Fed up with no socializing, I sent a plaintive call to Lycia to see whether she was free on Saturday night. She was still sick and working like crazy to catch to Jeff’s business as it’s booming out of control, but she told me to call Lee, who would be getting off work at the Faulkner House soon.
As luck would have it, she was up for a night out. So I dressed and went to her place. She has an apartment in a beautiful building sideways across from Brett’s house on Pauger. I suggested the John or Apple Barrel, but she wanted a Quarter dive, so we walked to Johnny White’s on St. Peter, a dark sports bar full of regulars, and had Jameson and water. Then we went to Johnny White’s on Bourbon, a far superior bar, tiny as a closet, with a scruffy bartender, a couple of sleepy regulars and the view of the line excited tourists outside Tropical Isle hoping for a coveted Hand Grenade. (Full disclosure: I have sipped from a Hand Grenade, and found it a little bit delicious. But come on.) It was pouring rain and the street was all silver streaks of rain, glittering neon and girls in short dresses, a bachelorette party gaggle with purple novelty wigs getting their picture taken with their drinks. It was like being in an invisible bubble hovering over the madness of Bourbon Street without letting it touch us. We spoke of many girly things which will not be repeated here, as well as Russian literature, the travails of writing a novel and more girly things. Hint: Not shoes.
