A walk on the wild side (part II)
Bourbon Street in New Orleans is all about choices. What’s it going to be tonight? Good food? Drinking? Adult entertainment? Amazing music? Do I want to dine in a fashionable restaurant or peel some jumbo shrimp at the counter of a steamy raw bar or buy a foot-long hotdog from a vendor on the street? Should I have a cold beer in a bar where I can sit and listen to some fine jazz or take my suds in a plastic cup outside (it’s legal) and listen to the music drift out onto the street? Shall I duck into one of the many “gentleman’s clubs” to watch the strippers do their thing or walk along and be content with the random acts of nudity that present themselves just about everywhere I look? Do I buy my beads from a street vendor who swears he’s got the best prices on Bourbon Street or from one of a hundred shops that also claim the best prices on Bourbon Street or do I just put my arms out and catch the beads raining down from the balconies above me – presumably the best price is free, no?
While I am thinking about what I want to do, a sexy young woman approaches me. She is underdressed for this chilly February night; she is underdressed for a hot, humid night in August! The woman offers me a free pass and a two-for-one drink coupon redeemable at a gentleman’s club just up the street. She assures me that I’ll have a “really good time.” I find it amusing that strip joints are called gentleman’s clubs here, as if there is some kind of aristocratic screening at the door: “What do you mean you won’t let me enter? My father came here to watch titties and his father before him. Are you suggesting that I am not a gentleman, sir? I’m afraid your effrontery leaves me with no choice but to challenge you to a duel.” I thank the young woman but decline her invitation to the club.
Just across from me a street hustler is preying on a couple of tourists with one of the oldest gags on Bourbon Street. The way it works is this. A guy moves toward you. He’s easygoing and does not appear threatening, yet he is remarkably adept at standing in front of you in such away that you can’t get around him. He smiles and says he wants to ask you a question. “I’ll bet you $20,” he says, “that I can tell you where you got your shoes.” Of course, your first instinct is to say no thanks and move along. But he’s charismatic and he’s got that ability to maneuver so that you can’t shake him. “Okay,” he insists, “Ten dollars says I can tell you where you got your shoes.” You decline again. Back and forth it goes. He tells you a couple of jokes. He might even kneel down and examine your shoes more closely or shine them with a rag. In the end, your curiosity gets the better of you. You pull out a $5 bill and hold it up. He’s got you now. He leans in close so that all the voyeurs who have gathered to watch this spectacle can’t hear. In his best Nowlans accent he tells you, “Why, you got your shoes on your feet here on Bourbon Street.” He quickly grabs the fiver from your hand and walks away. You shake your head and laugh. What else can you do?
Chicanery lives large in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The shoe bit is harmless enough. I’ve been told to be on the lookout for much nastier men offering to “show me where the real action is.” As if I could ever get bored with this! The real action, should anyone be foolish enough to seek it, is you handing over all your valuables at knifepoint in an alley a few blocks away.
Further down Bourbon Street I encounter a new form of hustle. Or maybe it’s not a hustle; it’s difficult to say. You be the judge. There is a guy carrying a tall thin placard with the word “restroom” printed vertically in large letters and an arrow pointing to the left. He is wearing a t-shirt that reads: “Have to pee? Ask me!” Well, here’s a good idea, I’m thinking. There are no public restrooms on Bourbon Street despite all the places selling liquor. If you want to go to the bathroom, you have to duck into a bar. The bathrooms are always in the back and the bar staff has a way of making you feel most unwelcome if you’re not spending money there. I walk up to the guy with the “Have to pee? Ask me!” t-shirt. Okay, I say, I’m asking. He doesn’t say a word, just points in the direction of the arrow on his sign. I look but don’t see what he is pointing to. So I walk up the street a ways until finally I see another guy wearing a “Have to pee? Ask me!” t-shirt. He is sitting on a plastic chair and guarding a narrow walkway between two buildings that leads who knows where? I look down the walkway. It is pitch black and barely wider than my body with my arms outstretched. A small sign above the guy’s head reads, “Restroom. $2” It is not clear that there is even a toilet back there. Perhaps it’s just a nice private spot to pee on the wall. Or maybe there is a toilet. The real question is: If there were a toilet back there, would you use it?
Tomorrow: Tits and crawfish.
10:52:33 PM  Stories
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