Day 26

January 25
9 pm

Adi’s with us again tonight, and all we can talk about is the Saints. Over 24 hours later, the world’s still exploding, and all around the bar you can hear people telling their stories of last night:
“People were still running down our street at 5AM banging pots and pans!”
“We were pulling people out of cars and making them dance with us on the corner!”
“I hugged more strangers last night than I ever have in one day—even counting Mardi Gras!”

The adorable bartender’s got “WHO DAT” stenciled on his knuckles in Sharpie marker.
“How you doing,” we say, pulling into our empty seats in the center of the bar.
“Aw, you know. Recovering from victory.”
“Indeed.”
Adi’s asking the adorable bartender about his t-shirt, which was designed as a fundraiser for someone from the neighborhood who fell off his 2-story bike and punctured a kidney.
“Evidently, he hates the shirts,” the adorable bartender’s saying, “but I think that’s just for show. He’s been made kind of famous. How can you not be into that?”
I wonder.

I’m buying tonight, which is easy because Anne and Adi are on a PBR kick. We touch our glasses together and rib Adi about his love life. He’s got at least two potential love interests these days, and both are likely to be at the R bar later tonight. In fact, when he leaves us he’s getting a ride over with one of them, but really he’s kind of excited to see the other one there.
“Jeez, Adi,” we say.
“You know,” he muses, “I’m not even that worried about it. Because nothing ever really works out in the end.”
“Well, I wonder why. That’s basically being on a first date with two people at the same time.”

They were at Cosimo’s last night, where Anne befriended a man who showed her his fleur-de-lis tattoo. “I got this when I was fifteen!” he announced to her, pointing passionately toward his bicep. “I’m forty-one years old! I’ve been waiting for this my whole life!” Between plays he would kneel down on the floor, in prayer.

Black-clad people filter in lazily behind us. The smoke’s clouding up toward the ceiling, filling in the spaces between us. Last night’s still going on, but we’re tired and creeping now. Everything moves a little slower.

Anjali materializes behind us, Danielle in tow. Everybody hugs everybody and we pull some chairs behind us and make a little circle, our backs to the bar. Instantly we segue into a long conversation about life and love and the Saints and Katrina, all history and redemption at the drop of a hat, and I’m grateful, sometimes, not to have to go through pre-emptive smalltalk with some people, to get right down into the good parts.

The adorable bartender scoots in next to me.
“You done?” I ask.
“Basically.” He’s got a glass of wine in front of him and soon we’re talking about Mimi’s, the Saints, the gym, art. “I don’t usually think our life is that interesting, but sometimes I guess it is,” he says.

Sometimes I lean back in to the conversation the others are having, but I keep catching phrases like “foreskin tattoo,” and I kind of don’t want to know, so the adorable bartender and I keep talking, like a couple of cousins, like old men on a park bench. “Lemme show you something,” he says, and scootches off his stool and moves toward the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

When he returns he’s got a couple of color copies of collages he’s made. My favorite is of a woman lying on a mirror, surrounded by butterflies, the words “I’m flying” stenciled into a pale sky.
He shrugs offhandedly. “You can have them if you want. They’re just color copies.”
“They’re awesome,” I say.

Adi’s getting antsy; it’s time for the next installation of our evening. We will head to the R Bar and, true to prediction, neither of his lovely ladies will be there.
“Oh well,” we’ll say.
“I was right!” Adi will say.
We’ll huddle our stools around each other, and watch a couple of people get haircuts, and listen to the bartender tell their version of The Night The Saints Won (involving confetti and effigies and pyrotechnics, apparently), and in the end it will be all right that it’s just us: in most cases, the reality of friends is better than the anticipation of romance.