My Not-Quite Starbucks Post

On Saturday morning I woke up at the very early hour of 5am. Not sure why, since I didn't go to bed until 1am. So, in order to not be that person who wakes everyone else up simply because I am up, I quietly left the hotel room and went downstairs in need of coffee. Starbucks was closed, the hotel restaurant was closed, there was no caffeine to be found. So, I left. Now, keep in mind that I am in New Orleans, a place with numerous bars that are simply rows of slushy machine full of frothy alcoholic fun, an exotic dance club on every block, and no open container laws. So, as I walk out the door, I see two gentlemen outside smoking. But instead of steaming coffee in their hands, there are beer bottles. In fact, everyone I saw that morning was clearly still up from the previous night and working very hard to keep going in spite of their loss of motor control and vision. I ducked into the 24 diner/bar, fully expecting a 3am Waffle House experience: most people clutching desperately to some water or coffee and asking, "Can I just have some dry toast?" Not the case.

I have arrived in what seems to be a dispute over who paid for what and when and who should have and why between two local women (sisters) and four over-grown frat boys. The one sister, who classified herself as a dancer and "used to be a working girl," is under the impression that these guys have disrespected her sister, which very well may have happened. There was much shouting, much profanity, and lots of drama. In between outbursts, the two groups seemed to temporarily come to an agreement and would celebrate by communal shots of tequila. Then they would start screaming again.

Once the one poor sorta-sober guy drags his buddies away, the sisters begin to recount the wrongs down onto them, mock the stupidity of the guys, and dish with the bartender/waitress. When an old bum comes up to the doorway, careful to stay on the sidewalk, all ideas turn to him. He is, as one might expect, in clothes too large, shaking a bit, and generally looking like life has beat him down. He is holding out a little vase with a pink flower (the kind you might find on a table of an inexpensive restaurant that is trying to add charm to their establishment). As soon as the bartender and the dancer sister spot him they laugh and alert the other sister. She has had her back to the door and is dancing in what probably seems to her (considering her current stsate of inebriation) a provocative way. They eventually get her to turn around, ast which point, she spots the bum, walks through the doorway, and slams him to the door. The vase goes flying, smashes to bits on the streets. The man just stays where he falls, lifting his head to peer back at us in the restaurant, picks up his flower, and after about minutes, get up and totters away. I wanted to feel sympathy for the man, or the bartender,or even maybe the sisters, but with the context, the background information lost to me, I simply contempled the different scenarios.

The morning was no "Venti Vanilla Half Calf, Skinny, Carmel Machiatto, extra hot," But it was a crazy scene.