On shit faced boozey Bourbon Street, me and Willy are touching knees and elbows with well behaved strangers in a packed low lit European pub where a tall man with long fingers and an old hat plays like Jelly Roll Morton.
The pianist we are listening to is Richard Scott, who is probably Jelly Roll Morton’s reincarnate. This level of musical performance has Willy grinning from ear to ear, while sipping on a beer, his eyes cut and lit like a Buddha–sky blue and swamp green eggshell white with one little speckle of light that looks like a distant star.
When I go to take a beerpiss, it’s a one stall bathroom, lit up blue bulb on pale green walls covered in black ink initials and signatures, call for a good times ###-####, who is a bitch, and I love Jesus, scratch that, I love Jose, wishes and curses, poop prophecies, You Look Fine, and then Ya’ll Are Crazy.
And next to the sink, under the blue bulb, sits an old wrinkly twig arms and head wrapped Creole woman offering paper towels for dollars.