After my night of swatting the less than swarming bar flies, I did nothing -- less than nothing -- for a day. I had been relegated from bed to couch, where I lay staring at the ceiling, every few minutes checking my blank phone, hoping for some sign of life outside of this crowded, smelly house full of snoring post-teenagers, myself included.
Every thirty minutes or so I'd go out on the sticky, humid screened in porch for a killer Camel to stare at the rain flood the streets built, for whatever reason, well below sea level. Eventually, the house awoke and we returned, yet again to the quarter. Another day of bars, fish, shrimp, walking, and the glory of walking beers.
The city was alive.
From what I hear and from what I can tell, it always is. A few hours go by, we go back to the house, make and eat our dinner. As it turns out all of my friends can cook, well all but the guy whose idea of buffalo chicken dip is a microwaved pot of Velvet, other cheeses, and all manner of processed meats -- nothing buffalo styled and no noticeable chicken. But this time, it was Korean barbecue, and it was good. But that's not really important.
What really matters is the bar we found that night. It wasn't any of those commoditized, price gauging, and bartenders and cocktail waitresses that are just sirens, tempting us towards the rocks of empty wallets and nine dollar beers. There was no live music, not dance floor.
It was called The Dungeon. To get there you have to go about half a block down from Bourbon then down an alley as wide as a slightly overweight man and lit by dim, blood red bare light bulbs. You go down some stairs, over a small, pointless bridge and then there you are. After you give your ID to the bouncer, a wannabe roadie for the glory days Iron Maiden or today's old Pantera fan.
The walls are black. The floors are dirty, but you can't tell because they're black too. The stools are old. And black and rickety and gross. The only light comes from the red lamps behind the bar shining through the liquor bottles and a big orange pitcher of punch that reads "The Key to the Chastity Belt," which frankly, is a bit rapey, but so is everything about this place. One must also notice the bartender puking on the floor in the corner between making drinks. I'd say not to go there if it wasn't the perfect place to sit alone drinking cheap beer, sh*tty cocktails and smoking endless cigarettes. But it's not the place for seven guys to spend an evening, so we moved on.
We hopped from bar to bar, eventually circling back to the dreadfully touristy Bourbon street, where I, and probably the rest -- but I cannot speak for them -- got blisteringly drunk. My next moment of clarity came laying on my couch/bed staring at the old show Cheers rolling across a TV screen.
At the time, I had not noticed that we lacked two members of the group. One, like a lonely puppy lost behind an abandoned grocery store, stumbled back in at 6 AM. He had no memory whatsoever of how he got back. The other, the rat bastard, got lost, made friends, got kissed by a sailor, hooked up with the sailor's sister, and slept on their couch. This left us to pick him up in the middle of the Quarter, which is a mammoth pain in the ass. Driving there is the worst thing I have ever experienced, other than the piercing loneliness of an empty Georgia highway at night.
Long story short, we took three hours, probably closer to one and a half, but lets say five, trying to pick him up. I drove. My rage and anxiety were through the roof, so I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around a grocery store trying to find french bread and goat cheese, but mostly just enjoying the cold of the AC. The chill of the meat aisle of a grocery store is the true source of joy in the life of anyone who as ever truly lived.
The climax of this whole tale comes on our final night, an afternoon of raw pleasure, followed by an early evening or abject agony, and a night of rabid drunkenness and one failed attempt at snagging some of that sweet poon tang.
During the day, we drank, or at least I did. I'm not certain if the rest did. Two dollar tall boys of OE flooded my mind, washing over me like the sweet poison they are. Then two bottles of wine and a four pack of cider drowned me.
Later, we went to dinner with an old friend, preceded by drinks and a childish competition seeing who could grab the highest orange from a tree while drinking bourbon drinks. We drove to the river where the true tragedy begins. Staring at the mud and the water flow past, I was reminded, in my delirious state, of all of my life's failures in love or otherwise. I started to choke up, rambling my insecurities to those who would listen as I sat on the banks, a solitary Denzel in Glory like tear falling into my drink. I think I hid it well, but by the time we got to the restaurant, under the guess of voiding myself, I wept in the bathroom, after which, I was able to push it all back again and enjoy my night.
I immediately drained a glass of whiskey and absinthe and met a cute, hipstery short haired girl. We all went to the yuppie bars of NOLA. I flirted and laughed and joked and tried my damndest to snag this chick. But, to my ultimate disappointment, she disappeared just as soon as she came to be.
Alas, my d*ck was to stay dry yet again. We would not be making sweet love to Todd Snider or the guy from The Front Bottoms singing an Al green song that night. I like to think she went home and pleasured herself to her memories of me, that she was intimidated by my raw sexuality, but somehow I doubt it.
This left me horny and vulnerable to the whiles of young cocktail waitresses throwing their cleavages at me and deepthroating three test tube shots at once and feeding them to me from their mouths. Twenty minutes later, I've been cajoled into taking ten of such shots and spending 80 dollars.
After this, my night is a blur of relative glee. I remember being at a bar where dueling pianos played the dropping of 70s pop and then stumbling into a Krystal and eating far too much before throwing up on the step of the streetcar. The next thing I know, it is the next day and we are on our way back to Wake with the same gassy guy in gross pajama pants.
Full disclosure: one of his bowel movements clogged the toilet of a roadside McDonald's. Hours of sweaty, restless sleep later, I am finally laying in my bed, pretending not to watch moderate porn.
The lesson to be learned is to go to New Orleans. Go for a week with some friends that you are prepared to not want to talk to for a week after you get back. Go with a clear mind and no meaningful regrets if you don't want to breakdown after a weeklong binge. Eat at the great restaurants, which we did every day. Walk around with open containers. Smoke your desired smokeables, and try to remember as much as possible.
It was one of the best times of my life, despite the brief instances of raw agony that came along the way. Don't go to Cabo or PCB. Those are for the mindless rabble that don't want to absorb anything but Bud Lite and venereal disease. Go to a real city accompanied by real friends.
