Tales From the Big Sleazy

So… I’m in New Orleans. Steph’s got some kind of conference and wanted me to come with her. That means while she’s sitting in lectures all day, I’m free to wander the French Quarter.

It’s as exciting as it sounds. Today, I had my first beer by 2pm and pretty much kept going. That said, we were back in the hotel room by 9:30.

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped by the bar of the hotel we stayed at the last time in N’awlins’, The French Market Inn, which reminded me of something…

We drove to N.O. in April for vacation. It was mid-week, so we got a really good deal on the hotel. The French Market Inn is on Decatur Street right on the edge of the Quarter. It’s one of those 200-year-old buildings that’s probably been repurposed into a hotel. The rooms all ring a center courtyard that’s got one of those really tiny pools in it.

One night we decided we’d hit the pool. April in N.O. is hotter than hell. The kind of squishy, high humidity hot where you start sweating just thinking about going outside.

So the pool. We’re out there floating around, cooling down, half drunk. You’re really not anything but half drunk or whole drunk when you’re in NO on vacation. We’re floating around talking nonsense when this 40ish couple shows up. They’re both fit looking. He’s got that used car salesman gray hair, perfectly coifed, canned tan. She’s had “work done,” if you follow me. They don’t look like natural fortysomethings.

They make some small talk. We find out where they’re from, though be damned if I remember that now. She’s sitting on his lap in the water the whole time. At some point, she just stared smooching on his head.

Not sure why we got out of the pool. Tired of them? Ready go to back to our own room for some canoodling? Not sure. Either way, we got out and headed back to the room.

Soon as we got to our door, I realized I didn’t have my key. Steph didn’t have hers either. Our door was such that you could literally pick the lock with a credit card, but as the only card we had on ourselves when we went to the pool was the room key… I headed back to the pool.

As I rounded the corner, I saw her slide down on the downstroke and wiggle. She turned to him and said, “Aw, I’m sorry,” as though the dude had already been about to pop one. Maybe he was a 10-second man. Dunno.

What I do know is that I didn’t see the key laying around on the bricks next to the pool. I did, however, see it laying on the bottom.

I stood there for maybe half a minute, embarrassed as hell and desperately trying to think of a scenario that didn’t involve me sticking my head underwater in a pool currently inhabited by the beast with two backs. After the half minute was over, I reached in, grabbed the key and headed back to the room.

This was almost four years ago, mind you. Now, I’d probably have sat down on the side of the pool and told them to carry on. Cause live porn would rule.

Ah well.

Today I spent most my day walking around the French Quarter planning out our evening. The French Quarter during the day is kind of a drag. Half the stuff is closed and there are high school kids – High School! – skulking about. It’s like a pussified Disney version of the nighttime thing.

I did, however, have an idea for a slasher flick while sitting at the Café Maspero, surrounded by high school kids and tourists.

Maybe I’ll even actually write the thing…