Nine months had passed since Hurricane Katrina. I finally sold my crusty, mold-soaked home and car while relocating into a tiny new dwelling atop high ground in the soup-bowl city of “New Orleans.” With the population cut in half and businesses not yet open, a single, middle-aged woman with graying hair and arms displaying Goddess tattoo’s can only equal everlasting spinsterhood. My horizons needed to be broadened as I wondered what the post-Katrina city held for her. The thought of meeting numerous single contractors owning no immigration papers along with many unidentified children in Mexico didn’t exactly produce exhilaration for me. I mean, could it possibly get any worse? Of course it can. And it did. I could always count on the terrible to enter my life.
In my mind, swallowing razor-sharp glass chards was superior to middle-aged dating, particularly followed by the worst natural disaster in the United States. As a New Orleans native, Hurricane Katrina impacted my life in every way possible. Losing a home, car and social circle resulted in an easier recuperation period than the painful, toe-curling task of finding a mate in the City of New Orleans. No mystery here, since dating in Anywhere, USA after the traumatic age of fifty was enough for me to conveniently stash a gun nearby. At all times.
Bicycling the empty post-Katrina New Orleans streets, I noticed a hand-written paper sign stapled on a wooden electrical post. “SINGLES MIXER FOR THE MATURE SET - POST KATRINA. THE KINGSLEY BUILDING – SATURDAY. CANAL STREET.” Ahhh, there is a sign of life somewhere, I thought. And, so my very special nightmare began.
Ripping off the cardboard poster, I quickly pedaled home feeling overjoyed at the thought of socializing with two-legged humans. I had spent almost a year petting my morbidly-obese yellow cat, Buford, while voraciously reading National Enquirer’s and sucking down industrial-sized bags of Cheetos. For the first time in nine months, I had to think about what to say to the human race. Decisions on dressing were quick and uncomplicated; my closet was full of black, black and black. I was an old hipster, a devout Wiccan, Jewish by birth and a starving artist by occupation. The only missing connection in my life was a mate. Possibly equipped with active brain cells and hopefully owning the ability to emit a complete sentence.
Saturday night, I parked my scrappy black 1980 Volvo station wagon in front of The Kingsley Building, an old gray gymnasium-looking structure in downtown New Orleans. I could sense it wasn’t exactly the Funky Pirate’s Club in the French Quarter. “Please God...just show me where the cocktails are the minute I walk in,” I hushed under her breath. I noticed a showcase inside the building with full-sized mannequins standing on both sides. A small, glass interior store was to my right while two yellow neon signs suspended from the ceiling appeared above that read “LADY” and “PARTNER.” Holy shit, these were prairie square-dancing skirts! There were rows and rows and tiers of fabrics on skirts for sale. Another sign stacked on a wooden easel, “A LADY PICKS HER OUTFIT, THEN THE MAN PICKS HIS YOKE.” A yoke, what the fuck? Weren’t yokes some scary sort of colored flaps sewn on the shoulders of men’s shirts...like elbow pads, but on the shoulders? Jesus H. Christ, this was scary. Now I really needed that cocktail, or would it be better to get the hell out of there? I noticed something terribly strange on a hanger nailed into the wall called “Pettipants” – a kind of underwear made to keep you cool underneath that nightmare of copious amounts of fabric called a skirt. The Goddess knows that your “cootchie” best breathe while your partner swings you around in vertigo circles. This was absolutely too much on my post-Katrina nerves. It was official...I now needed copious amounts of cocktails.
An old handwritten cardboard sign appeared with an arrow pointing in the direction of the dance floor: “REMEMBER HOW CLOSE YOU’RE GOING TO BE TO PEOPLE ALL EVENING. PLEASE SHOWER AND USE DEODORANT SOMETIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE. START OUT CLEAN... IT’S GOING TO GET SWEATY!” Oh, shit.
There I stood, soberly, in the large music-filled room with do-se-do music in the background when a beige generic guy wearing a buzz cut and one of those yokes greeted me. Oh shit, again. Please don’t tell me there are fiddles, accordions and bales of hay that will cause my sinus canals to dry up and fall out my nose. Better yet, dear God, please send in some gay men with black leather yokes bejeweled in chains dancing to Patsy Cline songs. I would love that. Those guys could at least entertain me with some yee-haw. What could possibly be better than a gay guy swinging into an unknown person’s arms?” I began to hear, “Swing that girl with the blue dress on, whup it up, whup it up, go-go-go. Turn your corner, do-se-do, turn it to the left and promenade!”
“Howdy, welcome to singles night, madam. Tonight we have the “Aunties and Uncles” performing! Two left feet? Don’t worry; we have a lot of “Misters” to choose from. The single ones are wearing a yellow neckerchief. To make it easy, you know.”
“Um, thanks...well, where’s the bar?” I thought, if I don’t get a drink soon, someone’s gonna die. Plus, I have a burning desire to rip his buzz cut off his scalp with an Exacto knife.
“Well, we don’t serve alcohol, just coffee and Jell-O. Lots of Jell-O, all colors of the rainbow, matter o’ fact. Now, come on, meet and greet your square mates.”
OK, this guy must mean Jell-O shots. Right? Alcohol and Jell-O in tiny white paper cups. Served just like in every bar in pre-Katrina New Orleans. Things are finally improving. In the back of the room, I noticed a long folding table with clear plastic cups of wiggling gelatin placed on top. The colorful cups stood at attention in neat rows of six. Raspberry, orange, lime, jiggly wiggly blue, lemon, peach. This guy wasn’t kidding and I can’t believe I’m here. Maybe the Jello has hallucinogenics, if I’m lucky...I might fall backwards...not to worry; I’ll be cushioned by square dance skirts. Another sign appears on the table. It’s official that I am currently in hell...“DON’T DRINK OR USE DRUGS WHILE DANCING.” OK, that did it. My synapses are pulsating like a neon light. I remembered deep inside the pocket of my purse was a lovely 1Ú2 inch darkly-burned roach that I had been saving for a special occasion. This certainly was a special occasion, like I might kill myself if I don’t smoke that roach immediately.
OK, I’m convinced this is hell. Burning, crazy, fire-ass hell. At this moment in time, I am paying for all my sins and the Goddess is punishing me, in spite of her being revered as a lifetime tattoo on my arms. Katrina came, washed away my entire drag outfit collection, soaked my car and home and here I stand tortured in square-dance hell. Is there a tractor nearby that can pull me out of here? Suddenly, like a mirage in the desert, I noticed a port-o-let outside through the back door. I cannot wait to take the biggest strongest hit from that roach. Out I walk, purse underneath my armpit. I swear if the sign says “occupied” there will be a murder inside the port-o-let. I burst open the door, tear through my purse, where’s the joint? Where the hell is it? There it is, Jesus. Thank God. Now where’s the cheap yellow Bic lighter that’s worked for ten years? Thank God. This is going to be the strongest toke I ever took. Lighter in one hand; feeling I might now possibly survive in this building full of yokes and hankies; my elbow suddenly crashes against the plastic wall. The roach falls from my thumb and third finger, rolls down the wall, through the floor to the open space in the ground. Holy shit. No. No. No. No. What the fu...I threw my purse down, sweat pouring from my forehead; I began to dismantle the entire port-o-let. No way was this roach left behind. Besides, the whole square dance clothes experience made me as crazy as a fly on LSD. Luckily, I had a habit of carrying one of those Swiss multi-purpose knives with me since Katrina, never knowing what mystery construction spot I might find myself in when the city was at its worst. Determined, I would cut this port-o-let into puzzle-sized pieces if necessary.
I squeezed my Rubenesque figure against the wall to the plastic tank in the floor figuring out how to unbolt the toilet. Jesus, what a tight squeeze and what a horrible smell. Has everyone in the city used this shit-shack?!!! There was a stovepipe vent that ran from the toilet toward the ceiling. With all the strength I could muster, my face turned beet-red as I shook and broke the damn vent thingie loose. Where’s the hand sanitizer when I need it? This smell can kill a horse, but I need that roach! The shit-shack crumbled and loosened from the wall as I literally toppled it on my back and stretched my hand down the side of the plastic wall into the ground. I couldn’t see the roach, but I madly plucked every blade of grass with my finger tips. Suddenly, I felt it. It was tiny and hard and I knew it was my roach. My own private roach. My reward from God for surviving this hellish evening. I found it. Bending, I toked that thing to a nub with the plastic toilet perched on top of my back. OK, now...I’m going to stand here and just let it all seep in. Good. I think something lovely is penetrating my stress level... there we go. Good... better... we almost got it... yes, yes, YES! Now I can slowly, while on a great high, heave this plastic piece of shit, with shit in it, off my back, walk outside and re-enter a square-dance nightmare. I might just grab me one of those lime Jell-O’s, suck it down for the heck of it and prance out.
I’m in charge now and can handle this whole situation. I’m walking through this big-ass hall like I own the place. Jesus Christ, there is so much do-se-do happenin. Why so much enthusiasm? Aren’t these people capable of being unhappy? Is it asking too much for them to quit thrashing around the dance floor with miles of fabric attached? Out of the blue, some hoe-down dude approached me. Do not succumb to the temptation of running out like a rat in the night. He smells like breath mints and sweat and has low rent hair plugs. I knew it would become worse.
“Howdy, the name’s Dan. You new here? Haven’t I seen you dance in Tuscaloosa?”
I’m really stuck. I refuse to touch this sweaty man, even while high.
“The name’s Roxanne and I have strep throat and dyslexia.” God knows he can’t swing me around the floor with that.
“That’s no problem; I’m willing to bet some dancin’ practice will cure that dyslexia.”
“I really need to go...my cell phone just rang and my child’s on fire. Oh, and I’m unreliable, unpredictable and have STD’s.”
“Lordy, woman, shoot, it must be terrible being you.”
Like a shot-gun, I ran right through the square-dancing crowd. Run, run, run. I’m almost out. There’s the store with square dancing outfits. I’m almost out. Wahoo! I never want to hear the words “promenade” or “counterclockwise” again in my life. What an evening. I saw more Jell-O being served than the law allows. I learned how to take a port-o-let apart in three minutes plus experience the left-over fecal matter from the Katrina population. And since the worst thing you can do in life is nothing, I learned that I would rather sleep in a coffin than attend another square dance. Oh... it’s just about 3:00AM. Maybe the SPCA is open; there must be a ton of kitties calling my name!
