there was no mistaking all of this on Friday for a normal night in the heart of New Orleans, Mr. Holmes said. The music thumped. The drinks poured. Some tourists were letting loose. But the vibe, he said, was off.
There was a heaviness, the palpable sorrow, that has hung over the French Quarter since a man plowed a truck carrying guns and explosives into a crowd early on New Year’s Day, killing 14 and injuring dozens.
Mr. Holmes was back on Bourbon Street, dancing deep into the night. But, as he put it, what choice did he have?
“This is our nine-to-five,” Mr. Holmes said on Friday during a lull between passing tourists. “If this wasn’t how I made my money primarily, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
New Orleans is famous for infusing grief with flashes of levity and music, a deliberate and defiant tradition of celebrating life and exalting the dead, particularly when the feelings of pain and loss are the sharpest.
