IT WAS nowhere near Christmas, but speakers somewhere on Lower Canal were perversely blarin’ “It Is Christmas, We’ll have a Christmas Time,” by none other than the Macca himself, Sir Paul McCartney.
Of course, Charles Brown soon drowned DAT out with, “Bells will be ringin’ the glad glad news, Oh what a Christmas- To Have The Blues…”
And looky looky, what is rolling down the pike into the “City That Care Forgot,” a late-model white Lincoln Town Car, flanked with a 1970 Chrysler Ambassador, slightly streaked with good old Garden District mud! Inside that rumbling phaeton sat Roger Purslane and his lady Jane Purslane, her puffed up curly mop a proud, pale shade of lavender rinse. “I knew his father, Jonathan Akula Reader, Senior. We were both attorneys at the bar–”
“Which bar, dear,” his wife gave a wry aside.
“Oh, never mind! Let’s get on with it,” at which point the Chrysler gave off a sharp retort, backfiring loudlyfrom her tail pipe.
Inside the Lincoln, Loomis was locked in a warm embrace with Lyndsey, his intended.
“Maybe, Loomis, we should tell Butch how to turn off for Saint Roch’s church, no?”
Then, the aforementioned Butch, a crew-cut trusty from the Fayetteville lockup in an ill-fitting khaki suit, cut in, adding, “I think I know the way, a second ‘cuz’ of mine is buried there.
“Well dat’s a happy coincidence,” thought Loomis.
Meanwhile, in the mossy old churchyard, Glimka Jones, the formerly besotted courtesan caught up during the storm in some falling masonry from her last known place of business, waited patiently, shifting from her stockinged left gam to her gleaming new right prosthetic limb, and demurely adjusting her feathered boa, as only a maid of honor can.
As the two-car motorcade crunched over the gravelly approach to Saint Roch, Loomis reached across and tapped Butch on his beefy shoulder. “Stop right here!!”
Just outside, in among the leaning gravestones, Mojo Man capered crazily, waving a funky crutch high over his braided head. Strung along behind and around him, LaBouiste’s Canopy Band was blowin’ “The Saints” with all of their might.
Out came Loomis, Lyndsey, Butch, joined with the Purslanes, ready to give the bashful bride to the goofy groom, and the clouds parted just then to let in a little azure over this no more a foggy scene.
Loomis pecked Lyndsey on the cheek, as Glimka cooed “Oh wow,” and clicked a series of flash shots with a throwaway film camera she’d stashed in her shell clutch.
“Shall we move the party to the Upperline,” she whispered ecstatically.
“Frankly, I could give a rat’s—-Oh, skip it.“ Loomis realized at that golden moment, that if Reena were still around, that nothing would matter, and besides. He didn’t even have to wait for Sister Catherine to make it official with that “You may kiss the bride and groom,” nonsense. Not only would it be jake is the turbaned head deaconess were in the sanctuary, but Lyndsey was expecting her star charge from the Convention Center(damn its very soul!)–dat is, Miss Lyvania Fulsome, to be right ringside at the altar rail, wide awake in her wheelchair.
All of New Orleans would be their oyster, and the Saints’ brass horns shone like the lucre of God.
“Where is our honeymoon cruise taking place,” Lyndsey sighed.
“I b’lieve the Natchez is waitin’ behind River Walk, complete with a neat lil’ wedding cake–thanks to that crazy lieutenant gov’nor from Carolina. Who’da thought, eh?”
Yes, the riverboat steamed softly, gently, waiting for the party of sweet survivors. Many chapters yet to be written, but first let Lyndsey and Loomis get on with the sweet science of life in the new New Orleans–catch ya later!!!
The End.
