Hot, southern summer nights – Writing post number seven-o

Here’s another descriptive piece I did for my first creative writing class.  This piece is homage to my last night in New Orleans.

I was unsatisfied with my time in New Orleans; with the plastic beads being thrown at my head with indiscretion and cheesy 3-for-1 drink promotions that blanketed Bourbon St.  I had yet to discover the raw and vulnerable lyrics of blues and the desperate cries of brass I had dreamed of burning into my soul for many nights before my departure.  Why else would anyone come to New Orleans?

The cobblestone roads were hard to walk on in my gold high-heeled shoes.  The uncountable clicks of my heels and the growing pain in my feet were indication of a long night searching for that dream, that expectation.  I didn’t want to leave disappointed.  This had to be the night.

Shayna and I decided to have another go at the Chart Room where the drinks were stiff and the bartender friendly the night before.  The floor to ceiling French doors were wide open to the street as the hot and sticky air flowed in and out leaving a slight shimmer on our faces.  We made our way passed the wooden circular tables and walked up to the bar that took up most of the room.  “Vodka-7 and a vodka soda,” said the tall, thin bartender.  Excited that he had recalled from the night before I asked, “How did you remember?”  He just smiled and gave a quick wink.

We decided to sit on the stools at the bar because this was sure to get men noticing us, talking to us.  The red tattered walls were covered with pictures and kitschy local memorabilia but the dim yellow lighting made it difficult to see it all.  Candles flickered along the bar and on every table.  A sultry voice filled the room from the jukebox as locals chatted appearing to be interested in what the other was saying.  Within minutes, Shayna had drawn in a young local with a simple head tilt and a smile.  Her back now turned to me, I gave the room a once over trying to spot potential company.

In a far corner, a beautiful black woman was fanning herself.  As dark as it was in the bar, I could still see how bright red her lips were and the glitter on her eyelids.  She was laying her head against the wall with her eyes closed.  She looked exhausted.  A man who looked like a greaser from the 50’s stepped out of the washroom, walked over to her table and sat down next to her.  He whispered something in her ear and she started to laugh; her bosom bouncing up and down.

I sighed, turned back around and took a long drag from my drink until it was done.  I looked up and the bartender said shaking his finger at me, “I think I know what you want to hear.”  He walked over to the jukebox and stood there tapping his fingers on the glass looking for the song he wanted or rather, I wanted.  The next thing I knew, he was waving me over and Billie Holiday was filling my ears.  As I got closer, he put his hand out and asked, “Care to dance?”


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