Ain’t Nobody’s Business if I Do.
It was about 3:00 AM and the heat of the summer was still lying heavy on our bar Sin City on St. Phillip Street just a couple of blocks from Bourbon Street. The building was old and was the location of the old mortuary of New Orleans. Ghosts abounded both in this dimension and in many others. The walls were lined with religious candles and around the bar were hung memories of life that celebrated fun and angst. The dark wooden bar back was ornate and through smoke stains a mirror reflected the life coming awake after the tourist bars had closed.
I had my usual seat at the head of the bar right next to the cigarette machine. I was wearing my auburn wig which made me sort of look like old pictures of Anne Rice. Paul walked in and ordered a drink and bought me one. How you doing Anne Dirty Rice? I smiled. I loved the way that this old queen had given the honor of a drag name.
Old George was drunk on the money he had made selling ice cream from his cart on Jackson Square. He took some quarters and was playing video crack. George had lived in the Quarters for about 15 or 20 years. He scurried around from place to place looking for odds and ends to do to make money to feed his demons that had taken an accountant from a top firm to a drunk killing himself with each shot. He had brought me a gift that evening – a bracelet from the 40s set with semi-precious stones. I loved the glitter and jangle of it. I felt like a diva from another time.
Bob wandered in and ordered his usual gin and tonic. A retired sea captain, Bob loved to come to his local bar and see what would show up to entertain him for the evening. Soon he was joined by a younger man named Mike… Mike’s make up would put Julie Newmar to shame. His arched brows and pouting rouged lips accentuated his feminine features. Bob wandered back to the men’s room. Mike soon followed. They returned after awhile noses a little stuffy but with smiles on their faces.
It was about time for Susan an uptown girl from a wealthy family that was about my age to show up. She was comfortable in a smoke-filled bar filled with the regular folks of the Quarters or at lunch with her socialite friends at Galitoire’s or Antoine’s. She was ready for an extra-dry dirty martini and I got up and went around the bar to shake one up. Susan had brought in two martini glasses just for her and me to indulge in one of Mother Myriam’s martinis which she considered the best in New Orleans. She had her companion, a young man who was entertaining her at the moment, to go put on a little Billie Holiday. She was dressed in an expensive cotton sundress and she took her shoes off, leaned back against her boy de jour and stretched her long shapely legs out resting her feet on the barstool next to her. It seemed that since Susan was diagnosed with brain cancer, she was just going to do exactly what she wanted to do despite the expectations of those up-town friends. Of course, it was pretty obvious that she had always walked on both sides of Canal Street.
The tours were over, the tour guides in their make up as vampires, ghosts and gallants were gathering to count their tips and unwind with a shot of Jagermeister. Dancers from Bourbon Street joined them make up removed and dressed in the usual garb of most young girls. A couple of lesbians who had just spent the last eight hours feeding the fantasies of males willing to pay for a drink and a dance, went to the jukebox and played their anthem. Funny it was the same song as Susan had played earlier: Ain’t nobody’s business if I do. Now they danced for each other filled with the jubilance of youth and an understanding that in the Quarters no one was going to judge their lifestyles.
My friend Rita wandered in. On Bourbon Street they called her old Rita because she was in her mid thirties which is very old for a dancer. I knew Rita was ready to spend the next few days drinking Budweisers from a long neck and chatting up the crowd. Rita could stay drunk for days and never spend a dime. Her boyfriend Mo showed up. Mo was president of the local motor cycle gang and was a true Cajun and lived over in Chalmette. He knew it would do no good to try and make Rita go home so he could hang around for the journey to oblivion or head home. Rita also knew it wasn’t anybody’s business what she did and she did what she wanted when she wanted and how she wanted. Just like all the other folks who were regulars at Sin City.
The seat beside me would be filled by different folks over the night. Stories to share. Hearts to be healed. Memories to be re-created. Dreams to be re-affirmed. It was just another night in the Quarter when most of the tourists have wandered to their hotel rooms and the people who walked the walk that is New Orleans at night gathered to feel not so alone. And as Billie sang out over the sultry air - ain't nobody's business.
I had my usual seat at the head of the bar right next to the cigarette machine. I was wearing my auburn wig which made me sort of look like old pictures of Anne Rice. Paul walked in and ordered a drink and bought me one. How you doing Anne Dirty Rice? I smiled. I loved the way that this old queen had given the honor of a drag name.
Old George was drunk on the money he had made selling ice cream from his cart on Jackson Square. He took some quarters and was playing video crack. George had lived in the Quarters for about 15 or 20 years. He scurried around from place to place looking for odds and ends to do to make money to feed his demons that had taken an accountant from a top firm to a drunk killing himself with each shot. He had brought me a gift that evening – a bracelet from the 40s set with semi-precious stones. I loved the glitter and jangle of it. I felt like a diva from another time.
Bob wandered in and ordered his usual gin and tonic. A retired sea captain, Bob loved to come to his local bar and see what would show up to entertain him for the evening. Soon he was joined by a younger man named Mike… Mike’s make up would put Julie Newmar to shame. His arched brows and pouting rouged lips accentuated his feminine features. Bob wandered back to the men’s room. Mike soon followed. They returned after awhile noses a little stuffy but with smiles on their faces.
It was about time for Susan an uptown girl from a wealthy family that was about my age to show up. She was comfortable in a smoke-filled bar filled with the regular folks of the Quarters or at lunch with her socialite friends at Galitoire’s or Antoine’s. She was ready for an extra-dry dirty martini and I got up and went around the bar to shake one up. Susan had brought in two martini glasses just for her and me to indulge in one of Mother Myriam’s martinis which she considered the best in New Orleans. She had her companion, a young man who was entertaining her at the moment, to go put on a little Billie Holiday. She was dressed in an expensive cotton sundress and she took her shoes off, leaned back against her boy de jour and stretched her long shapely legs out resting her feet on the barstool next to her. It seemed that since Susan was diagnosed with brain cancer, she was just going to do exactly what she wanted to do despite the expectations of those up-town friends. Of course, it was pretty obvious that she had always walked on both sides of Canal Street.
The tours were over, the tour guides in their make up as vampires, ghosts and gallants were gathering to count their tips and unwind with a shot of Jagermeister. Dancers from Bourbon Street joined them make up removed and dressed in the usual garb of most young girls. A couple of lesbians who had just spent the last eight hours feeding the fantasies of males willing to pay for a drink and a dance, went to the jukebox and played their anthem. Funny it was the same song as Susan had played earlier: Ain’t nobody’s business if I do. Now they danced for each other filled with the jubilance of youth and an understanding that in the Quarters no one was going to judge their lifestyles.
My friend Rita wandered in. On Bourbon Street they called her old Rita because she was in her mid thirties which is very old for a dancer. I knew Rita was ready to spend the next few days drinking Budweisers from a long neck and chatting up the crowd. Rita could stay drunk for days and never spend a dime. Her boyfriend Mo showed up. Mo was president of the local motor cycle gang and was a true Cajun and lived over in Chalmette. He knew it would do no good to try and make Rita go home so he could hang around for the journey to oblivion or head home. Rita also knew it wasn’t anybody’s business what she did and she did what she wanted when she wanted and how she wanted. Just like all the other folks who were regulars at Sin City.
The seat beside me would be filled by different folks over the night. Stories to share. Hearts to be healed. Memories to be re-created. Dreams to be re-affirmed. It was just another night in the Quarter when most of the tourists have wandered to their hotel rooms and the people who walked the walk that is New Orleans at night gathered to feel not so alone. And as Billie sang out over the sultry air - ain't nobody's business.
posted by Myriam Maytorena at 6:58 AM
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