Part 116 Summertime blues, or “surf’s down”


The last day of school for the kids arrives on June 2. Another summer approaches. Unfortunately, this one is starting to look a lot like the last one. Instead of being the gateway to fun in the sun, it is appearing to be one of sifting through the clouds, searching for faint rays of hope.

Bree and her friends perform “Hoedown Throwdown” pretty well onstage, and are rewarded by cheers from the crowd. I sit outside in the sun after, actually eating two popsicles. Again I make the mistake of going to the mailbox. This time the bill is from the IRS, asking for another $1600 that they discover we still owe in taxes.

The weather continues to be hot and dry. Brooke holds on to her LOTR fixation (I thought the newest “Pirates” movie might at least trigger a return to that series, but it doesn’t). Tonight I ask her if she would rather live with daddy or Aragorn. She remarks, “well, you’re tall but he’s cuter and has long hair”. I accompany Bree to her swim practice and am impressed with her fine backstroke. I cannot shake my medical and financial woes, though, and wish I were a college kid surfing in California, with no cares but how big the next wave would be. But this year the surf’s not up, it’s down



Part 117 The big sleazy


Becah’s sister Lacey has changed her mind again on the site of her upcoming wedding, so Becah and I head off on a bright Friday morning for New Orleans. Bree and Brooke will sit this one out, supervised at our home by CC and GG. A CD by Fleet Foxes takes us part of the way to Beaumont, and by noon we are pulling into the French Quarter. It has been years since I’ve been here, and the town seems only vaguely familiar. We check into a very nice room on the eighth floor of the Iberville Suites. Just a little over a block away is the infamous Bourbon Street.

At night this is an intriguing carnival-of-a-thoroughfare filled with magic and, of course also with the obligatory shady characters and slinky places. Viewed in the light of day, my impression is that I have arrived at The Big Sleazy. One strip joint after another (including the eye-grabbing “Barely Legal”, which features some illegal-looking females lounging in the entryway). We stop in an open bar called the Green Turtle. Becah’s dad Billy, her stepmom Linda, her sister Lacey and husband-to-be Jared, along with several others from the wedding party, greet us. They have been partying heartily, and I am not ready for any of this. Billy and Jared quickly corner me and insist I accompany them to a topless club. I politely refuse, only to be encouraged by my wife to be a good sport! Billy offers to gamble double or nothing with the lady in the admission booth for one free admission before handing out a few twenties to pay for everyone to enter, and I am walking in. Some women are standing next to a pool, each wearing a little less than the other. An attractive, topless, light brown-skinned lady with G-string and pierced navel is suddenly inches from me, saying “I guess we’re going to be together”, to which I reply, “I don’t think so”. (Since Becah insisted I be a good sport, I could say, “okay”, but I decide not to put it to a test). Billy is soon bored, and I make an excuse and slip out. Back at the Turtle, I am seated with Billy as he begins a stream of consciousness dialogue about everything from Becah’s mom’s history to World War II (where he honors my father for his service there) to his profession and passion, cars.

Becah and I head for an old-time favorite restaurant of my parents: Felix’s. I was here years ago but it isn’t familiar. Becah has a poboy and red beans and rice. I conclude that this is true masochism – my being in New Orleans, unable to eat or drink. The wedding should have been in Waco.


Becah and I return to the hotel to freshen up and, to join the spirit of the occasion, I pour three glasses of wine into my stomach tube. We leave in the evening, drifting down Bourbon Street with all the rest of the crowd.

Some of the street activities are entertaining. I particularly like the people sprayed with paint and standing motionless, like statues. Later some street break dancers captivate the crowds, soliciting money as they wisecrack that donating to their cause now will be insurance that they don’t come rob their homes later. We sit for a while at Pat O’Brian’s club, then walk on, stopping into a corner club called the Opera House and listening to a band doing songs by the Cars and Cheap Trick.

Becah and I later stop into the Red Fish Grill, a spacious restaurant with huge oyster shell replicas hanging over the bar that claims to have repeatedly won awards for being one of New Orleans’ best. Becah decides the shrimp bisque and salad are very good. I make a note that one day soon I will return to these restaurants when I too can participate.

We wake up early the next morning, since the wedding is set for 10:00. We walk over to the Sheraton Canal, where many are staying, so Becah can fix her sister’s hair. Waiting in the lobby, I am accosted by one of the wedding guests who is desperately trying to find an open bar. It is 9:30, and even in New Orleans apparently some clubs find this a little premature to be drinking. He has been up all night, though, and seems to be still going strong. He tugs at me to go exploring for an open bar. I walk with him a few steps, then exit back to the lobby after he is told that he must wait until 10:00 for the bars to open.

We take a shuttle to Jackson Square, which actually just serves as a backdrop. The actual wedding is on a platform in front of the square, near a monument of a cannon. Sweat is already dripping off everyone, and people keep showing up at the last moment. The minister wears a suit and has a big droopy moustache. Everyone else (except the bride, who wore a gown) was dressed casually, with me wearing shorts and flip-flops. After a nice service and vows spoken in the beautiful sunshine, everyone heads for the nearest source of air conditioning.

I meet up with Becah in the afternoon, and we stroll to the French Market to get gifts for the kids. A Navy band is punching out Michael Jackson’s song “Human Nature”, all jazzed up and danceable. We walk back and detour down Royal Street (yes, New Orleans has more than one street), stumbling upon some interesting art galleries, including the Rodrigue gallery that houses blue dog paintings. Walking on, we see a guy sitting on a corner, playing the theme from the western “High Noon” on the harmonica. We reach the hotel eventually and rest, before taking a cab to a restaurant to meet the bride and groom. Becah’s dad is absent, swearing off any drinking that day in response to the previous day’s adventures. Becah has a plate of shrimp and pasta, incomprehensible to me and my feeding tube (but maybe next time). We make the long trek back on foot, arriving exhausted from all the exercise of the day. While Becah reads, I watch the proceedings for the Casey Anthony trial on TV.

We sleep soundly, and following Becah’s breakfast in the hotel, we drive around St. Charles Street, looking at the houses, before heading back to Houston. I realize again how much charm the city has, and I long to return when I can enjoy it more. Okay, so it really isn’t just The Big Sleazy after all.