©2004

A Mardi Gras Festival Story

I lay motionless in the darkness, savoring the lingering scent of Elyssia's perfume and the tingle of her sweet kiss on my lips, and I thought about our final encounter.

"Tell me? Please?" Elyssia had asked in the consummate voice for breakfast coffee, lunch in bed, and evenings beside the crackling fireplace. I squeezed her hand, and in these words I did.

My dorm mate had suggested we head to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. I thought that was a bad idea with a major economics test bearing down. "Damn it, Jim!" he said in his idea of a Georgia accent. "I'm a party animal, not a professional student." The hidden joke in there is that he's James and I'm Leonard.

"Look," he said, wiping popcorn grease on his jeans before putting my desk calendar atop my open textbook and flipping it to the next month. He paused to pat Miss March affectionately on the derriere. "I got it all worked out. We leave after your last class tomorrow. I can cut P-Chem lab 'cause I'm ahead anyway. We take turns driving, and we can be in New Orleans Saturday afternoon. We party through Tuesday night, spend Wednesday driving back, and you can make most of your Thursday classes. Thursday evening, you have Bridget give you copies of her notes from Monday and Wednesday classes. Friday, Averton will review for the test.

"You'll have all weekend to study for the test, and you know Bridget will help you, though I don't know why she prefers you to me since we're virtually twins. Don't I have brown hair?" He began wild hand movements with an exaggerated voice. "Don't I have green eyes? Don't I weigh two thirty-five? Don't I wear..."

I tuned him out and thought about what he had said while he worked his way through Standard James Speech Number Three. Yeah, I've numbered six of them.

"In fact," he said when he finally arrived at the end and I resumed listening, "the only difference between us is that I'm five-eight and you're six-four and don't have glasses. So whadda ya think? I can still get us a room." He shoved more popcorn in his mouth and stared at me.

I thought it made sense the way he put it. And if anyone could find a room at that late date, it would be James. "Okay! You win!" I agreed to go, but I thought I'd regret it.

It was Fat Tuesday night. The thought struck me that I'm not a drinker like James, even when I'm partying. One, two beers max and I'm done for a couple of hours. The two advantages of my being a light drinker were that I would be able to drive back to school the next day, and that I would remember anything that happened that night. He'd be lucky to remember anything since about eight o'clock Saturday night.

We were standing on a crowded first floor balcony in the French Quarter. I had a couple of dozen strings of beads from James' stockpile looped around the crook of my left elbow. He'd obviously thought about Mardi Gras long before his last minute "Let's go!" speech, which was typical. Late in our freshman year he finally realized he shouldn't talk me into something and then give me time to change my mind. He's operated that way since. I'll bet he made the room reservation a year earlier, when he casually suggested we celebrate our senior year with a trip to Mardi Gras, but I'll never ask him. He wouldn't tell me anyway.

I had only a vague idea of where we were, though I knew Bourbon Street was that cross street to the right. I had no idea of how James had managed to get us spots on that side street's low balcony. The average street partyer's head was just below waist level. I thought it was the perfect place to hand out beads to the best-equipped girls flashing past us and possibly cop a feel or two.

We had hit the motherlode. I thought I'd run out of beads about ten o'clock at the current rate of disbursement. Music from a boom box in the room behind us clashed with the noise from the street, forming a throbbing din that made conversation possible only by mouth-to-ear contact. The odor of unwashed bodies, stale beer, vomit, and urine blended with the acrid smoke from the fireworks. Several people on the balconies waved sparklers. Some idiot above us was throwing ladyfinger firecrackers into the air. Miraculously, none made it into the crowd before exploding. The young Hispanic couple next to James had smuggled in three Roman candles and were preparing to light them. I thought this was the night I would remember even if Alzheimer's stole everything else.

And then I saw you, Elyssia. "Love at first sight" ceased to be a cliché at that instant. Of all the women I'd seen that night, I had to know your name and hear your voice.

I thought you surely were a goddess descended from Olympus with that short, dark, wavy hair and flawless skin that reminded me of smooth, translucent marble crafted by Michelangelo. Those large, liquid eyes have laughter carved into them, and I find that an irresistible attractant. My eyes feasted on those full, lush lips that begged to be kissed not in lust but in adoration. And that pert nose is exactly the right size and shape for your face. I saw just a hint of eyeliner and eye shadow and knew additional makeup would have been a desecration.