This is an excerpt from my book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. The first section is available for free. If you haven’t read a sample from my book yet, I’d recommend starting with chapter one. The book is also available on Amazon.

 

Chapter 2. French Quarter

 

Before I had my first fruity cocktail of the day, I enjoyed a beer with my cholesterol-laden breakfast at Fleur De Lis, a New Orleans diner. Meanwhile, my dad did his best to maximize the value of his liquid asset—a bottomless Bloody Mary.

We then took an aimless stroll through the chilly French Quarter, with its elongated brick buildings, narrow streets, and plant-covered balconies. It wasn’t busy for a Sunday, but I still found time to complain about the crowds, and I acknowledged that it was a good thing we were visiting New Orleans off-season.

At Woldenberg Park, which straddles the Mississippi River, a gentleman wearing a backwards ball cap and stylish, albeit slightly ragged winter attire approached my father and said, “I know where you got your shoes.”

My dad didn’t respond, but his body language suggested he was open to having a dialogue. The man continued, “Yeah, I’ve seen these fly kicks before. I bet I can tell you where you got them.”

My dad knew the premise was deceptive; it was also intriguing. “Okay, where?” he asked.

The man dropped to his knees and abruptly said, “You got them on your feet.”

As he polished my father’s Filas, I motioned toward my pocket as if to say, “That’s a clever routine. Give him a few bucks.” The man requested five dollars for the fifteen-second shoeshine. My dad agreed to pay three dollars, still a reasonable price.

By the way, apparently the “I know where you got your shoes” scam is one of the top scams to watch out for in New Orleans. We found it to be harmless and all in good fun.

After cruising Bourbon Street for the second time, my dad grew weary and thirsty simultaneously. We ambled back toward the water and landed at The House of Blues, a lively spot on Decanter Street.

A tall and chesty bartender greeted us with a smile and, based on her authoritative tone, we could tell she was in charge of the establishment. For entertainment, a multi-racial band served up an appetizing rendition of “Stand by Me,” one of my personal favorites.

We ordered two American lagers for a total of twelve dollars. And I wondered how much it would cost me to reach my desired level of drunkenness (I sought to get shitfaced). When the white plastic at the bottom of my tall Dixie cup became visible through the remains of my mediocre beverage, I began working on my personal inebriation equation, sorting through the alcohol, price, and location variables.

Then I overheard a customer order a vodka-pineapple cocktail.

“Three dollars,” the bartender said.

I swiveled my barstool in their direction and half-shouted, “That drink’s only three bucks?”

The bartender yelled back at me, “Yeah, it’s a good deal!”

I was sold. The drink was far too effeminate for my dad’s tastes. I told him I placed the order based on cost-effectiveness, nothing more, but he seemed disappointed nevertheless. I sipped on my fruity cocktail with a white straw, quietly savoring the delightful combination of sweet and tangy flavors.

We enjoyed watching the staff work, including the spunky black waitress who managed the dining area and often patted her soldiers on the rear before sending them out into battle. “No waters,” our bartender told another team member. “I want people drinking liquor!”

“Even the alcoholics?” I asked.

“Especially the alcoholics!”

We laughed. She smiled, poured and served a round of drinks for another group, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

 

 

Next → Chapter 3: Heroes, Villains, and Lawyers