The embarrassment from earlier—I guess we’re going to pretend I never said anything—is replaced by pride. “Thanks,” I say, not having the guts to ask him why he’s just now stopping by.
I mean, it’s been two weeks! And Bon Temps Rouler is only eight blocks from his house!
“You’re coming to this Halloween ball and bachelor auction on Thursday, right?” He takes a slow, leisurely sip of his drink.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I tell him. “I try to limit my exposure to Aunt Bea’s upper-crust friends as much as I can. Last Saturday’s tea means I’m good to go for a while and—” Jean-Pierre and Luc have plugged in up onstage and Jean-Pierre gives me the signal to kill the jukebox. “Hold that thought,” I say as I head to the control panel beside the register.
As soon as the music from the jukebox stops, Jean-Pierre plays the opening riffs to “House of the Rising Sun” and I can’t help but smile. That’ll get the party started.
He and Luc put their personal spin on the song, upping the tempo. Luc sings lead in his low, clear baritone and Jean-Pierre comes in with the harmony.
I’ve always been amazed how musicians can do that. Never played with each other, and yet they can make beautiful music together.
When they reach the bridge, Jean-Pierre sawing away on his fiddle and Luc strumming his guitar like he’s possessed, the crowd is jumping and hollering for more.
For nearly an hour, the pace doesn’t let up. Luc and Jean-Pierre do their best to bring the house down. Chrissy and I try to keep a drink in everyone’s hands while poor Charlie works like a fiend washing dirty glasses and restocking the cooler.
I love every minute of it. This right here, this bar, this night, is what New Orleans is all about.Laissez les bon temps rouler!
When the last song of the set ends, Jean-Pierre wipes the sweat from his brow and says into the mic, “Me, I’m takin’ a bit of a breather, folks.” The crowd boos and hisses and Jean-Pierre laughs. “But don’t you worry none.Mon amihere”—he gestures to Luc—“is goin’ to play a ballad for y’all. So grab your best girl or guy or nonbinary, and pull dem close.”
Luc drags a stool up onstage and sits, curling himself around his guitar. Closing his eyes, he begins to strum. Before he even opens his mouth to sing, cell phone flashlights are thrust into the air. They’re accompanied by a few dozen lighters.
I hope no one burns down my bar.
Jean-Pierre heads to the back, navigating high fives, fist bumps, and back slaps along the way. He grabs the empty barstool next to Cash and I hand him an ice-cold beer. Upending it, he chugs half the contents before setting the bottle down with athump. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and grins his classic Cajun grin—all dancing eyes and flashing teeth.
“We doin’ good,maisyeah? You don’t miss dat silly ol’ band you booked out of Baton Rouge?” He pronounces the city in the French way, rolling the R.
“You know you’re doing good, you glory hound. Look at these folks.” I wave a hand around the bar. “They love you.”
As if on cue, a guy stumbles up behind Jean-Pierre. He overshoots his mark and bumps into Cash. “Sorry, bro,” he says absently. Or, rather, slurs.
He’s about two beers past a buzz. I’ll need to keep an eye on him to make sure he’s not overserved.
Most watering holes in this city let customers drinks themselves under the bar. As long as the money’s green, the booze flows. But I try to cut folks off before they get too far gone.
For one thing, I don’t like getting puked on as I drag a drunk into a taxi—learnedthatthe hard way. For another thing, I feel a moral obligation as a business owner to do my best to make sure everybody has a good time, but nobody gets hurt.
Alcohol poisoning is no laughing matter.
“I had to come over and shake the hand of the man.” The drunk guy nearly elbows Cash in the face when he extends his big, meaty paw toward Jean-Pierre. “Put ’er there, dude. You guys are throwingdownonstage. I love New Orleans!”
As if to prove his point, he tilts back his beer, finishing it off. Then he slams the empty onto the bar and burps loudly.
Did I mention he’s wearing a baseball cap backward? What is it with guys who wear their baseball caps backward? Don’t they know it makes them look like total tools?
“Glad you like it,” Jean-Pierre says, ever the gentleman. “Where’re you from,ami?”
“Oklahoma.” Another burp.Lovely.“Where the wind comes ssssweepin’ down the plains!” Baseball Cap sings this last part. Loudly. And way off-key.
I make a face at Cash, who rolls his eyes.
“What?” Baseball Cap demands, having caught Cash’s expression.
“Nothing, man.” Cash takes a slow drink of his Gentleman Jack.
“Damn right, it’s nothing,” Baseball Cap slurs before turning back to Jean-Pierre.
