It's past midnight on Saturday, and I'm struggling to keep my shit together. Tommy and my brother Joel just got done jamming with a couple of local musicians and are now all jazzed about drinking their way through New Orleans' Uptown district. They moved into a duplex here with another dude named Chandler a few days ago, and tonight's to be Joel's first proper bar stumble in the new neighborhood — an area Tommy knows well from his days attending Loyola.
I think I'm OK, but the gurgling in my stomach says otherwise. Still, I'm gonna man up and make a go at it — try and have one last Big Easy blowout before flying back to Tampa.
Tommy drives his old sedan down Magazine Street past the pricey rug and collectible shops — and packed bars. We're bumping along the potted road to The Dixie Cups' famous rendition of the Crescent City staple "Iko Iko." "Look at my king all dressed in red," sings the young, innocent female voice. "I bet you five dollars, he kill you dead!" Tommy makes a valid point concerning the song being about battling Mardi Gras Indians, groups that have their roots in ancient NOLA gangs. I attempt to add my two cents, but it comes out as gibberish, something akin to the adults speaking in Charlie Brown cartoons.
"Are you OK?" my brother asks from the back seat.
"Fine," I mutter from somewhere deep inside my festering gut.
Tommy turns off onto a side street called Sophie Wright Place. We enter a tiny corner joint called the Moonlight Café. "They got good food here," he says before we walk inside. "I'm starving."
Upon entering we find a cadre of student types gathered around a karaoke machine. Tommy attempts to order us a round at the cramped bar while a young woman puts the finishing touches on Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young." Her buddy then gets the mic and growls his way through Pat Benatar's "Hell is for Children" — annoying me to the edge of a maniacal outburst.
"Tommy, this crap is killing me," I tell him as he continues to wait at the bar with cash in outstretched hand.
"Yeah, I don't feel like waiting here for my food," he says. "I'll get something at the next place."
"That place sucked," Joel announces as we walk out the door.
Back in the car, New Orleans piano great James Booker is moaning about dying, and I'm feeling his pain. Maybe it's time to bag it? Tell Tommy and Joel my skin feels like it's burning, and my stomach is dancing; tell 'em my entire body must have it in for me; tell 'em I need to be rushed home without further delay. I remain quiet, though, waiting for a miracle.
Tommy parks so close to the curb that my door makes a horrible scratching sound as I exit the vehicle.
"My bad," I mumble — but perhaps not loud enough for anyone to hear. We start walking and are soon met with a sign for the Rendezvous Tavern. It's a nice place with hardwood floors and high ceilings. Despite the chill in the air, ceiling fans are running to minimize the cigarette smoke. The crowd appears to be mostly service industry (many still have on their waitstaff uniforms) and neo-hippies (young men with beards and flowing hair). Tommy quickly retrieves three bottles of Abita Amber from the bar. Brewed in Abita Springs, La., it's a popular beer among Crescent City denizens, especially the hipster set. I pop a Tums, then take a sip. It goes down nicely.
Rick James' perennial party-starter "Superfreak" plays on the jukebox. In front of us, a young woman in a wife-beater tank top and tight black jeans runs the pool table. She looks focused and cute while lining up another shot; reminds me of "Jo" from The Facts of Life, a program I used to watch regularly as a kid. Maybe I'll rally after all, I think, turn the corner, put this icky feeling behind me.
"Let's chug, boys," Tommy says. He's ready to relocate to the next bar, a place where he can order some grub. I slam the last half of my beer and suddenly feel awful again.
We walk the few feet to the Balcony Bar and proceed to the patio area upstairs that overlooks Magazine. The place is lined with fresh-faced rich kids that Tommy identifies as Tulane students. I have a beer in hand but can't even put down a sip. I stand with my brother outside while Tommy waits for his cheese fries.
When his order arrives, I tell him he's gotta shuttle me home — ASAP. I arrive back at their place just in time to hurl over the side of the back porch. When Tommy and Joel return home around 6 a.m. with their loud tales of merriment, I'm still sick. Maybe it was a bad muffuletta or the drive from Tampa in the freezing cold and the truck with no heat; or perhaps I'm just getting too old for consecutive nights of late-night revelry in the Big Easy.
This article appears in Jan 9-15, 2008.