Love the Way You Walk Away - Blitzen Trapper (mp3)
This is the first in a series of observations about the kind of odd and random relationship glimpses one can get over just a single weekend hanging out in The French Quarter. Like snowflakes, these particular encounters are unique, yet the snowflakes manage to fall just the same with every trip...
In line to my aft were two women and a man spanning several decades, and a group of fratters behind them. Lines at the Bourbon Street Krystal are like a box of chocolates: you never know what disposition you’re going to get... you only know it will be pickled.
The bottle blonde woman in a flower dress too short for her age or shape was approaching 50, maybe even slightly over, but she seemed cheerful enough. The brunette was younger, maybe even in her early 30s, and behind them stood a man who hovered around 60 with slicked back mostly salted hair.
The brunette was pretty cute, and the fratters immediately radar locked on her. After a few brief exchanges, the lead fratter with Timberlakey curls said, “So is it fun coming to Bourbon Street with your parents?”
“Fu** you motherfu***r,” was her swift reply.
Now, I’m not one to defend a fratter. In general, guys who earn the immediate moniker of “fratter” are guys whose aggressive assholishness begs spite. Their syrupy smugness, the way they siphon joy by demeaning and belittling everyone who didn’t pledge with them, is the reason God made me mousy and lanky, because if I were a bigger guy more inclined to vigilantism, I’d be in jail or dead.
Between foul words, the brunette explains that this old man is her husband. The blonde is his ex-wife. And no motherfu***r she’s not kidding, and yes you sumbish he’s 20 times the man of all you motherfu***rs.
The blonde was just starting to realize they thought she was this potty-mouthed gal’s mother instead of her former or current competition, so her dander was getting up, too. The old guy, on Bourbon with his child bride and his significantly-younger ex-wife, just stood there shaking his head, because surely he’d heard all this before, and if he hadn’t, he knew it was coming eventually.
Then the fratter remembered he was a fratter, so he spoke Asshole: “That sh*t’s fu**ed up, sister. You got daddy issues ‘n’ sh*t.”
It got louder. Opposing noses got closer together. Language got even saltier.
The poor Krystal employees long ago stopped paying attention to it. The security guard at the door never even batted an eye.
I confess, however, that all this conflict made those two Krystals taste better.