ROD'S EASTER EGG

Rod Amis - Unbound

Unconventional Wisdom

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NEW ORLEANS - Congratulations! This is the Easter Egg.

Now imagine that you are listening to the great Mario Lanza with me, sitting in my backyard, under a wonderful blue sky with cumulus clouds that might have been sculpted by Michelangelo.

Here we are.

What is Mario singing? "Funiculi, funicula," of course!

Now, back to our story.

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"Dude! You'll NEVER believe what happened to me last night!"

"Try me," says Rod.

"Well, I ended up at The Abbey, on Decatur?"

"Every one knows where The Abbey is. You said, 'ended up', which means you were already loaded. If you went to The Abbey, that means you were lookin' for trouble and probably found it. Tell me something new."

"Do you always have to be such a cynical fuck?"

"It's my job."

"Fuck you."

"So what won't I believe? I'm in suspense."

"Asshole. I'll tell you anyway. When is your dinner gonnah be ready?"

"Half an hour. Tell away."

"You said you had beerage. So where's my fuckin' beer?"

"I'm not a bartender anymore. You know how to find a refrigerator, I think."

"Asshole."

"Thank you." As he walks off toward the 'fridge, I put the Blue Demon, the computer Matt is letting me borrow, into sleep mode. Not much more work getting done tonight, I figure.

He pops the top of the beer can. Takes a long gulp. "Ahh! Beer!"

"So?"

"So I guess I'm 86'ed from The Abbey"

"Because?"

"You know that bartender with the big tits?"

"How many females who get hired in Nawlins as bartenders don't have big tits? Five?"

"I'd kick your ass if you weren't supplying the beer right now."

"If you feel froggy, leap."

"Anyways, I made the mistake of switchin' from just having Buds to doin' a few shots of whiskey."

"Always a mistake, in your case."

"Yeah, I know. I gottah stop drinkin' whiskey."

"So you always say."

"Well, I tried to hit on her."

"Mistake number two."

"And she wasn't giving me any play ---"

"Go figure."

" -- and then she starts chatting up a guy at the other end of the bar. Th at really pissed me off."

"And your solution was?"

"The last thing I remember is jumping over the bar, grabbing her tits and then stickin' my head under the beer tap and starting to guzzle beer straignt out of the tap."

"You're kidding. Right?"

"No. I guess I passed out or got kicked out after that."

"It must have been a soft landing. I don't see any bruises or black eyes."

"That's what's so weird. You'd think somebody would have kicked my ass." He took another long gulp of my beer.

"Luck of the Irish. Thank God for small favors."

"Isn't your dinner done yet?"

"Let me check it." I'd gotten chicken leg quarters at the Magnolia Market at St. Claude and France. $2.99 for five pounds. They were baking in the oven. When I came back, I said: "It's about ready. I guess you're my dinner guest?"

"Fuckin' A."

"I'm flattered."

"Asshole."

"So you don't actually know you're 86'ed, since you blacked out."

"You'd 86 me after that shit, wouldn't you?"

"Most definitely, if I were still bartending. But I don't bartend at The Abbey. Considering their customers, your behavior was not that out of the ordinary."

"Are you being serious now or are you just pullin' my chain?"

"I'm serious. You won't know if you're 86'ed until you try to walk in the door again. You might have been 86'ed only for that one night. Like: 'Get the hell out and don't come back tonight.' But if you go in tomorrow and behave yourself, everything's cool."

"You know," he said. "I know people from your Spotted Cat days who still claim you were one of the best bartenders in New Orleans."

"They must have all been Miles Davis fans. Mixology is easy, it's the other stuff that takes work."

"And you're one of the few bartenders who I never fucked up around."

"It must be the grey beard. Makes people think I'm wise instead of the obvious: I've had a rough life."

"So you think I should try goin' back in The Abbey."

"The worse that would happen is that you'd learn you actually are 86'ed."

"Drunk or sober?"

"Your call. I'd keep in mind that bartenders have boyfriends, who usually aren't as forgiving as either bartenders or bar owners."

"That's what always has me worried. I walk into some place and everything's cool and then some bartender I pissed off walks in with her boyfriend and says, 'That's the guy!' and the next thing you know I'm munching a fist sandwich."

"Sound like a legitimate concern to me."

"Yeah," he nodded, guzzling more beer. "That's why I just stay in my apartment and pound beers. I figure I gottah lay low."

"Until you get a heat on."

"Yeah; until I get a heat on. Then it's out to any of the bars in the Quarter where I'm sure I'm not 86'ed yet."

"Last I heard there are over 200 bars in the French Quarter alone. Add in the Marigny and you've still got a few hundred places you can go and make an ass of yourself."

"Hey, you seen your buddy Matt lately?"

"Just the other night. His birthday was last week."

"He still with that crazy girl?"

"Jo? Yeah."

"Man, I don't understand that."

"Matt's always said he picks low-self-esteem broads."

"Why's he do that?"

"They worship any guy who'll spend time with them."

"You're sayin' he wants to be worshipped, right?'

"Egads, Holmes! You astound me."

"Prick."

"You're confusing me now. I thought I was Asshole."

"But from what I hear, this woman ain't exactly worshippin' him."

"Far from it. She loves going negative, even with her man."

"Okay, so his plan doesn't seem to be working."

"Right again. But he's reached the age where it gets risky to change horses. He's never been very courageous, so it was easy for her to be the one getting worshipped. She trained him like a dog. I keep waiting for the wedding announcement."

"No lie?"

"No lie. Even men get scared in their mid-thirites. Been there. You actually start to accept that maybe you're with The Last Woman."

"I never think about shit like that."

"You're an exception. Most guys do, whether they admit it or not. Most of your friends are already married with children by that time. There's a lot of pressure, including from parents, to believe you should be, too."

"And what happens? You puss out?"

"Until you decide it's time for a train ride to Divorce City."

"That's bleak."

"This country has had a fifty percent divorce rate for nearly three generations now. You explain it."

"So this guy Matt, he's your best friend in New Orleans?"

"Rumor has it."

"But it was him made you quit your bartending job at The Spotted Cat, where they'd just given you a raise and everybody loved you?"

"Not exactly. It's a long story. He said he saw one of my co-workers stealing my tips, a guy I thought was a friend."

"And you believed him?"

"He's a lot of things, but I've never known him to be a liar."

"So you believed him and quit."

"That's the Reader's Digest version."

"Ever thought he might have wanted to sabotage your shit?"

"Not really. Let's move on to something else, okay?"

"And you can't go around his place because of the crazy woman?"

"You've got it about right. So what's your point?"

"Well, if this is your best friend, what are your enemies like?"

The question caught me off guard. I gave him five points in my personal tally for even asking. It's difficult to explain the ties that bind after knowing someone for a decade, to explain The Rules among men who are friends and compatriots --(like NEVER, ever interfere in relationships), even harder to explain how you cut slack for men you've been through a lot with over the years. But the question did give me pause.

Cumulatively speaking, has knowing Matt caused me more harm than good? Probably. I could say that about a lot of people, though. A lot of people could say that about me ...

I guess he could see the confusion his last question prompted in me.

"You got another beer, asshole?"

"Check the 'fridge. How should I know? How many have you had?"

"Here?" He wandered toward the back of my apartment. "You ready for one?" he called from the back.

"Why not?"

"Your chicken smells about done."

"Stick a fork in me, " I muttered to myself as he meandered back to the front of my place with the beers.

"You know, Rod, I really don't know why I do dumb shit like that. I mean, it's guaranteed to get either my ass kicked or 86 me from a bar I like to go to. I need to stop drinking whiskey."

"That's what you said."

He was earnest. "No! I'm serious, Dude. Beer is okay. But with whiskey I get off the hook."

"And the solution is?"

"I need a wing man."

"Come again."

"I need a buddy to go out with me when I'm drinkin'. Be my wing man and let me know when I'm not flyin' right. Like with those jet pilots?"

"Gotcha. I was thinkin' you thought someone should buy you buffalo wings after you had too many whiskeys."

"You're pullin' my chain, right? Don't answer that."

I didn't. I sipped my beer and waited for him to go on. It was time again for Rod's Confession Booth. I'd gotten used to these sessions since my first time living in New Orleans. Peoople felt the urge to unburden themselves in my company.

"I know what it is; I need to find a way to put some meaning in my life, Dude. I just go from the drudgery of work to drinking, sometimes both at the same time, and back again. Nothing ever changes except the faces on the TV -- and even those don't change that much. I don't feel like a single thing has happened in the last four years. Work, drunk, work, drunk, and then back again."

"Some people have a lot invested in seein' that nothin' ever changes in Nawlins," I observed. "I have a friend who's put it into one sentence: 'Let the Saints keep on losin'. '"

He snickered, then asked anxiously: "What is it about this damned place?"

"You tell me and we'll both know."

"People don't seem to want to get anything accomplished!"

"Oh, things get done. It's just that the people doing them don't live in the parish. They all moved out to Kenner and Metairie and places like that long ago. Orleans Parish is just the place where the cheap labor force gets drawn from to keep the tourist businesses going. It's actually more profitable to have a basically under-educated and captive labor pool to change the sheets in the hotels and clean the toilets."

"So explain something to me, Padré."

"Padré? I remind you of a priest?"

"You remind everybody of a priest. Look how you live. You could turn a penthouse apartment into a monk's cell."

"What do you want explained?" I asked, after a sigh.

"Why did you come back here? You're obviously a smart guy AND a smart Black guy. Why would you choose to come back to this hell-hole when there are so many better places you could be? You don't have a wife, kids, anything to keep you anywhere. Why come back to New Orleans when this place has always treated you like shit?"

Oh-oh. The bastard was trying to change chairs in the Confession Booth with me. We don't play musical chairs in Confession. "Valid question. Honestly?"

"No. Lie to me."

"I have friends and a support system here. And I have no place else to go."

"That's sad."

"No lie. I can see how it's breaking your heart.

"I think about it every night when I wake up at three in the morning. I don't have family, like most people. I'm eccentric as hell. No lovers, no ties to anything except my damn computer and the magazine. I call it orphanage.

"I'm not in New Orleans because I want to be. I want to be in Manhattan again but I can't afford it. So I run back here.

"I'm not getting younger. I'm certainly not the man I was at thirty-five. Most employers look at the missing teeth and the grey beard and decide I've already been used up. My resumé works against me in that potential employers think I'll want too much money. I have a good rep' here as being a primo house painter. When push comes to shove, since there's always a house being renovated somewhere in the parish, I can just go back to being Manuel Labore and have a beer at the end of the day. Or two. Beans and rice are a dollar a bag. I can throw a pint of whiskey in the mix for four bucks.

"It's the path of least resistance. I keep to myself and spin gossamer magic on the computer. That's about it."

"It must drive you nuts.

"Here you are with your Ivy League education, your writing credentials, interviewed famous people all over the world -- Hell! seen more than half the world -- and you're no better off than me. Maybe worse off."

"Now who's playing the priest?"

"Doesn't it bother you, wasting your talents?"

"I'm not wasting a thing. I still have the magazine."

"The magazine you claim isn't being read."

"I tend to exaggerate. We have about a hundred thousand readers worldwide. I just wish we had a million domestic and half a million abroad. Then I could make money at it and just be a writer and editor as I lurch toward my dotage. And people in Hell want ice water. I've got about as much of a chance of realizing my wish as they do."

"Cynical fuck."

"Don't start that again. I'm supposed to be 'Asshole,' remember? Ready for dinner?"

"I was wondering about that."

"The corner store is still open. It's your turn to buy the beer."

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