I was in New Orleans on business, had come from a meeting in St. Petersburg that morning, flew in late evening. I had not been to New Orleans in many years, and I felt a warm, purple feeling for my heyday, driving the rental into the city on US-10. I unpacked, and in spite of the looming morning meeting, decided to venture out to eat.
I had a drink at the hotel bar—a bourbon—and called my wife and kid to say goodnight.
From there, I made the long, humid walk, over on Canal, and down Decatur to a dingy bar I knew. You had to go through the alley to get to the toilet, and it was filthy like in a gas station off the interstate. Still, it had been recommended to a buddy of mine and me our first trip, nearly fifteen years ago, and it was the best Chicken Tchoupitoulas in town. I sat at the bar, drank a beer, and traded plates with a guy vacationing from Portland (phenomenal lamb ribs). We talked sports, the NBA finals that were now over, the upcoming football season.
Fat and happy, I walked to the end of the quarter, crossed Esplanade, and down Frenchmen, where ten years ago, I’d encountered late at night the ghosts of a ten piece band, playing ancient folk tunes and passing the hat. Only in New Orleans. Of course, there were no ghosts that night, and all the music was coming from the clubs back up Frenchman. I looked down at my sore feet, and on the ground, there was a dollar bill not caught by the insubstantial hat. I left it there for the band.
On the way back, I crisscrossed through the streets of the Quarter, stopped in a bar with a live funk band to get a beer to-go. My meeting tomorrow wasn’t until later. Taking a quiet alley off of Jackson Square, I was briefly alone with my thoughts and the echo of my footsteps, when I passed by three women in a window, all clad in lingerie. I stopped, looked up at them. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. Like it was leading to a bad punch line. The brunette was sitting at a silver mirror, looking at herself in the glass. The other two were looking out at the adjoining street. The brunette, sitting at the mirror, turned to me, smiled wantonly, and waved her hand.
She was inviting me inside.
I looked around, but there was no one else there. I looked back at the women in the window. The store behind the window seemed closed.
The brunette waved to me again.
I held up my wedding band, she frowned.
I shrugged pulled out my smart phone, put it to my eye like I was taking a picture, made the universal gesture for begging. She smiled quickly, and I pulled up the camera app, aimed it at the window, and snapped a picture, before the other two could object.
Back at the hotel, lying in bed, watching ESPN, I got the notion to send the picture to my buddy – the one I had first visited New Orleans with years ago. But when I pulled the picture up to attach it to the message, it was impossible to tell that they weren’t just mannequins.
