I love the smell of New Orleans in the morning.
The air is thick, a heady soup of horse shit and stale beer and strong coffee, and that’s before the people start poking their heads out of whichever holes they call home. The higher the sun climbs above the horizon, the thicker the concoction gets, the fouler it becomes to the untested olfactory glands.
Me, I’ve lived here for twenty-five years.
I’m used to it.
I can’t sleep without it.
Suffice it to say, I haven’t been sleeping. The road is a cruel and deceiving mistress. One never knows where one is going to end up when the lights go out, and for men such as me who live on the road…
Sometimes home is just a dream.
Today home is a reality, and like every day at home this one starts with a lengthy stay at Cafe du Monde on the edge of the Quarter. The coffee here is thick with chicory, and the beignets are absolutely to die for. And I know, I could get them from any of a dozen stalls in the French Market or any of a hundred cafe’s and restaurants. Hell I could probably have it delivered to my home if i so desired; it wouldn’t be the same though.
It’s not like deep-frying dough and blanketing it with a mountain of powdered sugar is hard to do, but there’s something about having it outside, six different street musicians battling for ear-space, an open newspaper on the table, and that beautiful and bewildering smell of the Crescent City.
A smell that I’m adding to by chain-smoking cigarettes.
Oh, yeah, that’s a thing again.
I picked ‘em back up just about two weeks ago. Who’da thunk it, right?
So, I’m sure that the drooling masses are sitting on the edges of their seats waiting on me to explain why I put Cayle down like a crippled dog at Victory, and I know that the mongoloids that can’t help but call themselves my peers can’t wait to listen to me break down how and why I’m going to dismantle Sean Jackson come All or Nothing. And well, I could do either of those, but to be honest with you I just can’t be bothered with it right now.
I’m having far too good of a day.
Hell, if you’ve really, really got to have your fix of What World Eric Dane Do, just turn on the last episode of Victory and watch any segment I’m not in. Half of the bastards are copying me damn near word for word, and the other half are doing everything in their power to land inside my radius of influence just for the boost in popularity that comes with taking an Eric Dane shit-kicking.
Monkey see, Monkey do, amirite?
I crush out one cigarette and light another. With the fresh smoke comes fresh thoughts. It’s that easy for me to push the UTA and everything that comes with it out of my mind. It has to be, if I dwelled on this shit for any amount of time it’d drive me batfuck crazy quicker than I could do anything about it.
So I go back to my coffee. It’s fucking terrible, just how i like it.
Gingerly I lift one of the beignets off of its paper plate home and take a bite. It’s a feat of skill to eat these things without covering yourself in powdered sugar you know. A feat that I’ve long since mastered.
As always, each bite is a masterpiece in pastry.
And it smells so good, like sweet ambrosia.
I really do love the smell of New Orleans in the morning.
"That made my nuts draw up so tight you couldn't reach them with knittin' needles."
- Luke Dibbins