Exchange?"
"Yeah. But he doesn't want to be playing here and there. He wants to play the blues all the time. Sunday, he even said he wants to go back to Ireland."
"Think he can?"
"What do you mean?"
"We're always joking he's on the run."
"Yeah. I think he can. Maybe under an alias," I kidded.
"I'll see you in the morning." He pulled his T-shirt over his head. "Tomorrow night we have the corporate gig."
I groaned and threw my covers over my head.
Corporate gigs are my least favorite. I don't understand how captains of industry, suits-and-ties, executive men and women who make more money in a year than the entire band does, end up drinking so much they start thinking: a) they can actually dance; and b) they can actually hold their liquor.
Tony didn't play with us that night: he had a conflict with a scheduled limo run. So we were forced to use Dave the Rave. Dave is a surfer, despite the fact that there isn't any surf here in the Crescent City, and he punctuates the end of every sentence with "dude."
This event wasn't different from any other. Except I remembered the words to "Celebration."
That night I slept alone.
And on Thursday morning—
really
morning, an indecent nine-thirty—Casanova Jones called and woke me.
"Georgia?"
I mumbled something incoherent.
"It's Rick."
I had almost forgotten about our date. Not really, but I was steeling myself for the eventuality that he wouldn't call. You know, "Let's do lunch sometime,"
"I'll respect you in the morning,"
"Give me your number and I'll call you"—the ultimate male-bullshit lines.
"Hey… Rick."
"You didn't forget about our date, did you?"
"No? It's just early… I'm a little groggy."
"Early? It's nine-thirty. On a Thursday."
"Spoken like a suit."
"Well, what do you say to this suit taking you to Brennan's tonight?"
Brennan's was famous for its bananas Foster, my favorite dessert, and its hefty prices. He didn't have to ask me twice. "Sounds heavenly," I rasped. I needed coffee. Badly. "What time? I'll meet you there."
"No… I'll pick you up. Do you still live in that crazy house of yours? The one with all the bedrooms?"
All of New Orleans knew about our house. Besides being historic, and equipped with enough narrow bedrooms to accommodate a whole slew of prostitutes, the fact that Nan thought it was haunted had also been depicted in local glossy magazines, including one big article on the ghosts of New Orleans, which included an interview with Anne Rice. When people found out I lived in the DuBois house, the ghosts were what they asked about first. However, the idea of explaining Dominique, who was having a preshow gathering of four drag queens to celebrate Angelica's one-year anniversary as a New Orleans resident, not to mention Jack, didn't sound like good first-date material.
Let me give you the tour, Rick. Up here is the haunted bedroom. And over here we have five queens carrying on
—
and yes, beautiful as Angelica is, she is, indeed, a man
—
and by the way, this is my guitarist. Did I tell you I slept with him? And he lives here
?
"No… I'll meet you. Really. There might be a party here. It would just be better if I met you at the restaurant."
"Okay, then. I have dinner reservations for eight o'clock. Meet you in the bar at seven-thirty?"
"Sounds perfect."
"See you later, then… I'm really looking forward to it."
"Me, too."
I knew if Jack saved his money for an entire month he couldn't afford to take me to Brennan's. Between his car, music lessons he still took from his old college professor, and the fact that while we made enough to live on, split five ways it was actually a pathetic pittance of money, he and I—all of Georgia's Saints—were always broke. Hence we often played poker for candy, with a Snickers bar the pinnacle of the candy pyramid—we were too broke to play for money But we'd honed our betting system over many years, many vacations and many nights on the road. Junior Mints were worth double a Necco wafer. A
"Yeah. But he doesn't want to be playing here and there. He wants to play the blues all the time. Sunday, he even said he wants to go back to Ireland."
"Think he can?"
"What do you mean?"
"We're always joking he's on the run."
"Yeah. I think he can. Maybe under an alias," I kidded.
"I'll see you in the morning." He pulled his T-shirt over his head. "Tomorrow night we have the corporate gig."
I groaned and threw my covers over my head.
Corporate gigs are my least favorite. I don't understand how captains of industry, suits-and-ties, executive men and women who make more money in a year than the entire band does, end up drinking so much they start thinking: a) they can actually dance; and b) they can actually hold their liquor.
Tony didn't play with us that night: he had a conflict with a scheduled limo run. So we were forced to use Dave the Rave. Dave is a surfer, despite the fact that there isn't any surf here in the Crescent City, and he punctuates the end of every sentence with "dude."
This event wasn't different from any other. Except I remembered the words to "Celebration."
That night I slept alone.
And on Thursday morning—
really
morning, an indecent nine-thirty—Casanova Jones called and woke me.
"Georgia?"
I mumbled something incoherent.
"It's Rick."
I had almost forgotten about our date. Not really, but I was steeling myself for the eventuality that he wouldn't call. You know, "Let's do lunch sometime,"
"I'll respect you in the morning,"
"Give me your number and I'll call you"—the ultimate male-bullshit lines.
"Hey… Rick."
"You didn't forget about our date, did you?"
"No? It's just early… I'm a little groggy."
"Early? It's nine-thirty. On a Thursday."
"Spoken like a suit."
"Well, what do you say to this suit taking you to Brennan's tonight?"
Brennan's was famous for its bananas Foster, my favorite dessert, and its hefty prices. He didn't have to ask me twice. "Sounds heavenly," I rasped. I needed coffee. Badly. "What time? I'll meet you there."
"No… I'll pick you up. Do you still live in that crazy house of yours? The one with all the bedrooms?"
All of New Orleans knew about our house. Besides being historic, and equipped with enough narrow bedrooms to accommodate a whole slew of prostitutes, the fact that Nan thought it was haunted had also been depicted in local glossy magazines, including one big article on the ghosts of New Orleans, which included an interview with Anne Rice. When people found out I lived in the DuBois house, the ghosts were what they asked about first. However, the idea of explaining Dominique, who was having a preshow gathering of four drag queens to celebrate Angelica's one-year anniversary as a New Orleans resident, not to mention Jack, didn't sound like good first-date material.
Let me give you the tour, Rick. Up here is the haunted bedroom. And over here we have five queens carrying on
—
and yes, beautiful as Angelica is, she is, indeed, a man
—
and by the way, this is my guitarist. Did I tell you I slept with him? And he lives here
?
"No… I'll meet you. Really. There might be a party here. It would just be better if I met you at the restaurant."
"Okay, then. I have dinner reservations for eight o'clock. Meet you in the bar at seven-thirty?"
"Sounds perfect."
"See you later, then… I'm really looking forward to it."
"Me, too."
I knew if Jack saved his money for an entire month he couldn't afford to take me to Brennan's. Between his car, music lessons he still took from his old college professor, and the fact that while we made enough to live on, split five ways it was actually a pathetic pittance of money, he and I—all of Georgia's Saints—were always broke. Hence we often played poker for candy, with a Snickers bar the pinnacle of the candy pyramid—we were too broke to play for money But we'd honed our betting system over many years, many vacations and many nights on the road. Junior Mints were worth double a Necco wafer. A
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