Désiré

Sundown wakes to lantern laughter. Vampire shadows. Trumpet sizzle. There's a sweet bourbon film on my teeth and in the sky.

Sam pinches my arm in her crab claw fingers, blows neon nylon out her face. Fuchsia arches painted to match her wig fill up my skyline.

"Don't fuck this up for me, k?"

I promise. We bustle on. Water and vice straight to the lungs until we catch the Spotted Cat. Saloon double doors wobble shut behind us. Sweaty breath. Blistered toes. Laissez les bon temps rouler.

Swayze’s biker bear scowl says we're late, and he ain't amused. Looks like he's got a friend at his elbow. Another peace offering to a freak third wheel. This one's not too bad. Eyes trouble brown, Defend NOLA skull on his chest. He seems startled at first eye contact.

"Shit, Sam, I bout left your ass," Swayze rasps, fiddling at the cigarette behind his right ear.

"Gotta have my purple drank." Sam slurps frosted dregs and fixes her gold sequin bra. Swayze follows her barside with a growl.

Swayze’s friend shakes his head, shy warming up to quiet humor. "Purple drank, huh? She gon feel it tomorrow."

We laugh. He seems human, unlike Swayze. More light behind the eyes. No lingering taint of varsity football. Lanky. Freckled sunburn. Humidified auburn shag from head to chin.

"Did you know that's the oldest continuously operated bar in the U.S.?" he asks. A geek for a freak. Alright.

“Nope. I just heard about the pirate.”

He smiles. He's got a secret dimple on one side. Maybe a scar, on closer look. "After Katrina, people brought over their own personal liquor reserves to make sure it stayed open."

"Huh. Good to know. I'm Samantha's roommate."

"Désiré."

I brace myself for a handshake.

Don't fuck this up, I hear Sam’s eyebrows again.

Chrome razor strobes crack and flash where our palms wrap around. I'm splashing through murky water. Muddy swirls lapping over dark, face-down shapes. Red X’s paint tumbledown rows. Rain and rain and rain. Banshee howls over banana peeled rooftops.

We drop hands. At least Désiré doesn't seem spooked.

"You work with Swayze?" I ask.

"Construction. Sometimes. Sometimes I play guitar. You drinking?"

"Maybe."

I glance around for a hot pink head and find it outside the window, chugging away on the back of a motorcycle.

"Looks like I'm taking the ferry home," I mutter.

Désiré slants a smile. "Bestbank?"

"For life."

"I'll walk with you."

I grab us to go cups, and we slow stroll toward the Riverwalk, talking drive through daiquiris and Ms. Loretta's crab cake beignets. Turns out we share a secret sin. Haven't kept up with the Saints this season.

Désiré grabs me round the waist. Gunmetal flash! Wet whorls the color of café au lait. Dragging. Sucking. One last mud-flecked breath into the churning dark.

Screeeech! Hooonk!

A yellow cab cyclone whips hair in my eyes.

"Close call," Désiré pants, animal nerves melting to a one-dimpled grin. “I didn’t know taxis still existed in the wild.”

I'm shaking this time, but not from the near shave. French Market stalls underlay his nose freckles.

***

Night casts a purple hex over lazy water. A weak breath off the river's kink softens this heat by not much.

I tell Désiré about the time an environmentalist boyfriend of Sam's invited us out on a kayak trip. Royal asshole. Pecks pumped to match the size of his ego. Neither of them showed up in time to catch the bus, but I spent a grand afternoon paddling around with a pack of Tulane nerds. We learned about cypress roots and nutria invasions while drifting past lounging tree snakes. Gator eyeballs bobbed in atomic green sludge.

Désiré beams sweet sunshine. He grew up on the bayou. His dad worked oil rigs and disappeared for long stretches, so he and his papaw spent weekends buzzing around on an old mud motor. Sundays after church, he fried catfish with the cousins. Strummed guitars on the back porch. Tossed hush puppies into the pond for their scaly boy, Boudreaux. Sometimes Uncle Pel boated up to spit tobacco on the government.

Désiré's knuckles brush mine, and I can see it. A screened porch matchbox hoisted high on stilts. A salt-stubbled face with brown leather creases in a creak-cricking rocker. When he slips long fingers through mine, I smell bacon grease and baseboards gone to mildew. Zydeco trills and slap claps.

Summer simmers, but Désiré’s hands are cold.

***

When he was nineteen, Désiré came looking for himself in the Big Easy, found twelve-hour-a-day blisters in a copper silo instead. It made him feel closer to his mama, being down there. Seventeen years and a preemie boy turned out to be a heavy dose, so the preacher said she’d burn white hot right through kingdom come. Dive bar bridesmaids lapped up those kinda sad songs while they bled into acoustic strings. It's a different tune haunting warm arteries. They never could take the sound very long.

Damn, if we just had the time, me and him…

Désiré's bayou boating came in handy after the hurricane. I see more bodies. Bloated. Wedged in debris. I don't look away this go around. I squeeze his cold hand and hear an almighty crack. Red sparks. Sticky salted spurts roll down a cheek and between the lips. So, it is a scar leaning against his grin.

The ferry dock sags dead ahead on chalky boulders and naked piling. Black scraggles shadow play underneath the ramp, a stray cat coven prowling their damp underworld. My steps crawl. I already see the pale double-decker spilling midnight froth from Algiers Point.

Désiré walks the ramp with me. He stops at the yellow line. Stuffs his hands in his pockets. Trouble brown eyes, and a scar-edged smile.

"Wish I knew you, cher."

"Me too, Désiré."

The ferry horn hollers, and he's gone.