Peeping from my living room window, I watch
Republicans in boxer shorts sipping chicory coffee from “Go-Bush” mugs. They’re
chilling out on vinyl Lay-Z-Boy recliners propped on a grassy piece of
neighborhood land known in New Orleans lingo as “The Neutral Ground.” It’s a
week before Mardi Gras in New Orleans and the Endymion Parade is just about
ready to roll. A half block from my home, on the corner, parade riders in
costumes gather to swig massive amounts of alcohol, count their beads, cups and
doubloons before boarding the gigantic 3-story floats. It’s carnival time, traffic is closed, and
I’m hostage inside my home. No one sleeps until Mardi Gras is over. Ever.
Having enough food to feed unexpected
visitors for at least one week in advance represents life on the parade route.
And I don’t mean preparing a tuna casserole. I’m talking here Popeye’s Fried
Chicken, pyramid-sized boxes of King Cake along with lots of booze. In fact,
skip all food and triple the booze. You
can’t hide from the crowds; I even taped earthquake caution tape around my
house the first year I owned my home and company arrived nonetheless. Don’t get
me wrong, I’m a sociable creature; however, a home becomes a combat zone if you
live on the Mardi Gras parade route. It’s best to hide your jewelry, church
collectibles, legal and illegal drugs, beauty creams (drag queens love
Preparation H) and anything with a pink flamingo on it. Turn off the water
valves to all your plumbing – Mardi Gras beads in the toilet equals a plumber
visit and zero checking account balance.
It’s also
“Man Week” in my ‘hood. Early morning, I steal a look through bent venetian
blinds. These man creatures have decided to cast their spouses aside and live
outdoors for a week. Freezing rain, no problem. Frost bite, not to worry. No
port-o-lets, so? Nothing is more important than claiming a sacred spot of
neutral ground. Each male passionately cuts pieces of thick rope creating an
8x12 square location where they bravely guard house essentials for their
arriving families on parade day. It’s a hunter-and-gatherer thingie. Ice chest,
beer, Jack Daniels, Tequila mix, Salvation Army tattered sofa, barbecue pit,
more beer, cigarettes, industrial-sized bags of potato chips, plastic tubs of
cheap French onion dip and again, more beer. Sacred items.
Parade time.
Wives and children of man-campers arrive. They arrive with blankets, pillows
and devices for keeping children from disappearing (hand cuffs, leg monitors
and leashes). It’s gonna be a long-ass night. Floats, the size of 3-story
buildings, begin rolling down the narrow neighborhood streets, laden with
hundreds of costumed riders. A 110’ long
craw fish float, that only the imagination could create, begins winding its red-sequined
tail down my street. Sleep is a thing of the past as I remember my real estate
agent telling me “It’s great living on the parade route. Cast your worries to
the wind, flash your flesh! Your house will double in value!” I tell myself to laugh and not cry as I watch
the parade and realize I haven’t been out of the house in a week.
Slowly, the
giant craw fish float stops in front of my house. The parade route is clogged;
everything comes to a sudden halt. Band members are stepping in place to the
music, going nowhere. I smell smoke. It’s like an outdoor-summer kind of smoke.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing! A costumed rider is setting up a barbecue pit
inside the papier mache float. Another rider pours fluid on the grill; a
roaring thunderous fire erupts following the last matchstick. Oh shit. The float and flames are literally steps from
my house. What a scene for my obituary! People are running from their homes
toward the flames hoses in hands trying to stop the craw fish float inferno. Those Republican man-campers in boxer shorts
must become heroes of the day. Beer cans in hand, they rush to the burning craw
fish, throw their new-born family blankets on the fire; swallow a swig of beer
until the blaze slowly dissipates. Are you thinking where the fire engine is?
Remember, it’s Mardi Gras! Throw caution to the wind! People burning? No
biggie! It’s a hunka-hunka burning love happenin’ here. In front of my house.
The house I signed the mortgage on less than a year ago. A float made of paper
with a burning bar-b-que pit makes a condo very appetizing at this point.
I’m in
sensory overload watching the red craw fish turn a crunchy jet black; people
are running like roaches holding bottles of glue and attaching body parts here
and there on the giant cremated papier mache craw fish. Riders scamper around
gluing parts and pieces back on the float. The parade must go on! The float has
morphed into a long uneven body, a lop-sided pair of claws, torn bug eyes, a
body beginning to look like a seared scorpion. A frenzy of humans piecing
together a seared fish mounted on a tractor. Looks like the gluey Mardi Gras
trinkets will survive as melted plastic beads mutate into eclectic pieces of
art. Creative baubles and imaginative objects are going to do just fine as
throws. The artistic costumed riders can use the melted beads as future lamp
shades. There you go…something is always recycled in a New Orleans disaster. A
Mardi Gras tip – dress for comfort, not for style, in case you have to do a 5K
without warning due to fire. You never know when a giant craw fish will burn in
front of your home, so always bring water (and booze) as a parade-goer. It’s a
survival tip, just like knowing that there ain’t no place to pee on Mardi Gras
day.
Hooray! The
motor from the tractor trailer underneath the craw fish float suddenly begins
to spit and then roar. No more are the fiber-optic lights. Large rubber wheels
set in motion, the riders puts their masks on; straighten the beads on their
necks and toss the melted trinkets to the crowds. It’s parade time! The crowds scream
at the charred craw fish, “Throw Me Something, Mister!”
Since Hurricane Katrina, Cindy relocated from New Orleans to
N. Alabama and decided that instead of pursuing a PhD, creating short stories
was far more critical. A strange strain of cultures invaded her childhood in
New Orleans, Louisiana as she quickly graduated into adulthood at a very early
age. French Quarter drag queens became her best friends as her childhood
centered on platinum bouffant wigs, spirit gum, sequins, eyebrow wax and lots
of marabou. Preferably turquoise.
She graduated from Tulane University in New Orleans with an
undergraduate degree in Journalism and Masters in Historic Preservation
Studies. There was no Drag Queen 101 course being offered at the time.
New Orleans.
Cajun music. Creole food. Mardi Gras. Lowest public
education quality in the United States. Incomprehensibly corrupt politics. A
place where life is slow. Pretty. Elegant. Decadent. Sleazy. Artistic. Faulkner
wrote his first novel there. Tennessee Williams. Capote. Bukowski. Anne Rice.
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