"New Orleans Christmas"

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The Club on Franklin Avenue has tried all season (with little success) to coax Yuletide spirit from inebriated patrons. From the ceiling above its mahogany bar dangle sparkling six-inch blue snowflakes. They are tethered by invisible threads, and hang limp as Papa Noel - the ultimate Louisiana Populist - after dashing through the Great Mother Swamp distributing political favors.

I have come out this dreary Christmas Eve 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 late dinner at the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street.

I spot him sitting overdressed and overserved at the far end of the bar. New Orleans' temperatures have flirted with eighty 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 among evergreen boughs. The mistletoe berries are depicted as tiny red lights.

"Mistletoe is poison," my friend is telling the bartender, "and the berries are white."

A beer distributor from Saint Louis, Missouri is also behind the bar. He is passing out free samples of Red Wolf beer. My friend takes the 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 are wearing evening clothes and his gold studs are set with diamonds that occasionally flash back at the twinkling mural. She is blond, wears a blue sequined gown, and unzips his tuxedo trousers. I nod to them and say in stage whisper that she is an expensive date. He laughs and waves. She lowers her head.

"Where is the vice squad?" I say to my friend in a real whisper.

"Protecting patrons at some Canal Street brothel," my friend says laughing. 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 protecting brothels, or people in evening clothes entertaining themselves for free." We look again at the blond and my friend adds, "Maybe not free, but a lot less than the cops would charge." We laugh.

The beer distributor hands us two more Red Wolfs. He wants to finish and leave. My friend asks, "Shouldn't you call this stuff Red Riding Hood?" None of us know what he means by this, but we both laugh the laugh required of our respective stations. 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 this torrid swamp?"

The bartender is startled and blurts back, "The corporate fatheads in Chicago who own this bar!" Of course he does not know he is talking to Corporate Fat Head Number One.

The beer distributor smiles weakly and moves towards the double French doors through which we see a waiting limousine with rental license 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, each holding an article of the other's clothing. They lunge into the limo and motion for the Saint Louis 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 a wastebasket by the slot machines, 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, “Alicia Breaux” printed on its stomach. Underneath is written, "Born August 22, 1973 / Died December 8, 2002." 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 business card, and this advice: "Tell those fatheads in Chicago to go jump in the lake. New Orleans 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 nearby faraway French Quarter. I take the paper teddy bears from my pocket. My friend holds one up to the street light and says, "Ah, Christ, what am I supposed to do about this?" Then he hands it to a passing drunk.

"Let's distribute them like hand bills," he says, and we walk up to the Royal Sonesta 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 . . ."