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Reprinted from Les Amis de Marigny, New Orleans *** Dedicated to Doctor Vikki Ashley, author of ALAN'S SONG OF LOVE The Paradise Club on Franklin Avenue has tried all Season (with little success) to coax Yuletide spirit from inebriated patrons. The ceiling above the mahogany bar hosts sparkling six-inch snowflakes hanging from invisible threads. They hang limp as Papa Noel -- the ultimate Louisiana Populist -- after dashing about the Great Swamp City distributing favors. I have come to this dreary Christmas Eve bar to meet a friend just arrived from Chicago, that broad shouldered city on the other end of the Amtrak line. We have reservations for a Reveillon Dinner later at the new Ritz-Carlton Hotel on Canal Street. I spot him sitting overdressed and over-served at the far end of the bar. New Orleans' temperatures have flirted with 80 Fahrenheit all week, yet he sits there in a camel hair topcoat, a wool suit and a silk tie. A mural behind the bar twinkles with tiny blue lights sprinkled over a snowy hillock of white deer nibbling mistletoe berries dotted amongst evergreen boughs. The mistletoe berries are depicted as tiny red lights. "Mistletoe is poison," my friend is telling the bartender, "and their berries are white." A district beer distributor from Saint Louis, Missouri is also behind the bar. He is passing out free samples of August Busch's latest product, Red Wolf. My friend takes a free beer and lifts it towards me. I move down the bar and accept the brew. "Must be a Santa after all," my friend says to the largely empty room. A couple at a green-felt table smile. They wear evening clothes and his gold studs are set with diamonds that occasionally flash back at the twinkling mural. His companion is blond and one look tells me she is an expensive date. She wears a blue-sequined gown and unzips his tuxedo trousers. I nod to them. He laughs and waves. She bends her head. "Where is the vice squad," I whisper? "Under indictment for shakedowns, drugs or murder," my friend snorts. He is in his cups and hanging his observations with Chicago bluntness. "Christmas in New Orleans is not like going over the hill to grandmother's house, is it?" "Take your pick," I say, "vice cops in charge of shakedowns, drugs and murder, or people in evening cloths entertaining themselves for free." I look at the blond and add, "Maybe not free, but a lot less than the cops would charge." The beer distributor hands us two more Red Wolfs. He is anxious to finish and leave. My friend asks, "Shouldn't you call this stuff Red Riding Hood?" Neither the beer man nor I know what he means by this but we all laugh the laugh required of our stations in life. The beer distributor gives us two full six packs of Red Wolf and says, "Please, I must catch a plane back to Saint Louis." The bartender says, "Let me put that on ice for you gentlemen." I leave to go to the restroom and my Chicago friend yanks a hanging snowflake from its tether. He bellows to the bartender, "Who the Hell told you to hang blue snowflakes in a swamp?" The bartender, startled and stammering, blurts back, "The corporate fat heads in Chicago who own this Paradise!" Of course, he is unaware that he is talking to Chicago corporate fat head number one. The beer distributor smiles weakly and moves towards the double French doors through which we see a waiting limousine bearing rental plates. The man in the tux falls off his chair. The woman in the blue gown helps him to his feet and they stumble outside holding onto each other's clothes. They lunge into the limo and motion for the Saint Louis-bound beer man to join them. He shrugs and climbs in. Coming out of the restroom I put a quarter in a slot machine and watch my life savings whirl away. I don't care, it is Christmas Eve and my friend is in town to wine and dine us for three solid days. We have known each other since college. He likes having, as he puts it, "a creative bum for a friend." I like having a rich one. In the wastebasket by the slot machine I see seven paper teddy bear Christmas tree ornaments, each with a red AIDS Awareness Ribbon pinned to its chest. I pick one up and read the name printed on its stomach. Underneath is written, "Born August 22, 1973 / Died December 8, 1999." I gather the paper teddy bears and put them in my jacket pocket. My friend and I finish our beer and stand to leave. I tell the bartender to keep the extra Red Wolfs. My friend gives him a one hundred-dollar bill, his card and this advice: "Tell those fat heads in Chicago to go jump in the lake, this is a swamp, not a snowy wonderland." Outside my friend stares at the empty curb, "Where the hell's my driver?" I say, "Forget it, let's walk." He slips out of his topcoat and hands it to a bewildered man in dirty blue jeans and a faded Andy Warhol T-shirt. We move along rue Royal towards the French Quarter. I take the paper teddy bears from my pocket. My friend holds one up to the street light and says, "Ah geez, what am I supposed to do about this?" Then he hands it to a passing drunk. "Let's distribute them like Christmas hand bills," he says, and we walk up to the Ritz-Carlton singing, "We three kings of Orient are…" When someone asks, "Where is your other king?" we hand them a paper teddy bear. "Bearing gifts we travel so far … " |