‘Big 50’ Birthday Bash - Day 3

    Seven Hells! I don’t know how long we could actually maintain this pace, but I'm glad this is the last full day.

    Early to rise but slow to get moving, we were in a collective daze, or perhaps a haze, it was difficult to tell through bloodshot eyes. We owed thanks for our vegetative state to the steady infusion of adult beverages and late night fried chicken, yet there was a new bottle of vodka sitting ominously on the kitchen counter, and we were all pretending we didn't notice it. Had we bought it the night before? 

    This couldn't be healthy, or wise, but it's the Big Easy. Our dominos were tipped days ago, and they were still falling. There was no getting off the trolley now. The ferryman would demand his coin, and we all knew it.

    There was a question that lingered in each of our foggy minds, “what happened to Alaska-Crazy?”. Her part in our story had ended unexpectedly the night before, when she walked out of a bar and disappeared into the Quarter, leaving her days worth of Nola merch in Joe’s possession. It had been so abrupt that it took a good fifteen minutes to decide she wasn’t returning. The crew had moved on, yet we now found ourselves wondering, did she eventually find her way back to the bar to retrieve her goods? Did she get to her hotel safely? These were questions for which we had no answer, though it would not remain that way for long.

    It’s a funny fact that when you tell someone you abandoned an established career to write a novel, they suddenly have many questions for you, or about you, and this had certainly occurred the previous night at Saints & Sinners, as we all got to know each other. It had made my duties as a wingman a little more difficult, but hardly unmanageable. Regardless, Alaska-Crazy had insisted on my full name so that she could keep an eye out for the eventual publication, and, at the time, it made sense to share it. Future readers are needed.

    So it was thanks to this small conversational detail that Alaska-Crazy was in possession of a name, someone she could track down the following morning, as she recovered from her own excesses and began to take stock of her casualties. Shortly after 8:00 a.m. I received notification on my phone of a LinkedIn mail message, which started with the words, “Hi Eric, we met in New Orleans…” and it went on to request assistance in tracking down our bachelor. On one hand, uh-oh, and on the other hand, I had to respect her resourcefulness.

    Regardless, my wingman duties were long since complete, so I passed her number along to Joe, dropping the problem squarely in his lap. He had been our avatar of ice-breaking, and to the victor go the spoils. 

    He closed the circle nicely, though, letting her know where she could locate her bags. Her responses seemed normal and friendly, even admitting that her memory was more than a little fuzzy and that she’d perhaps overdone the Long Island Iced Teas the previous night. Suddenly our room was filled by the unspoken question of whether our bachelor might be contemplating another ticket for the crazy train. But let’s move on from that for now. 

    Mother’s Cafe. Yes, that was the answer to our current malaise. Nothing will get a man on his feet again like a mid-morning poboy and a cup of gumbo, washed down by a Bloody Mary. Then it was back to the apartment. Where did that vodka come from, anyway? We knew we should probably quality test it before heading out to the St. Patrick’s Day parade. 

    That's right, a St. Patrick’s Day parade, a full week before St. Patrick’s Day. But parades are in the blood of the city, and the Irish seemed to be as eager to get their drink on as we had been these last few days, so why wait? Every day should have floats, music, beads, and green beer.

    Then Alaska-Crazy started following up with the bachelor. The bar had only been able to locate one of her two bags, and now she was distressed. Was he certain that’s where the bags had been left? Answer: Obviously, since she was able to recover at least one of them.

.

    Hours later, back from the parade and walking the Quarter, we started to hear it, over and over. The Hustle. “I like those shoes!”. Thinking of the guy from last night, we wondered, do hustles go viral here? This one had an easy formula: tell someone you like their shoes, and if they respond, bet them $20 you know where they got them, “You got them on yo feet!”, and try to claim your easy winnings. New Orleans is most definitely hustle-town, and these people were its champions.

    We needed to get ready for a concert, but there was still time for icy boozy drinks. It had been a long walk to the parade and it was a warm day. Surely the ice would offer hydration. Then there were more calls from Alaska-Crazy. She wasn't convinced that she was getting the truth from the bachelor, and it was becoming clear that there would be no round-two of opportunity for him, but at that point we could all agree it was probably for the best. 

    Next it was off to the concert at Tipitinas. Tab Benoit crushed it... If you ever get a chance to see him play, take it. His opening act, J.D. Simo was outstanding too. I even bought a record. Legit vinyl. Now I just need a record player. 

    Finally we staggered our way back at the apartment. It was after midnight, and suddenly gunshots (yes, actual small arms fire) rang out on the street below, and for a moment we wondered if Alaska-Crazy had found us. Was our bachelor in danger? It was not her, though, and luckily nobody on the street was hit, but we enjoyed a front-row, birds-eye watch-party of the gunman being taken into custody and hauled off toward an unpleasant future of incarceration. Oh my! 

    And, of course, once the street was clear there was only one thing left to do, go back out for more fried chicken.