My watering hole was a tranquil pool in Mardi Gras’ wake. The spent Carnival odors remained beyond the walls as I cuddled with brown liquid and melting ice.
I heard voices approach the door, then burst into my retreat in full squabble.
“You’re just straight up crazy,” a woman said. “Those freaks get what they deserve.”
I didn’t turn to look. The voice teased my memory.
“Hey you,” came from over my shoulder as I felt a tap on the crown of my hat.
It was the Pre-Lenten Princess who previously frowned on my Mardi Gras ambivalence. Her beau, Lord Baggy Britches was nowhere in sight this time.
“I like the shows there,” the brunette alongside her said. “It’s not fair.”
Princess rolled her eyes and shook her head, then slapped me on the shoulder. “You tell her,” she said, pointing toward her companion with a lit cigarette.
“Tell her what?” I asked, ignoring my better judgment.
“Tell her those freaks at Alabama Music Box are just troublemakers,” Princess said. The downtown bar was the object of a lawsuit served by neighbors, folks who long ago entered rivalry with the venue that was Mobile’s most active home for non-mainstream music.
I looked at Princess’ friend in skinny jeans, the imploring look behind heavy mascara, the fading blue streak in her hair.
“I’m not telling her that,” I said, “but I think the suit’s shaky.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Princess said, “those freaks are just straight up gross. They stink. Have you seen those godawful tattoos? I keep waiting for a rat to crawl out of one of them beards.” She chuckled and tilted her beer.
“You really think those people at Alabama Music Box are doing anything new?” I said. “You do realize there have been bars on that block of Dauphin Street for a quarter-century now, right?”
The corners of Princess’ mouth pulled upward, tight and incredulous as her forehead furrowed. Her friend cocked her head in honest curiosity.
“Seriously,” I continued, “I know because I’m an old geezer who saw all of them. First there was 462 Dauphin Street, a blues bar back in the ‘80s. Then G.T. Henry’s, Ivanhoe’s, The Vincent Van Go-Go, Southside Music Hall, Soul Kitchen and plenty of others.”
“But it’s not just ‘cause it’s a bar,” Princess drawled. “It’s ‘cause they make a ruckus.”
“Ruckus, my dear?” I said. “One of the bars that went in where G.T. Henry’s was — McNasty’s I think it was — they would have a row of Harleys out in front of that place on weekend nights and when they cranked them up, it sounded like Mel Gibson was filming ‘Mad Max meets the Jewish Transformers’ in the street. I think one time it shattered billiard balls in a four-block radius.”
“But they’re keeping it going ‘til all hours of the night, way past normal,” Princess said.
“’Way past normal?’” I snorted. “In the mid-‘90s there was a succession of bars, Iberville’s and Mango’s, in the spot next to where Alabama Music Box is now. They didn’t open until close to midnight and their target demographic was bar workers and the late night crowd. When everything else closed, you went there. It was common for them to close after sunup.”
Princess said nothing, just tugged on her Corona as Blue Streak smiled and lightly kicked Princess’ leg in defiance. I savored the moment, too, swirled my bourbon and sipped.
“Of course, if it’s any consolation, she’s on Carnival’s side,” I said, nodding toward Blue Streak.
Princess and her combatant looked each other, equally quizzical. “What?” they asked in unison.
“What the hell’s this got to do with those jerks?” Princess asked. The unannounced departure of Carnival Cruise Line from Mobile in the previous week had left Princess as sore as the rest of Mobile. After the better part of a decade lashed to Mobile as a port of departure, the pleasure boat bunch abruptly announced they were lifting anchor for new assignment to the Crescent City. In the aftermath of a failed defense contract bid, it stung worse than a school of August jellyfish.
“Your pal’s perspective is part of those troubles,” I said. “It all goes together.”
Princess was lost now. I could see 40 years of desert in her eyes.
“Look, Carnival left because they said they could make more money operating out of New Orleans,” I said. “We know that isn’t due to increasing the number of cabins filled because they did a pretty good job of staying full while here.”
Princess nodded along, guarded but following. “Probably because of our mayor,” she said. “He’s turning Mobile into Prichard.”
I snorted and dropped my head, then looked up and gathered patience. “Follow the money,” I said. “It’s a truism in journalism: follow the money. We know what talks; we know what walks.”
A pillar of fire ignited in Princess’ eyes and it seemed she was trailing Moses again.
“It could have been monetary incentives from New Orleans that lured the ships to Louisiana but the modus operandi in that game is to play both sides off against each other,” I said. “You run back and forth, sweetening the pot. Carnival didn’t do that.”
By now, Blue Streak was opening her second Pabst Blue Ribbon, oblivious to the actual irony of her company. Princess flicked another Camel Light ember into life, frowned and pouted at the lack of ashtrays on the bar.
“So if Carnival dropped the departure bomb with no advance warning, my hunch is the critical factor had to be so insulting, they dared not discuss it with Mobile,” I said. “They can charge more for cruises out of New Orleans because it’s more tourist attractive. The reputation does the selling, brings them in early, fills hotels, makes restaurant reservations, checks music schedules. It’s the widely known Crescent City culture that jacks those rates.”
Princess shrugged. “New Orleans is like one of those Yankee cities where you don’t ever see blondes,” she said. “It’s dangerous and dirty but we’re safer.”
“In what sense?” I asked, glancing at Princess’ dark roots. “There’s good safe and bad safe. Look at the marketing for Mobile. Pictures of the battleship, of Bellingrath Gardens, maybe beaches. It’s all nice, all safe but it’s not vibrant. And even downtown, in the supposed entertainment district, there have been opposing sides in place for years looking to direct the future there. Some want it to be varied and alive, a place of modern influence. Others want something not far removed from a gated community that only attracts a narrow slice of the American panorama.”
“Well now that Sam Jones and all his Democrat friends are taking over…” Princess started.
“Look, it’s not about them, it’s about us.” I said, slapping the bar. “We’re the key. Don’t look to someone else. A couple of nights ago, my wife and I sat at a sidewalk table downtown during one of the most beautiful times of the year here. We’re in the buffer right now. The afternoon sun is held aloft by the hands of early daylight savings time while the humidity and heat are kept at bay by early spring. We don’t get much of this before summer’s steam settles in for six months. But still, the sidewalks were nearly bare.”
Princess’ eyes glazed over. Her inner callous thickened.
“When you’re in a new town and you see something like that on a gorgeous day, how does that make you feel about coming back?” I asked.
“It makes me feel like the Gulf is still too cold for beach season,” Princess said. “It makes me feel like if we had a different mayor, he could have solved this.”
I just nodded and smiled. “I thought you might say that,” I said, “so I’ve got some good news for you, Princess. I’ve got the solution to your leadership woes. I found someone with all the requirements needed to step into prominence in Mobile and make a big splash. He’s on his way here right now.”
Princess’ eyes lit up. “Who is it?” she asked. “Is Mike Dow coming back?”
“Oh no,” I said. “It’s someone with Dow’s money but even more of the traits of former political leaders. He has all the intangibles we’ve seen over the years. He’s an independent businessman, not afraid to buck trends, impervious to outside pressures and criticisms. He’s spent time in similar climates and has the habits Mobilians are used to in elected officials. We’ll never lose another contract because he’s used to…”
“WINNING!” the raspy voice shot from the doorway as Charlie Sheen entered, a “goddess” on each arm.
Straight Up Princess’ beer bottle shattered on the floor, her face blank and dumbstruck.
“’Sweet lunacy’s county seat,’ right?” I said, then leaned toward Princess. “Don’t worry, honey. Those girls look to be blondes.”
I knew her shock would pass. After all, Easter was coming, time to switch from dark liquor to white.
