Read
"SoundSparks" Stories
The Last Time I Saw New Orleans
By Keith Lewis
The last time I saw New Orleans was through bloodshot eyes that would have made
Keith Richards proud; the steady beat of The Commodore's "Brickhouse"
calmly reverberating through my brain.
"She's a brick..house she's mighty, mighty...lettin' it all
hang."
I squinted as I looked out the window of the U.S. Air jet and witnessed a
shrinking Superdome. Settling into my chair, I smiled, piecing together the
memories of my last night in Cajun country.
As the national newspaper conference wound down, a dozen reporters made a bee
line for the decadence of Bourbon Street to celebrate.
Our initial stop was Desire, where we feasted on gumbo and catfish sandwiches.
The first image that caught my eye in the restaurant was the black and white
checkered floor. It looked like one of those pictures that you stare at real
close and then, as you move away, the image of a sailboat comes into view. I
decided to down a few 20 ounce beers to see what would emerge in Desire's floor.
The second thing that caught my eye was Tina's smile. She was the lifestyle
editor of The Times and I never noticed how encompassing her smile was, until
that moment. Her auburn hair pulled back from her face highlighted her deep blue eyes and perfect
dimples.
She broadcast sideways glances at me all through dinner. This could get
interesting.
As the night progressed, our group began to splinter. Tina, Billy, Jo-Anne and
myself broke off from the group. It had rained earlier in the day, and as we
walked down the street, the grime from the cobblestone street accumulated on my
white Reeboks. In narrow alleyways, beer vendors sold their wares for a buck
fifty a whack. I bought a round. As we passed the numerous night clubs, Jazz,
Blues, Cajun and Rock &Roll music mingled in the night air. One big party
spilled into the streets.
Neon lights: NUDE GIRLS! ALL NIGHT HAPPY HOUR! YOU GOT BEADS, WE GOT BREASTS!
Jo-Anne dragged Billy into the No Name bar, Tina and I followed. Alcohol flowed.
Slippery nipple, Kamakaze, Jet Fuel, and some bright blue concoction. Drink after
drink!
Tina became friendlier, hugging me and asking me to dance. The room swirled (it
may have been the drinks) as we muscled for position on the compact dance floor.
A local funk band's mad rendition of "Brickhouse" took the funk
classic to new heights; bar patrons bumped and grinded with a steady ferocity.
"Shake it down, shake it down, shake it down now..."
Tina's body rhythm connected with mine and we moved as if one. The song stopped
but our pulsating continued.
Billy purchased two handfuls of beads for $3.75 and tried to entice Jo-Anne to
lift her shirt. Tina took my hand in hers and we moved on to an oyster bar.
Now alone, I contemplated making the big move. The shots kept coming. As each
drink passed my lips, Tina grew even lovelier. She kept pace with me, shot after
shot. Her hair was now flowing over her face.
As my blood alcohol level grew so did my courage. Tina held my hand and pulled
me into a bar in the dirty section of Bourbon Street. The lights began to blur.
The place was sweaty, the music loud and I was in heaven.
We danced to some rhythmic Creole music and got extremely close during the song.
I think she was holding me up. I finally decided to make my move, then suddenly
she countered.
"My boyfriend's going to kill me," Tina moved in and kissed me as
passionately as I had ever been kissed. With the ice broken and alcohol oozing from
our pores we became animals. We were possessed, our hunger overcame
us and the music disappeared.
The space around us narrowed and we became so focused as if we were the only two
in the room, in the world. Our frenzied embrace lingered for some time and I
became dizzy. Then slowly, everything began to fade until I was surrounded by
blankness.
I don't know if it was the crawfish or the four jello shots that brought it on,
but I heard later I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Tina hasn't said a word to me this morning about last night. We said an
embarrassed hello to each other in the limo on the way to the airport. However,
she is sitting behind me and I think she is smiling as the Superdome fades from
my view. Staccato horns keep the rhythm moving, "We are together,
everybody knows itŠ and this is how the story goes..."
This is the last time I saw New Orleans.
Keith Lewis,
I am a struggling fiction writer in New England. The
story is about New Orleans and how the song
"Brick House" by the Commodores always reminds me of that fascinating
town.
I am currently the managing editor of Oil & Energy Magazine (5 years
experience). Last year I received a graduate degree from Emerson College in
Writing Literature and Publishing and am working on my first novel, "On the
Rim."