Stompin’ Round Town

by Nicholas Viglietti

It was a rare weekend off, and we took advantage of it. The hammers, nails and all the labor that breaks your back would be there on Monday.

Katrina was long in the past but not forgotten, and the community revived in East Biloxi. Someday, another hurricane would roll in and demolish it. Comfort isn’t permanent, down on the Gulf; the humidity, the hard livin’ and, if you aren’t careful, even the ’gators will get ya.

We worked as supervisors of the construction crew on the East Biloxi Community Center, directing college volunteers who came down a week at a time to put some sweat in for a devastated community. We felt we deserved a wild, recklessly zany night, stompin’ round town.

We lived in strange conditions. I spent two months livin’ in a tent in the summer of Mississippi heat, unbearable humidity that drives a person mad. And I worked hard for damn near seven days a week in brutal weather.

NOLA is the best place to do that; it’s a debaucherously soulful city, a crescent gem of human resilience that permeates the rest of the the Gulf coast. A person needs a place to release the pressure valve when the weight of life gets heavy on ya.

“Don’t know ’bout y’all, but I’m a-feelin’ the pull of Bourbon Street. What y’all think? Some hurricane cups, gambling, jazz and good times?” Pete suggested, and we took the bait.

I jumped into Pete’s truck, and he stomped on the accelerator, going west, straight into a vibrant sunset that hung like a neon martini sign over the direction of the Big Easy. The gleam fueled our party motors.

I was at a ramblin’ age, that numeral spot in life where you can go at the split of a decision. Hell, we just slept in the truck; the fun was more important than room reservations. We cruised over a bridge over murky lake water, and then we dipped down to get daiquiris in Slidell.

“I’ll take a jumbo, 180 Octane,” I said, as Pete swung into the drive-thru Daiquiri joint.

Pete was slightly older, and his screws were loose, it was all part of his charm. He was more animal than human and always on the hunt for heart-thumping adventure, damn the odds.

Pete hollered an order, then we swung around to the window. The redneck sweetheart working the cashier spot looked like she went through cigarettes like bubble gum.

“Here ya go,” she said. “Just don’ go drankin’ these none, till y’all get on to where-eva’ y’all goin.’” She gave a snarky smile, and we reciprocated, knowing the rules would not be followed in this truck.

“Of course, sweetheart. Ya know us; we’re the responsible kind of patrons,” Pete said.

Immediately, after we eased out of sight of the service window, Pete promptly tossed the cover off his straw out the driver’s window and started sucking down the contents of the Styrofoam container.

“Yeah, right!!!” mocked Pete.

I did the same. How could I not indulge when it was this easy?

I don’t know where the night went. Obviously, there was the general fun of bouncing from bar to bar, the occasional strip-club pit-stop, and the shakes of dice in hand before you roll the thrill.

Next thing I knew, I was separated from my crew at a gruff dice game that was all hard rollers on the losing end. It’s a long street, and when the action gets stale at one place, it’s picking up steam in another.

I swaggered into the night, where bad decisions get beautifully made. I ended up in some hole-in-the-wall juke-joint. The only white boy in a crowd of mugs lookin’ for strange action, and proficient twerkers.

In the blurry swirl of my hammered vision, I became cognizant that I was grinding a very thick babe. My grip locked on tight to her chunky hips, so I wouldn’t get bucked off if I caught her massive booty at the wrong angle; it was a carnal risk, and I wanted it.

The woman had turned, and we tongue-bombed hard, on the dance-floor. “I’ll be right back. You’re stayin’, right?” I shouted, and she nodded. The music was too loud; hopefully she’d be there when I got back.

I had to take a furious piss in the restroom. There were people there, but I launched into the open urinal spot and sprayed big relief; there was a lady to get back to. I flipped and zipped, but voices got angry.

Three men were taking up half of the two sinks and dressed in the local vibe. I started washing my hands. One guy was perched on the adjacent sink; he leaned close to the mirror and moaned painfully.

The soap was in clear ketchup squeeze bottles. He grabbed one and sucked on it like a baby. A partner made irate statements, raving about something that had occurred. The bizarre scene piqued my curiosity, but I should’ve known better. “Dude, you drinking soap?” I asked dubiously.

His irate friend, who looked like Earth-Worm-Jim, only with locks and a wife-beater tank top, abruptly halted his tirade. His eyes were wide like a man about to snap. He turned towards me; he rotated his mid-section like a robot, his legs stayed planted. It was easy to figure that he looked pissed.

He paused — his eyes didn’t blink; they beat the hell out of me — and he erupted, “Mind yo’ goddamn bizness!” he roared, his hand karate-chopping on almost every word.

“Couldn’t agree more,” I said. My skull was rolling sweat, and all the others’ eyes had the same idea, staring me down. I made a hasty exit in the time they gave me to think straight.

I snagged two tequila shots, rocked ’em, then found that hefty babe’s spectacular bosom I’d left hanging. She had a way more appropriate place to go stick my business in.