Your Musical Interlude…
Dax Riggs – I Hear Satan
Last year, I was hanging out at MRB’s on St. Phillip, primarily because it was one of the few bars I could find in New Orleans that had hockey on their several televisions, but also ’cause back when I lived round town, few years back I was good friends with one of the bartenders, the bar I worked at being only two blocks away…my year break from social work and all that…time off, refresh, have many drinks while serving many drinks over many days and months and drinks, and did I mention…drinks?
Anyways…once a social worker, always a social worker and it don’t matter if you’re taking a break or not, you pay attention to people and you look, at least I do, for signs exhibited by those around you indicating how their days are treating them…
And that night at MRB’s, I was watching the Detroit Red Wings get clobbered, made all the more amusing because the bartender was sporting a Red Wings t-shirt and truth be told, I was watching the people much as I was watching the game and I noticed a particular woman, hanging out, shooting pool. She was early thirties, but dressed like a school-girl, pale skin, goth black hair in pony-tails, short plaid skirt and bright red lipstick. The sexual suggestions were not suggestions at all, and she was not alone. She was attractive, if you’re into that kind of look, the Suicide Girl tattoo thing, but what I found most fascinating was who she was with. I’d say he was mid-fifties, rather large, stained shirt and drunk as fuck and it became apparent this wasn’t a one time hook-up between the two, it was something more regular, more familiar. The bar knew the guy and showed no reaction whatsoever to her volume, her arms wrapped round his neck, her hand occasionally dropped to his crotch and she addressed many by name, but while I drank my drinks and watched the game I did notice a glance my way, a smile framed by those red lips, her pitch black mascara round arched eyes and a suggestive leg draped over the pool table, showing a lotta skin and a lotta exhaled breaths, lost way too quickly. At one point she watched me watching and she leaned over the table to take a shot, cue stick in hands. Glancing behind she grinned, then flipped up the short plaid skirt to reveal her g-string…
I felt bad, especially as she went back to the greasier man to grab the cigarette he extended and a fresh drink…I didn’t know why for sure I felt bad, but I did. The whole thing just smacked of bad knowledge…soon to be made even worse when she slid over to me, cigarette extended and paused…
Obligingly, I flicked the lighter as she leaned in, and she inhaled, then exhaled, her larger eyes fixated briefly on mine as she said…”I hate my life. I want to die.”
When she said the words, her face went blank and her eyes, they just kinda emptied…and over a year later, I haven’t forgotten her. She was a kind of photograph, a reminder of the many faces desperation can undertake, and a reminder how as a social worker, sometimes there’s nothing you can do, especially when you don’t even know if its any of your business…the whole thing just kind of sucked, really…
So, the moral of the story?
Simple…obvious really…
Feinberg is fucking over a lot of people, even the oyster fishers he claims to really have an eye out for, showing that GCCF fire just burns on and on…
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Have a nice day.
Drake Toulouse: Photography and Words 