“I loathe alcohol. It is my enemy. And my seducer.” – Jean Stafford
Spring 1997 ~ I am weaving through the French Quarter, all bountiful decadence and beautiful desolation. This is my kind of town. Still new to drinking, I haven’t quite weaned off the sweet and fruity, beginning with a couple of amaretto sours and a white Russian, before stumbling into Oz and making my way up to the wrought iron balcony. In the cramped restroom, a couple tugs frantically at each other, hurriedly shutting the door in my face as I interrupt their kiss. It’s still early, and only one or two guys are dancing on the floor. A muscled man in tight trunks gyrates atop the bar, right above my head. I sip my drink and he leans down and tells me he likes my shirt. Thanking him, I slink back outside. My money will be poured down my throat before making it into his underwear.
On the street, a stand offering three-dollar Hurricanes has appeared in circus-like glory. A giggling couple orders one – an enormous amount of rum and frozen fruit juice in an obnoxiously ridiculous plastic cup. I can only finish about a quarter of mine, as I’m already swimming in drunken abandon. It’s sickly sweet stuff, and an instant headache comes on. Around the corner, I meet a Greek sailor on leave. We find an abandoned warehouse on the river, but I am already floating.
{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}
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