SHORT STORY: N.O. LA part 1

This is the first post of it's kind here at Humble Giant. I want to throw these rough-copies out there so i can get them off my drawing board. Maybe they continue, maybe they don't. At least the ideas are out there.

I got into New Orleans at about 12:30 on a Thursday afternoon. The air conditioning on the plane stops short and a thick cushion of southern humidity pushes against my face. The airport AC picks up the slack and I wipe grease off my forehead. I'm 22. My lady-friend and fellow traveler, is 25. She lived in New Orleans for 5 years. Her name is Sarah Lynne and this trip is sort of a pilgrimage for her. She walks ahead of me as we wander through the airport, looking for her friends.

We are staying with one of her old girlfriends and I don't mean a friend that's a girl. I mean a past lesbian relationship with a girl who was much younger and, very clearly, still in love with her. The thought of it made me tense all week. I never said a thing. Now we're here. It's happening.

Her name is Brandy . She looks like Betty Paige and listens to tons of Ani DiFranco. She was at least cordial as we did the introductions. Along side Brandy is Andrew, another old friend to Sarah. I had met him a few months earlier while he was in Boston for an art opening. Talented dude, but I suspect him of secretly being in love with her too. He was already married to a head-case named Lori. Later that week, Lori would incessantly rub my big toe while high on Ecstasy.

We stopped at the first gas station so Sarah could grab a beer. Ever the rebel, she cracked that sucker right outside the store. I nervously looked around for cops, but apparently there's no open container law in New Orleans. This could make for many nights running between bars holding the same beverage and a sort of seamless, nonchalant buzz. The ride was awkward. Besides saying she liked my Boston accent, Brandy never spoke directly to me. She would just ask Sarah Lynne a ton of questions about me as if I wasn't there.

Brandy rented a house in mid-city. We pulled in the driveway and got out of the car and it's just hot. My fingers are sweating. My ears are sweating. This southern heat is intense, but I don't mind. It was different. I like different. Her front lawn was completely covered in 4 leaf clovers. I looked closer and squinted through the hot sun and haze. Yeah, those are all 4 leaf clovers. I used to spend entire afternoons looking for these as a kid. What the hell? The place was nice though. High ceilings, shotgun style frame. Foyer, living room, bedroom, kitchen, back yard. Boom. All in a row. Brandy asked Sarah Lynne if I liked hamburgers. I said yeah and Brandy looked at the floor. My stomach shifted and tightened. I'm low on morale and cigarettes. There's a little store across from the house. Not a whole lot in there: a wall of empty freezers, candy and one fridge of booze. I bought a beer, smokes and Rolaids. This was the grocery list for every day after that.

We go to get hamburgers. I'm in the backseat and they catch up on what's new with that girl and how's so-and-so. I sip my High-Life tall boy and try to soak in all the contrasts of this city. Brandy takes us right to the french quarter which is kind of touristy and cliché, but it's cool. Sarah yells and squawks at her to take different routes as if she still knows the best way. I pick up on it right away: Sarah treats her like a little sister and loves on her as such. Brandy needs this, longs for it and soaks it up like a dry sponge in a toilet. Relief comes over Brandy like she finally got that itch scratched. My stomach tightens more. I take another big sip and light a smoke.

We park in front of a restaurant called Angelic. I guess they have the best burgers. I flick the second half of my cigarette into the street and walk in behind the former love birds. Sarah explains to me that I can smoke inside. I can smoke inside anywhere that serves food or booze. Pretty cool. Boston knocked that freedom out years ago. My guts are twisting up so hard now. I should have waited on the beer. I order an ice water. Very low light in here. I squint at the hand written menu. I like the sound of goat cheese and roasted red peppers on my burger. I order that.

Since we left the house, the waitress is the only person I've spoken too. The girls have been catching up for a good 30 minutes now. I want Sarah Lynne to touch me or glance at me to let me know I'm still here with them and this will be over shortly. She doesn't. She never does. I'm faced with the decision of trying to blend into the conversation and make small talk with a strange girl who used to sleep with my girlfriend, or just rudely blurt something out about how desperate I'm feeling. I cant decide, so I do neither.

All the food smells are making my stomach go nuts. We hadn't eaten a meal since breakfast. The food arrives. Not mine. Mine's still being prepared. They eat and talk, eat and talk. I fire up a smoke. I hope they mind. I hope I can grab some stage time here. They don't mind. My stomach pulses with sharp pains now. I can't believe this stress. I'm watching their body language through a cloud of blueish smoke. My burger comes out. Finally. I grab it with two hands and start taking out my frustrations on it. Bite after bite until my stomach is playing catch up on digestion and the pains are dulled and aimed at my intestines. They're laughing and touching hands sometimes. I gotta find a bathroom soon. I don't feel good. I need to get away form this table for 2 minutes. I need to finish so it looks normal to leave. I shouldn't have come on this trip. I got sand bagged. Stomach is screaming now and writhing in sharp pains that pop like fireworks all over my abdomen. I just have to swallow the last couple bites. Can't even taste anymore. I look down at the last bite and look closer. Then I move my head to get out of my own light and I see raw hamburger. It's straight raw. I'm gonna puke. Why does this happen, to me, today? I take a sip of water as if it's going to go down there and regulate. As if it will protect my stomach lining from the ecol i, salmonella or whatever is about to attack. I feel the pressure on my prostate and it's time to leave the table. A panicky desperate feeling takes over and I exit without a word. They don't notice. I catch a quick look of myself in the mirror as I barge into a stall. I look awful. Sweaty, sad, desperate, defeated. This city is killing me already.

My stomach feels empty now, but it hurts. I pop the rest of my rolaids like a handful of peanuts. I need a drink. A thousand of them actually. I need to get sloppy and make this awkward, lesser-than feeling disappear right now.