Mardi Gras (n.): a celebration of drunkenness and debauchery characterized by nightly parades where it is perfectly acceptable to fight other people for cheap plastic toys that will not last the night and beads; origins in Mobile, Alabama, though it is more widely known for its celebration in New Orleans, Louisianna.
"The only...the only...the only good thing." I slur into my rum and Coke. Kent, Jess, my best friend Maggie and I were all sitting in one of the many bars lining Downtown's streets. After an hour of standing n the cold, watching the parades roll by and catching little more than a handful of beads and one or two Moonpies, Maggie and I were tired. Then, after Jess almost decked some guy for catching (snatching would probably be a better word) the teddy bear he'd been eyeing for his niece, we realized that things could get ugly fast. So we drag the guys down the streets, keeping clear of flying frisbees (which, as amyone who's grown up around Mardi Gras can tell you, lead to concussions, your Mom yelling at you for not ducking, and twenty people scrambling to pick up the dented and/or blood-stained frisbees.)
Walkng further into Downtown, we realize that we are passing into territory that made Maggie and I happy to have two guys around. Strange men in overcoats wander between the crowds of girls screaming, straddling the barricades and flashing the floats trying to get more beads. Bars were filling up, and hookers are clumping together on the corners, battlng for space with the transvestites. Up ahead was the Brewery, a bar whose windows look smoked until you walk inside and realize that it is the residue of twenty or so years of nicotene that hang over the place in a cloud, and we duck in.
While the guys go off next door to buy cigs, Maggie and I order drinks from a tall waitress whose nametag referrs to her as "Cleo".
"Yall want what?" she aked, brushing an un-naturally blonde curl out of her face with a hand way too large for a woman. I repeate the order, oozing outhern manners and charm, and she rolls her eyes. "Alright, but yall don't tell none'a those policemen out there that I did it for you." After she has secured our promise, Cleo saunters off to fill our order.
now, two hours later, the parades are winding down and the bars are filling up. The guys and I are riding the express train to Drunk Town, while Maggie (who hates not being stone-cold sober) sips her cherry Coke, watching what we do to (1) keep us from getting into deep crap and (2) log it all up to tell us in the morning.
I have been trying to make a point for the last twenty minutes but am quickly losing it. "The only....good thing...." I announce to the bar at large. " The only good thing...about..." I gesture around me, looking for the word and quickly giving up, "is...is....the drinking!"
A cheer goes up at this statement, along with calls for another round.
Maggie picks up her purse, discretely brushing off crumbs and rubbing at some mysterious stain with a napkin. She touches Kent's shoulder, saying quietly that we should probably leave. Kent, who could handle his alcohol better than most people that I knew, gestured to Jess, who comes over and slings my right arm around his shoulder, holding me up. While we make out way back to Kent's car, I notice it: the fountain. It is an enormous stone fountain, carved in the classical tradition of Greece. In my inebriated state, it looks like an amazing place to go swimming.
"Guys...guys....wanna sit." I mutter, while the guys slowly let me down on the wide side of the fountain. I flip backwards, landing flat on my butt in the Artic-cold water that only reaches to my waist, laughing my drunk head off. The guys look on, amazed, while Maggie stuffs her fist into her mouth to keep her composure. Young couples, just as drunk as I am, stop to gawk, while mounted policemen trot up, looking at each other for guidance, not sure if they should laugh, bring me a towel, or drag me into the police station. Finally, when a group of college guys begin to throw their pocket change into the ountain, one of the mounted policemen trots away, returning with a towel.
"You g'head and get her outta there 'fore she gets sick, kay son?" he says, hanging it to Kent.
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." he replies, thankful that we're not getting hauled in.
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