The Beau & the Belle
Page 36
“Are you going to stay and eat your lunch?”
110% NO. I’m sweating through my clothes.
I shake my head.
He smirks. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the luncheon on Saturday.”
“AND THEN HE said ‘I guess I’ll see you at the luncheon on Saturday’ and I fled from his office like my pants were on fire.”
Rose gasps in horror on the other side of the phone. “No you didn’t.”
“Unfortunately yes. I barreled straight into his secretary—I hope she wasn’t severely injured—and then ran straight for the front door.”
“Wow, you really are a class act.”
“What can I say? They don’t make ’em like me anymore.”
Self-deprecation is all I really have at this point.
“Have you guys talked since?”
“Since when? Yesterday? No—is that weird?”
Rose hums.
I stop applying my eye makeup, worried I’ll smear it if she keeps distracting me. “What?! Is that bad?”
“No, no.” But then she does a bit more hemming and hawing, like she’s an artsy-craftsy detective standing in front of a board with red strands of yarn going in different directions. “It’s just that…”
“What?!”
I want to reach through the phone and grab her by the scruff.
“Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser. I mean, you said he just pushed you off and went right back to work?”
“Well, not right back.”
She’s onto something though. I could have been better. I didn’t use any fancy tongue work. I didn’t moan pornographically. Dammit—I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even consider where my hands were.
“Did you do that thing with your teeth like I told you? Guys really like that.”
I groan. “No. I forgot. I was too distracted.”
And honestly, I don’t remember what she’s talking about. Rose reads a lot of Cosmo. I just drink a lot of cosmos.
“It’s okay,” she decides. “You probably haven’t totally ruined everything.”
“Wow, you should be a life coach. You have such a way with words.”
She laughs. “Listen, just forget about it. Go have fun tonight and tell everyone I said hi. I’m bummed I’m missing out.”
“I’ll drink a shot for you.”
“Or four.”
It’s been years since I’ve gone out on Bourbon Street, even longer since I’ve been during Carnival season. I finish applying my eye makeup and swipe on red lipstick. My curls have been contained into waves and hey, they’ll likely stay that way for at least five seconds. Most women on Bourbon will disregard the February temperatures and dress in short dresses and skirts. Good for them; not for me. I refuse to participate. I tug on my skinny jeans and boots. I convince myself that my black cashmere sweater is sexy because it’s form-fitting—I accidentally shrunk it in the dryer last week—and now shows a little bit of my midriff.
I hop in a cab and head down to Bourbon, immediately regretting my decision.
Let me set the scene. You know those infinity mirrors that face each other so it seems to go on forever? Bourbon Street is like that: thirteen city blocks of the rowdiest shot bars, dance clubs, and restaurants. It’s the Wild Wild West—lawless. Thrilling and disgusting all at once. Open container laws allow booze to spill out onto the streets. Bourbon Street Bingo would consist of the following squares: woman flashing her boobs for beads, street performer, rowdy bachelorette party, rowdier bachelor party, bar brawl, hurricane cocktail, and a second-story balcony so full of people it’s on the brink of collapse. Bingo.
There are restaurants, bars, souvenir shops, and strip clubs stacked one after another. This is not your mom’s idea of a good time—unless your mom is a 20-something bro named Mitch who can shotgun a dozen Nattys in five minutes.
Like a lot of locals, I normally wouldn’t touch Bourbon with a 10-foot pole while decked out in a hazmat suit, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen some of these women and I’m trying to not be lame and sit at home. The lame life comes naturally to me, and I have to actively resist my comfort zone or one day I’ll wake up fused with the couch fibers, having won the award for most takeout delivered to a single human.
My group is ridiculously easy to spot among the crowd at the bar. In a sea of drunken buffoons sit Charlotte, Elizabeth, Mallory, and my old friend, Julie Robichaux. They look like they’re chaperoning the party: Charlotte is spritzing disinfectant on the table, and Elizabeth is asking the waiter for sparkling water.
“Ma’am, we got tap water or vodka. Take your pick.”
Two of them are moms—ACTUAL MOTHERS OF CHILDREN. Three of them are married. Two of them have fancy jobs to report to in the morning. Topics of conversation likely include: 401ks, daycare waitlists, school zoning, and preventive Botox.
Even still, they give me shit about my outfit the second I walk up.
“Woo! Lauren’s heading to her grandma’s house!”
“Nice sweater, Lou!”
None of their jokes are funny, so I flip them off and steal the drink sitting in front of Julie—who, by the way, is wearing a shift dress like it’s the middle of summer. She’s shivering, though we’re seated nowhere near the door. I ask her if it’s a little toasty in here just to fuck with her. In response, she yanks her drink back.
“I saw a girl on Instagram wearing it the other day and thought it looked cute!”
“Was that girl Kylie Jenner?”
She looks away and mutters, “Yes.”
Oh Jesus.
I’m entirely too sober for this. The only way I’m sitting with four PTA moms and discussing the merits of gel manicures is if I have a BAC of at least 1.0.
When the waiter comes by, I order two rounds of tequila shots.
Everyone protests.
Mallory says she’s breastfeeding. “Pump and dump!”
Elizabeth wants to know if the tequila is fair trade and organic.
I contemplate smashing my head into the edge of the table.
The waiter returns and I pass out the shots, ignoring the groans.
“DRINK IT QUICK!” I shout, clinking my glass with each one of theirs in quick succession.
I pinch my eyes closed, toss back the tequila, and try to ease the pain and suffering with a slice of lime.
“Oheughh, it’s so bad.”
I dry-heave.
Mallory actually throws up a little bit in her mouth, which I feel bad about—but not so bad that I don’t force her to drink the second shot. Is this what it feels like to haze people? Like Batman said, you either die from peer pressure or live long enough to pressure your peers.
I am a wizard. To purge the taste of the tequila, everyone sucks down a hurricane, and in the span of one hour I’ve transformed four boring losers into a wild pack of women out on the town. Elizabeth is up dancing on the bar, twirling a set of beads over her head like a helicopter. Mallory is behind the DJ booth, stealing the poor guy’s headphones and continuously shouting, “It’s Britney, bitch!” into the too-close microphone. Every time she does it, the crowd goes wild. Julie—the only other single one in our group—is grinding with a wide-eyed college freshman in the middle of the dance floor. Every time I look over, she escalates. When she sees me looking at them making out hardcore, she bends him over, spanks him with all her might then leaps onto his back like a rodeo clown. At this rate, she’s either going to take his virginity or his life.
I turn back to the bar and try to get the bartender’s attention. It’s no use; the place is too packed. We’re sardines in a tin can. I wave my hands some more, but the poor guy is too overwhelmed to notice me.
Charlotte runs up and shouts straight in my ear.
“I JUST CALLED LINCOLN AND HE’S ROUNDING UP THE GUYS!”
Fun fact: Charlotte is married to Lincoln—St. Thomas Lincoln. Preston’s best friend Lincoln.
“WAIT! WHY’D YOU DO THAT?!” I shout back over the music Mallory has turned up to an obnoxious level at the DJ booth.
“I wanted it to be a real high school reunion!”
110% NO. I’m sweating through my clothes.
I shake my head.
He smirks. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the luncheon on Saturday.”
“AND THEN HE said ‘I guess I’ll see you at the luncheon on Saturday’ and I fled from his office like my pants were on fire.”
Rose gasps in horror on the other side of the phone. “No you didn’t.”
“Unfortunately yes. I barreled straight into his secretary—I hope she wasn’t severely injured—and then ran straight for the front door.”
“Wow, you really are a class act.”
“What can I say? They don’t make ’em like me anymore.”
Self-deprecation is all I really have at this point.
“Have you guys talked since?”
“Since when? Yesterday? No—is that weird?”
Rose hums.
I stop applying my eye makeup, worried I’ll smear it if she keeps distracting me. “What?! Is that bad?”
“No, no.” But then she does a bit more hemming and hawing, like she’s an artsy-craftsy detective standing in front of a board with red strands of yarn going in different directions. “It’s just that…”
“What?!”
I want to reach through the phone and grab her by the scruff.
“Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser. I mean, you said he just pushed you off and went right back to work?”
“Well, not right back.”
She’s onto something though. I could have been better. I didn’t use any fancy tongue work. I didn’t moan pornographically. Dammit—I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even consider where my hands were.
“Did you do that thing with your teeth like I told you? Guys really like that.”
I groan. “No. I forgot. I was too distracted.”
And honestly, I don’t remember what she’s talking about. Rose reads a lot of Cosmo. I just drink a lot of cosmos.
“It’s okay,” she decides. “You probably haven’t totally ruined everything.”
“Wow, you should be a life coach. You have such a way with words.”
She laughs. “Listen, just forget about it. Go have fun tonight and tell everyone I said hi. I’m bummed I’m missing out.”
“I’ll drink a shot for you.”
“Or four.”
It’s been years since I’ve gone out on Bourbon Street, even longer since I’ve been during Carnival season. I finish applying my eye makeup and swipe on red lipstick. My curls have been contained into waves and hey, they’ll likely stay that way for at least five seconds. Most women on Bourbon will disregard the February temperatures and dress in short dresses and skirts. Good for them; not for me. I refuse to participate. I tug on my skinny jeans and boots. I convince myself that my black cashmere sweater is sexy because it’s form-fitting—I accidentally shrunk it in the dryer last week—and now shows a little bit of my midriff.
I hop in a cab and head down to Bourbon, immediately regretting my decision.
Let me set the scene. You know those infinity mirrors that face each other so it seems to go on forever? Bourbon Street is like that: thirteen city blocks of the rowdiest shot bars, dance clubs, and restaurants. It’s the Wild Wild West—lawless. Thrilling and disgusting all at once. Open container laws allow booze to spill out onto the streets. Bourbon Street Bingo would consist of the following squares: woman flashing her boobs for beads, street performer, rowdy bachelorette party, rowdier bachelor party, bar brawl, hurricane cocktail, and a second-story balcony so full of people it’s on the brink of collapse. Bingo.
There are restaurants, bars, souvenir shops, and strip clubs stacked one after another. This is not your mom’s idea of a good time—unless your mom is a 20-something bro named Mitch who can shotgun a dozen Nattys in five minutes.
Like a lot of locals, I normally wouldn’t touch Bourbon with a 10-foot pole while decked out in a hazmat suit, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen some of these women and I’m trying to not be lame and sit at home. The lame life comes naturally to me, and I have to actively resist my comfort zone or one day I’ll wake up fused with the couch fibers, having won the award for most takeout delivered to a single human.
My group is ridiculously easy to spot among the crowd at the bar. In a sea of drunken buffoons sit Charlotte, Elizabeth, Mallory, and my old friend, Julie Robichaux. They look like they’re chaperoning the party: Charlotte is spritzing disinfectant on the table, and Elizabeth is asking the waiter for sparkling water.
“Ma’am, we got tap water or vodka. Take your pick.”
Two of them are moms—ACTUAL MOTHERS OF CHILDREN. Three of them are married. Two of them have fancy jobs to report to in the morning. Topics of conversation likely include: 401ks, daycare waitlists, school zoning, and preventive Botox.
Even still, they give me shit about my outfit the second I walk up.
“Woo! Lauren’s heading to her grandma’s house!”
“Nice sweater, Lou!”
None of their jokes are funny, so I flip them off and steal the drink sitting in front of Julie—who, by the way, is wearing a shift dress like it’s the middle of summer. She’s shivering, though we’re seated nowhere near the door. I ask her if it’s a little toasty in here just to fuck with her. In response, she yanks her drink back.
“I saw a girl on Instagram wearing it the other day and thought it looked cute!”
“Was that girl Kylie Jenner?”
She looks away and mutters, “Yes.”
Oh Jesus.
I’m entirely too sober for this. The only way I’m sitting with four PTA moms and discussing the merits of gel manicures is if I have a BAC of at least 1.0.
When the waiter comes by, I order two rounds of tequila shots.
Everyone protests.
Mallory says she’s breastfeeding. “Pump and dump!”
Elizabeth wants to know if the tequila is fair trade and organic.
I contemplate smashing my head into the edge of the table.
The waiter returns and I pass out the shots, ignoring the groans.
“DRINK IT QUICK!” I shout, clinking my glass with each one of theirs in quick succession.
I pinch my eyes closed, toss back the tequila, and try to ease the pain and suffering with a slice of lime.
“Oheughh, it’s so bad.”
I dry-heave.
Mallory actually throws up a little bit in her mouth, which I feel bad about—but not so bad that I don’t force her to drink the second shot. Is this what it feels like to haze people? Like Batman said, you either die from peer pressure or live long enough to pressure your peers.
I am a wizard. To purge the taste of the tequila, everyone sucks down a hurricane, and in the span of one hour I’ve transformed four boring losers into a wild pack of women out on the town. Elizabeth is up dancing on the bar, twirling a set of beads over her head like a helicopter. Mallory is behind the DJ booth, stealing the poor guy’s headphones and continuously shouting, “It’s Britney, bitch!” into the too-close microphone. Every time she does it, the crowd goes wild. Julie—the only other single one in our group—is grinding with a wide-eyed college freshman in the middle of the dance floor. Every time I look over, she escalates. When she sees me looking at them making out hardcore, she bends him over, spanks him with all her might then leaps onto his back like a rodeo clown. At this rate, she’s either going to take his virginity or his life.
I turn back to the bar and try to get the bartender’s attention. It’s no use; the place is too packed. We’re sardines in a tin can. I wave my hands some more, but the poor guy is too overwhelmed to notice me.
Charlotte runs up and shouts straight in my ear.
“I JUST CALLED LINCOLN AND HE’S ROUNDING UP THE GUYS!”
Fun fact: Charlotte is married to Lincoln—St. Thomas Lincoln. Preston’s best friend Lincoln.
“WAIT! WHY’D YOU DO THAT?!” I shout back over the music Mallory has turned up to an obnoxious level at the DJ booth.
“I wanted it to be a real high school reunion!”
