Christmas In the Land of Dreamy Diaspora

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“Christmas in New Orleans is not like going over the river to grandmother’s house.“

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The club on Saint Charles Avenue has tried all season (with little success) to coax yuletide spirit from inebriated patrons. Above the mahogany bar dangle sparkling six-inch blue snowflakes, and a toy gray helicopter lifting refugees off a blue-tarp roof. The lone bartender has tethered each by an invisible thread. He also sports a red stocking cap, with cotton around the rim and silver bells dangling from its tapered tip.

Still, the stars hang limp and the bartender looks weary as Papa Noel after dashing across Big Swamp City distributing favors and rescuing the hopeless.

I have come to this dreary bar to meet an old friend just arrived aboard The City of New Orleans from Chicago, that broad-shouldered city on the other end of the Amtrak line. He has been riding – as a dedicated fan – with Arlo Guthrie, on his “City of New Orleans Tour,” stopping along the way giving concerts and raising money to buy instruments for New Orleans post-Katrina musicians. Tonight, we plan on hearing Guthrie and Willie Nelson at Tipatina’s.

I spot him at the end of the bar, overdressed and over-served. New Orleans' temperatures have flirted with eighty-Fahrenheit all day, 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 full of white deer nibbling mistletoe berries dotted among evergreen boughs. The mistletoe berries are represented by 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 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.
From a green felt table to our left, an elderly couple I always see in this bar looks up and smiles. No one is dealing and his cards are laying face up. I tip my beer towards them. They are wearing evening clothes and his gold studs are set with diamonds that flash back at the twinkling mural. She is ashen blond and wearing a red sequined gown. She unzips his tuxedo trousers. I nod and say in stage whisper that she is an expensive date. He laughs and says, “How better to spend my FEMA money.” She laughs and slaps him softly, playfully.

"Where is the “vice squad?” my friend asks in a real whisper.

"Protecting patrons from the Feds at some Canal Street brothel," I say.

My friend is in his cups and hanging his observations with Chicago bluntness. "Christmas in New Orleans is not like going over the river to grandmother's house, is it?"

"It’s a good system," I say, "vice cops protecting brothel patrons, and people in evening clothes entertaining themselves for free." We look again at the blond. My friend adds, "Maybe not free, but a lot less than the cops are charging." We both 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 all laugh the laugh required of our respective stations.

The beer distributor gives us two full six packs of Red Wolf, and says, "Please, I got’a 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 swamp?"

The bartender is startled and blurts back, "The corporate fatheads in Chicago who own this bar!" The bartender does not know he is talking to corporate fathead number-one. The Saint Louis 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 tuxedo falls off his chair. The woman in the red gown helps him to his feet and they stumble outside, each holding onto 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 the last of my FEMA money whirl away. I don't care, it is Christmastime and my friend is in town to wine and dine us for three fat 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 the name of someone lost in Hurricane Katrina. I pick one up and read the name, “Kallisa Breaux,” printed across its stomach. Underneath is written, "August 29, 2005." I gather the paper teddy bears and put them in my shirt pocket.

Back at the bar, we finish our beers in silence. The bartender, smarting from my friend’s harsh words, punches up "Blue Bayou" on the jukebox, and glares at him. He still does not know he is glaring at his ultimate boss.

We stand to leave. I tell the bartender to keep the remaining Red Wolfs. My friend gives him a one hundred dollar bill and his business card. "Tell those fatheads in Chicago to go jump in Lake Michigan, New Orleans is a bankrupt swamp not a snowy wonderland."

Outside, my friend stares at the empty curb. "Where the hell's my driver?" he says, throwing his hands in the air.

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 Katrina T-shirt. We move along towards Tip’s. 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 to Tipatina’s 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 . . ."