Happiness I sit outside a New Orleans bar, peering into a glass of gin, waiting for happiness to arrive. Water drips down the outside of the glass from the humid air, and soaks the white square napkin. The ice melts quickly, clear floating lumps, with a sad squashed lime slice. The cars drive along Prytania Street, searching for life. I watch the faces; I see nothing in them. The sun has just disappeared behind the buildings. In other cities the sun goes down into the waters of the ocean, or slides behind mountains, making spectacles of the end of day. But here it slinks behind the buildings, as if ashamed, and bogs down in the swamps surrounding the city. The white plastic chair sways drunkenly as I lean back. Work is over, the patrons arrive. For them the thinking stops, two men at the bar, one buys the other a drink, and they clink glasses and laugh. Three girls laugh a little too loudly and leave en masse to the bathroom to discuss their boys. The boisterous volume flows out of the bar, around me, and into the street. When I arrived here a year ago, I should have taken the hint, and left immediately, found somewhere more agreeable, but I didn't. The first sign came while riding my bicycle towards the French Quarter, stuck riding between the parked cars and the speeding traffic. It must be a game, because this happened twice. One car, of the many speeding past, would slow down, creep up behind while the passenger leant out the window. Just as they would pass, he would scream in my ear. The driver would slam his foot on the gas and they would scream away. The bike wobbled and almost hit a parked car. They laughed while driving away. "You ride a bike to work?" asked one of the other waiters at my new restaurant job. "Yes." "OK, just remember this. If someone jumps in front of you with a gun telling you to stop, keep riding, because if you stop they'll probably shoot you, but if you keep riding, they'll probably miss."
New Orleans is an old lady trying to look young and fresh. The old, bone thin, flabby skinned lady with the short skirt and pancaked make-up. She struts with an air of confidence, ignoring that there is nothing there to back her up anymore, only exuding decay and desperation. All big business has deserted the city, leaving drinking, gambling and tourists the only money. The smell of decay is pungent, the houses have fresh coats of paint, covering the internal rot. In the center of the Garden District there is a disintegrating house, where the porch is not visible because of the ivy, and the back has collapsed under its own weight. But the electrical feed from the street is still connected. Time for another drink and a cigarette. After failing as a waiter, I am now stuck, working as a mechanic, with a broken motorcycle. I can't even afford the parts, but the phone should be reconnected soon. When starting work the owner of the shop was nice: he invited me to Thanksgiving dinner for deep fried turkey, and helped out with a small forward on the paycheck when things were tight. He even bought me a beer once that we drank while driving in his convertible BMW to pick up parts. One day, at the beginning of lunch, he mentioned that he needed cigarettes, so he was going for a drive. I said that there was a liquor store around the corner, and he said that he was going to go and have a little fun. I looked quizzically at him. He said that he liked to go into the poor neighborhoods, the black neighborhoods, and give them a little shit. I looked even more confused. "I like to pull up onto the curb, in front of a market, put my pistol in my waistband so that the butt is visible over my shirt, and buy a pack of cigarettes. I like to give 'em a little shit when I leave. They know they can't do anything to me because I have a gun." I had no reply to that. I watch the cigarette burn in my hand, stare blindly at the trees blowing in the slight breeze, listening to the laughter and meaningless babble of the people surrounding me. I dream of leaving. Finding some money and being able to just wander off. Anywhere would be better than here. Maybe back to California. I could find a friend to let me sleep on their couch; there would be a bartending job for me, and Dana, who I was stupid enough to leave for this shit hole. The women run away from me here; it must be the failure exuding from my pores. I did go on a date, once. We sat outside at a coffee shop on Magazine Street. All I could discuss was how much I hated this city, how every thing I tried turned to shit. The stupidity of the people in the city. There was no kiss goodnight. The table across from me fills with cute girls, they borrow one of the chairs from my empty table, they are alive, talking, drinking, gesticulating. They are in their early twenties, probably from Tulane. They all sit round the table, but I fix on the dark-haired girl to the right. I can see her profile; but she intermittently look to the girl on her left, and I can see the flash of her eyes. She has short dark hair, cut above the neck, curling in a large mass. She continuously runs her fingers along the arm of her glasses, collecting her hair behind her left ear. Pulling out another cigarette, rolling it in my fingers, clicking the lighter, and finally lighting it up, I watch the girls through the wandering patrons. She will notice me, and smile. I will send her a drink, and she will smile thanks. After five minutes she will excuse herself and come over to thank me for the drink; she will join me. We will talk. We read the same books, and like the same movies. She will laugh at my comments. I will slow down on the alcohol to stay sharp. No, she does not like the city much, but enjoys the school she's in. She is graduating soon and thinking of going traveling, leaving this place. Her eyes glow as she smiles and laughs with me. Her friends come over to say they are leaving, she says she will stay. The night becomes late, and I invite her to my place for a drink. She smiles and nods. We end up warm and feline in bed, the tranquility of skin and skin, and the comfort of contentment. My eyes have been open too long, staring blankly at the streetlight on the corner, they start to water from the bright glow.
Time for another drink. I bump against the doorpost and hold onto the bar a little too strongly. I order another gin and tonic, and the bartender looks at me slowly. "Ya doin' alright?" I stand up straight, smile, look him in the eye, and say yes. He pours the drink. Back at the table, and the women are gone, on to something more exciting. I light another cigarette, read the warning label on the box of cigarettes, stare at the sign of the bar, and watch the intermittent cars drive by. The people enclosed in their little boxes, going nowhere and doing nothing important. What is the reason in their lives that make them think that driving along Prytania Street will make their lives better? Will that air conditioning and the electric windows make them happier? Good luck to them. I hope they find joy in their useless little lives. The cigarette packet fumbles in my hand, but I finally get it open. Damn only two left, why can't anything go right? What do I have to do to make things go right? The cars drive by fast and heavy . That is when I notice happiness. I look down at my glass and see him standing at the bottom, ankle deep in clear liquid and next to a mangled lime wedge. He is staring up at me, smiling. Happiness. I cover the glass with my hand and stumble away from the table. When I get home, I put the glass on the coffee table with the full ashtray and the dirty plates. I smoke and watch him look at me. He was happy. I am happy. He would keep me happy.
When I awake in the morning, with a sore back from the lumpy couch, a headache from the cigarettes, and a stomach rolling from alcohol, I see the stolen glass on the coffee table. Happiness is gone. He left me. But now I know where to find him.
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