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After The Crawfish
There goes a proud guy walking up Iberville between Rocheblave and Dorgenios wearing the biggest damned beads Mardi Gras has to offer. Those beads are the size of tennis balls, but shiney like glass, in the traditional purple, green, and gold colors. They're kinda obscene those beads, but anybody'd be proud (and slightly embarrassed) to catch them. Looks like he's just dropping them in his car parked along Iberville between the Pentecostal church and school. That's the thing with those big beads, you can't really move around very comfortably while wearing them, or so I imagine.
It's gotten really quiet; sometimes the bands just march without playing. And sometimes the parades just break down and stop for long periods. Somebody just now pushed the envelope and parked technically in front of my driveway but still allowing me an ample diagonal escape route. That's why I got the day's provisions early. The only other place I would go today I can walk to, although it is unlikely I will choose to do so. I have barely dented the Red Stripe six pack, and half the crawfish are left.
Now some revelers, now some quiet, car door slamming. Brass band playing on passing tape, fades.
A panel van drives along Rocheblave with blaring verbal advertisement for its ownself--WWOZ, public radio, 90.7. Quiet until hip hop rides the doppler. Drums. Aretha. Under gray glaring skies. Watchdog barks a two beat, Killer grumbles, Sheba raises an eyebrow.