It was a night the other night.
Walked in the drenching 6pm heat to watch silky smooth Stephen Walker 'Nem. Kid Chocolate played a crisp, sparkling trumpet, a friend sat in on jazz piano. We took a table by the floor-to-ceiling window, close enough to catch cool air, but still on the sidewalk to enjoy the passing scene: a local or two, clumps of women, bro's striding by. A musician in a hand-painted PT Cruiser, showing off his matching red pants and shoes and a brand new pair of silver-studded loafers. Come to my show Sunday at BMC, he urged, before heading home with his wife.
As we got up to but our table and go get food, a drunk woman stumbled up. You're from here, right? I need to get to the Marigny Opera House. Another woman and I pointed out she could walk there in ten minutes. I've had too many cocktails, she insisted. Help me figure out Lyft. It keeps telling me to verify my email. She handed me her phone and credit card.
Unwillingly I started punching in numbers. Fail. Tried again. Fail. I'm going to be late! the woman wailed. It's New Orleans, I bluffed. They'll let you in. Tried her credit card once more. Finally. I accepted the to and from, showed her "driver's details will display in 1 minute" and handed back her phone. She grinned, an unlit joint dangling out of her mouth, and drifted around the corner. We departed, hopeful she'd make it, too hungry to hang around.
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