"Life preserver, check. Bullet-proof vest, check. Barf bag, check. Condoms, check. Ether, check. Clean spikes and stems, check. Cashiers, check . . . New Orleans survival kit." — Theodore Galaris
9
... In Which Kermit Tells You the Story of Beth Lalachala ...
Beth Lalachala got here in August, when the dogs were rabid and the rodents crawling out of the Mississippi were the size of the grief given you by your ex-wives, all of them. This was when Frankie Minot had his job selling antiques on Royal Street, but as his Love of Cheap Brandy was almost as old as a Regency Sideboard or a Heriz Carpet that gig didn't last long, but we'll get to the bones of that eventually. Bethany introduced her to Warren, and that's when things really took off to hell for the hoor — but I digress.
I'll tell you the truth, I haven't really gotten much sleep this week.
So Beth Lalachala came here from Gainesville, Florida (it was REALLY Baton Rouge. In fact it was REALLY Chapel Hill, but I'm going to great pains here to protect her identity) where she'd up and quit her court-mandated AA meetings, left her husband, and sped off in his Peugot in the middle of a dark & stormy night for Nola, to Drink and Have Sex with Girls. This is what Beth did, and mind you I'm not conDOning it, but since I'm a mortician, at least I can understand.
In New Orleans, the problem is not getting drunk, the problem is STAYING drunk. 'Cause after the third day of that shit, you body's gonna rebel, and if you're a REAL wanna-be drinker, the trick is, to get it to where it CAN'T. So Warren got her in touch with Shelton B. Boultt , who hooked her up with Raphael Fleetwhite. Fleetwhite, as I'm sure he himself would be the first to tell you, has solved this age-old problem with one work: METH. He makes it, y'see. But it doesn't take time away from his other job as a Pimp, 'cause he makes a bucket of it just once a month, at the full moon, in a swamp down behind where those old plantations are on River Road.
As for the other thing Beth was in it for, well, that's not a problem either. At ALL. And though I'm not a doctor, I'm the next thing to it, ha ha! — so here's where I'm gonna give you a little Medical Advice. Well, ACTUALLY, like everybody else in New Orleans, I didn't actually go to SCHOOL for what I do — actually, I just picked up a book by Harry Crews called Scar Lover (Simon & Schuster, 1992) where he tells you all about trocars and all the things morticians do, and moved here and set myself up a Practice. It ain't hard.
But to get the girls if you're a 38-year-old chick like Beth, well, dress all in Black and go to Molly's on Decatur Street and act all artsy and talk about Modigliani Jeff Koons and David Bowie and tell 'em just how PURTY they are. Or the Shim Sham. Or Angeli. Or ANYwhere on Decatur. That's the Bisexual Pseudo-Art Locals Hangout Street. If you're gay, well, you've got the entire Faubourg Marigny, across Esplanade Avenue from the Vieux Carre, which has a few chicks in it too like the ones at the R Bar, but in the Quarter, your spot is with Frankie Minot on Dauphine Street. Or Royal Street, until it shuts down at 6. Or ANYWHERE, really. Just not Bourbon, that's for fratboys and drunk elderly fat men from Canada. Kermit Broadmeyer, your Tour Guide. At your service. I could go on and on, but I won't.
But when licking pussy, like Beth Lalachala was up for, you'll often find that the Zoloft or the Paxil or the Luvox or whateverthefuck inhibits your getting off, or else the booze or the whatever does, so, provided you're not on Meth at the time, what you do is take one and no more than two white cross tablets of 25 mg ephedrine hydrochloride 30 minutes prior to muff-diving and Whammo! Hey! Even Ani DiFranco didn't tell you about THAT little trick. So you're welcome. But no, guys, it won't work for YOU.
It's my philosophy that if you're a lifer in New Orleans, sooner or later you're gonna go to be with Kermit Broadmeyer, so let the Good Times Roll, Mofo. I won't even tell your mama what it was that killed 'ya.
But after two weeks on Fleetwhite's Meth, Beth got a little psychotic and got it up her ass to start stalking that sorta-famous New Orleanean who writes books and does his schtick on NPR. She met him when he'd been into the powder and offered her a Viagra, which, when mixed with E, and rat poison, is known as "sextacy" and it promotes clit-sucking pro boner orgies and you can buy it at Café Brazil in the Marigny before you go pull a River Phoenix, but anyway, she started stalking the dude, phone calls and emails and following him all over town. And that dude takes himself REAL seriously, dontcha know. She kept dissing him and asking him, had he ever PUBLISHED anything? Besides the stuff he did on that Outmoded Medium, the Radio, for NPR? And she went on and on about how obscene his work was.
He was a bit taken aback, was the NPR dude, having published a few novels, one of which is about some kind of apocalypse in New Orleans or some shit. Wouldn't know. Haven't read it. Ain't going to. But he wrote 'em, and they published 'em. But obscene, no. Not in any ordinary sense of the word. But he quickly overcame his emotion, such as it was, over Beth Lalachala, and asked Fleetwhite to Do Something, which he was just about to do before the second set of missles hit in Jackson Square.
|