I buzz down Bourbon St., bar-hopping to and fro in pursuit of some sought-after nerve.
I’ll pass street entertainers performing various tricks and trades and I’ll envy not their boater hats filled with cash, but rather the attention they command from mothers and fathers alike, on-looking and inebriated. Maybe father would’ve looked at me with the same awe, had I donned a pair of stilts or covered my body in tinman silver, for his failure to pay me mind certainly wasn’t a result of under-intoxication.
I digress. The thirteen blocks that stretch between Canal & Esplanade Avenue host a distinct pattern of storefronts: Bar, *******, bar, gift shop, bar, *******, bar, gift shop,
and so on. I’ll stop in nearly every other one, and the taste in my mouth will start to remind me of the street’s namesake.
With a scant blouse on and a batting of my bedroom eyes, a man will inevitably strike up a “conversation” with me. While I unconsciously engage in repartee, I’ll wonder to myself what must be wrong with him that he would hone in on some despondent fool like me.
He’ll continue to ply me with drinks until a taxi cab takes me away, and through a backseat window cracked open, I’ll hear New Orleans sing while I sigh.