Parasol’s St Patricks Day Party

I am nothing but good vibes, bruh. I am here to share your food and share your women. And you say I’m the asshole?

– Samuel Gutter, last night on Bourbon Street

Did I anticipate all the fucking mayhem? No. You could blame my lack of alertness on that shit hotel coffee. Shit coffee in a shitty Marriott paper cup. Or blame the glug of Jameson Irish splashed into the coffee. Or blame my bleary-eyed morning naiveté. I should have seen the mayhem coming. I have long known Sam Gutter’s capacity for chaos; I should have recognized it’s manifestation this morning when he came growling out of his hotel bathroom, howling about how full he was of the Holy Spirit. Chachee saw this coming. He asked for my room key when Gutter was turning their shared bathroom into a biohazard. Gut is ruining that commode for all other men, Chachee said to me, I am going to take my morning constitutional elsewhere. Chachee was gone by the time Gutter crawled out of a hunched-over hibernation. Taking a rolled joint out from behind his ear, Gutter lit the blunt, saying, ashes to ashes, deuce to deuce. He was still sweating from exertion. Or from last night’s booze. Any toxicology report on Gutter would read like Dostoevsky. Guys… guys!, Gutter said with zealous glee, I am full of the Holy Spirit this morning! Woo!

I think I was distracted. One third of the Holy Trinity lording over Louisiana had chosen Sam Gutter as its vessel of righteous vengeance and I completely missed the warning signs. All 7 Trumpets of the Apocalypse were blasting, but I was distracted… Dreaming, as I am wont to do, about lunch. 

Which… in all fairness, is justified. Absolutely. Look at this sandwich. Any trip to New Orleans would not be complete without a proper roast beef sandwich and the best to be found this side of the Mississippi (which… taking a look around… I think we’re both North, East and West of the Mississippi by about a 5-par golf hole any which way) is found here in the Irish Channel. If the idea of a gluttonous mess of hot beefy roastiness violating a fresh French baguette appeals to you, go to the Garden District, near Magazine Street, to a legendary dive bar called Parasol’s. New Orleans is known for its cuisine, certainly its po’boys and muffeletas, but it is Parasol’s which has perfected roast beef. For the first time in years, I have one of Parasol’s steaming hot tinfoil-wrapped sandwiches. It took a minute. There’s always a line out the door, but today is St Patrick’s Day and all of the Irish Channel is a busted ant-hill of frenetic assholes scrambling over assholes. Hundreds of green-clad holidayers cloud the scenery, not that I can see them through the haze of the gravy fog before me. Until one figure emerges through the steam. In the silhouette of an apocalyptic beastie. 

Fucking Gutter. 

Vic!, Sam Gutter says as he approaches me in the street. Grizzly of a man. The plastic cup of Jack & Coke sits like a thimble in his bear paw. Vic!, where’d you get that sando? Let me smell it, let me smell your sandwich!, he demands. It is a reasonable request. I grip my roast beef sandwich like the Holy Fucking Grail and lift, allowing the scent of meaty juices and onions to waft across Gutter’s face. Mmm, he says and then spits a three ounce wad of saliva & carbonated corn syrup onto my lunch. 

What the shit?!, I cry in agony. You’ve been neutralized!, Gutter says victoriously. Ho-ho! Ha-ha! Now you can eat your sandwich, he says. Au contraire mon frere, I say (we’ve all been dabbling in French since our arrival in NOLA). I cannot eat this. I yell at Sam Gutter, I can’t eat this! Why?, Gutter asks. Afraid of a little spit? Ain’t got trench mouth, Vic. Haven’t had foot-in-mouth disease in years, bro. Why are you afraid of spit? What are you a leprechaun? Oh shit!, he says while dropping his jaw in astonishment. He’s an animated character, this Gutter. Half of his humor is overreaction. Often he is more funny reacting to his own joke than the joke itself. Oh shit! Are you really a leprechaun, Vic? That would explain everything!, Gutter says. Then, just as quickly distracted, he spies my sandwich again. Gutter says, if you’re not going to eat that…

I surrender. But not without spitting on my own sandwich before surrendering my dashed hopes & dreams to the big oaf. Half-heartedly, I say, now the sandwich has been neutralized for you. Giddily pleased with himself, Gutter departs into the crowd, holding my sandwich aloft to allow its beefy juices to flow into his open maw. Someone steps beside me in the street, observing Gutter’s departure. What was that?, she asks me. I turn to find a reasonably attractive woman. Absolutely nothing unreasonable about it. Aviator sunglasses, blonde hair pulled back. This swamp heat has her temples glistening with perspiration. Her green tank top is darker where sweat has gathered under her bra. She’s sipping on a brown bottle of Abita Amber. Her name is Casey. Or maybe she’s from Kansas City. I’m not sure, but its one or the other. Or maybe she’s both: Casey from K.C. I dunno. It is difficult processing this new lady data along with my lost lunch trauma, especially when considering my limited sleep and early booze buzz. 

That was Gutter, I say to Casey. He’s perhaps my archest villain. Ever since he & I were feral children on a mangrove island in the Gulf of Mexico, we’ve been battling to assert dominance over the other. But while I grew-up, Gutter just kept growing. And growing. He’s lapped me a few times now, I admit. Casey is mildly uninterested in my background and hurries to the crux of her nagging curiosity, asking, but why did he spit on your food? Is he a fucking psycho?

I realize Casey’s boyfriend, or some random voyeur, is filming our conversation with his phone. There’s also a wonkish assistant standing-by chewing on a pen cap. What is this?, I ask. Who are you?, I ask Casey. She takes off her sunglasses to look me in the eye and deliver her most come-hithery smirk. She says she is a travel vlogger and asks if I have ever heard of YouTube. Casey explains how she collects interesting stories from the world’s most interesting places. Returning to her line of questioning, she asks, why did the big man spit on your food and claim neutralization? 

You, dear reader, may be asking why I, Vic Neverman, master of intrigue & deception, would ever be forthcoming to a stranger on the street. Let me explain… Casey has got some Barbara Walters bewitchery shit going on. Her gaze is steady, exploring the interior of my skull through my eye-holes. Her smile is subtle. Yet suggestive. As if asking… why don’t we take this picnic into the long grass? Oh…? Why don’t we? Perhaps hunger and sense of loss have warped my brain, but I wish nothing more than to rollover like a damn dog for her to pet my belly. So yes, dear reader, reduced to an animal via black magic fuckery, I become forthcoming. But first, I have demands. 

Send your assistant to get me a sandwich from Parasol’s, I say. A roast beef. And a Guinness. And another roast beef. Have her fetch my lunch, Casey, and I will tell you this story. But you need to blur out my face. And call me… call me Johnny Catfish. 

The story begins in New York City, where an Irish-American finance-bro named Eoin McSworley became engaged to be married. No not Owen. Eoin. E-O-I-N. He’s getting married and decides to have a bachelor party in New Orleans during St Patrick’s Day. Grand idea. But Eoin is vulnerable to the imp of the perverse. He doesn’t want to just dance in the chaos of Bourbon Street, he wants the most deranged devilry to dance alongside him. So Eoin invites his cousin Chachee McSworley and Chachee’s friends, a band of misfit Florida men. Eoin asks Chachee to invite the whole lot. Especially El Comodoro, the high-powered Miami lawyer, who would be a third world banana republic dictator if such things were still fashionable. Also attending is the IRS man, Richard Wagner, aka “Wags the Dog”, the most esteemed salamander to crawl out of the ooze holding a calculator. And Sam Gutter, who you noticed. Gutter is a low-rent private investigator, bouncer and enforcer. There is also the ladies man, Salvatore, a macro-biologist specializing in mammary glands. Sal happens to be El Comodoro’s little brother. And there’s the gentleman of the group, Victor Ulysses Neverman, a well-refined & affluent pizza-boy and crocodile expert currently based out of Chicago.

And you?, Casey asks while sliding a strand of hair off her brow. Is Johnny Catfish one of the Florida men? 

Oh. Shit. I may have already blown my cover. I admit to Casey I may be one of the previously mentioned characters. Johnny Catfish is just my nom de guerre du jour. Anyway, I tell her, the bachelor party trip was planned, but disaster struck. The Great Spring Hurricane of whatever-year-this-is stormed out of the Mid-Atlantic and hit the Eastern seaboard. Flights across the Northeast were cancelled. Eoin and his pals from New York, Boston and Philly are currently stuck in their airport lounges, drinking martinis & redeeming their Delta Sky Miles for handjobs while waiting for the weather to clear. Meanwhile, the Florida lads and those traveling from California and Chicago, they did arrive on-time. Where is the cosmic justice in that? A bachelor party without its bachelor? How could they, in good conscience, enjoy the fruits of the groom’s engagement without the guest of honor? As a solution, El Comodoro drew-up the “McSworley Pact of Neutrality”. Whatever joy we have without Eoin we must, in turn, pay back to Eoin. If I drink a beer, I either have to limit my enjoyment by pouring half of it on the ground or… I have to fund future beers for Eoin. What you witnessed was our enforcer, Gutter, ensuring I did not fully enjoy that roast beef sandwich. Before I let him enjoy my sandwich, I spat on it, limiting to some extent his own enjoyment. Consider it mutually-assured mediocrity. Which we will strive for until Eoin arrives tomorrow. 

Casey ponders the situation a moment before asking, couldn’t you have enjoyed your sandwich responsibly and then bought another one tomorrow for Eoin? Absolutely, I say. You get it. That’s the math we’re working with. But you cannot negotiate with a madman. Gutter is a lunatic. He’s tried to kill me at least a half dozen times over the course of our quote-unquote “friendship”. And you saw just now: there was no chance to debate him before he neutralized my joy.

Come along, I wave to Casey and her crew as I chew on a freshly-procured roast beef sandwich. The parade is about to begin on Magazine Street. As she and I walk towards the festivities, I detail my history with Gutter. Once upon a time in Mexico, I got a tattoo of the Mayan calendar and was showing the boys later that night. El Comodoro started laughing and when I asked what’s so fucking funny, he called over Gutter who got the same exact tattoo at a different parlor on the same day. Gutter found out were ink twins and decided I must die. He chased me all over Cancun until he finally became stoned enough to relax and appreciate the absurdity. When Gutter and I were college roommates, I once smacked a lit cigarette out of his mouth for stinking up our apartment. He picked me up and threw me across the room into the wall. Three times. It still hurts when I hiccup. He would have eventually thrown me through the wall had his friends not triggered a Pavlovian response by smoking his bong in the next room. And there was another time a few years back at a party, after dropping acid, Gutter decided he hated my face and that I should die. But he couldn’t tell which devils were hallucinations and which devil was the true me. He became so frustrated, he pulled a newly planted tree out of the ground. He’s a madman… But he is our madman.

There’s one of our guys, I say to Casey. The one climbing the light pole. Hoover Dan. He’s not a Florida man, he’s one of Eoin’s pals from California. His name is neither Dan nor Hoover, but they call him Hoover Dan because he’ll snort anything you put in front of him. Ahh, and over there is Salvatore. In a fake beard. Strange. Even for him. 

Yo!, I call to El Comodoro’s brother, yo Sal! Salvatore is shaking his head at me. Non, mon ami, Salvatore says in a lousy Cajun accent. You have the wrong man, me. Enjoy the parade, you. Allons, chere, he says to the woman beside him, prodding her along. She is enchanting, Irish by-way-of Haiti; her sea-foam green summer dress clashes besides Salvatore in his jean shorts, flip-flops, bare chest and fake Amish-farmer beard. Dude!, I say and grab his shoulders. Quit fucking around. You’re fooling no one. Speak to Casey from Kansas City. She’s looking for weirdos like you, I say. Casey asks Salvatore why he is wearing a fake beard. Salvatore waves a hand towards the woman beside him and, still speaking in his bad Cajun, this my voodoo queen, her. Mon frère, le Commodore, found us in the act of faire l’amour, Salvatore says. Mon frère cited the McSworley Pact of Neutrality saying I must pay Eoin back in kind. But I have no interest in such things, me. My voodoo queen bent me in many ways during le feu de l’action. I do not wish to do likewise to Eoin. Is bad gris gris. 

Oh my god, Casey says. I get it, she says. This is like Sir Gawain and the Huntsman. Whatever affection Gawain receives from the huntsman’s wife he has to give in kind to the huntsman. Oui, mon amour, Salvatore says. And I do not wish to wear Eoin like a hat, he says. Casey asks Salvatore with a jesting smirk, couldn’t you just have your voodoo queen fuck Eoin when he arrives? Sacre bleu!, Salvatore yells in his cartoonish accent. Non, non, this is true love, us. I am not sharing these lovely bones with that finance-bro, him. 

The St Patrick’s Day parade reaches us. Float riders are tossing potatoes and cabbage into the crowd. Salvatore takes out a cell phone, newly unpackaged, and asks me to put my number in it. It’s a burner, he says. He had to abandon his old phone because Gutter is tracking it. El Comodoro told Gutter about Salvatore’s voodoo romp and now Gutter is out for justice. Damn dude, I say as I type my number in, you go through more phones than you do condoms. Ehh, Salvatore shrugs and says, only because you can’t put cell phones in the dishwasher. 

So, can I ask?, Casey says to Salvatore. Why are you hiding? Why the burner phone and the disguise. You already had sex with your voodoo queen. Gutter can’t cockblock you at this point. What are you afraid of? Can’t you just pay for Eoin to have a hooker tomorrow? Non, mon amour, Salvatore says, it is Gutter who thinks he can find instant karmic balance by punching les testicules. To offset a night of passions, Gutter, him, he wants to martyr my balls. 

Jesus, Casey says, you guys are all sorts of fucked up. 

Salvatore!, Gutter screams from across Magazine Street. The hunter has found his prey. Fattened on roast beef and the Holy Ghost, Gutter crosses through the parade, climbing over a moving trailer-hitch between truck & float to reach our side of the road. Under siege, Salvatore reaches down to pick up several parade potatoes and begins throwing them as hard as he can at the charging bull. The spuds bounce harmlessly off Gutter. A tossed cabbage explodes into scattered leaves when it contacts Gutter’s incredible forehead. 

Sam Gutter reaches our side of the street, but he is winded. Salvatore takes the opportunity to abandon his girlfriend and run for high ground. Wags the Dog is the dude holding Gutter’s beer and slowly meanders through the parade to where Gutter is resting with hands on his knees. Finding his breath, Gutter rises and says, I’ve lost the element of surprise. It’s probably the last place you saw it, Wags advises. Wags the Dog’s eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, but his bemusement is obvious when he discovers Casey. He reaches out a hand to shake as he introduces himself, Richard “bag o’dicks” Wagner, at your service. Casey nods, but doesn’t shake the outstretched hand because it is holding a smoldering cigarette. Pleasure’s mine, she says with some doubt. 

Who are you, honey bear?, Sam Gutter suddenly takes note of Casey. Aren’t you snackable? We can use you to bait Salvatore into a trap. Yes! Now we are chummin’ with mutton! Gutter hollers at the parade crowd, now we are chummin’ with mutton! Casey asks, who you calling mutton? Gutter grabs Casey’s hand between his two oven-mitt sized paws and says, pinch the tail, suck the head!, slurp! Ha! Casey slides her hand back out of his greasy reaches and asks, isn’t there another way for you to honor Eoin? One without violence? Hmm, Gutter asks. He flutters his stoned eyelids before asking, what? Who are you? No. No, look. Look. Look, Gutter says, Salvatore’s problem has always been his balls outnumber his dicks. He put the baby in the king cake. It’s getting out of hand. It’s time to neuter his nards. Casey counters, saying, I haven’t taken biology in a while, but don’t most men have twice as many balls than dicks? Ha!, Gutter laughs. You’ven’t seen my dick. I’ll teach you some biology. Ha!

There is commotion as Wags the Dog missteps off the curb and falls into the street. Wags!, Gutter yells while turning to look for his friend. Wags… Wags!, wake-up!, no sleeping Wags! Don’t make me shove more shaved-ginger up your anus in front of all these nice people, Wags! Sam Gutter turns back to Casey, saying, look, lady… I’m going to call you lady, lady. Look lady, you can’t break some eggs without making some omelettes. And even if Salvatore doesn’t know it, he needs his balls scrambled into huevosssss rancherrrrros. You wouldn’t understand.

Is that so?, Casey asks with an element of scorn. Her frivolity & flirtatiousness has been replaced with somber judgment. She’s become a defender of the persecuted. She says to Gutter, I don’t need to understand. Explain it to the Hague. Casey turns to me and thanks me for the tour. She waves her camera man and assistant to move on. Turning over her shoulder she says, I’m going to go call the Geneva Convention. 

We’re staying at the Courtyard Marriott on Bourbon Street!, I shout as Casey walks away. In case you have more questions. Or want to go on a picnic…

Vic. Vic!, Gutter says. Where’d you get that sando?