It was late morning. The heat waves rising up from the green earth into the blue sky twisted the horizon like a slow turning garden snake. After a late night of tunes in Eunice, I was driving north on Highway 13 headed for Mamou and Fred's. Saturday morning boudin, beers and dancing to a Cajun band were on the day's agenda. Air conditioning on ... check; ice cold morning margarita in the right hand ... check; tunes on ... check; rear view mirror empty ... check; cruise control set ... check; one week 'til Mardi Gras and all indicators in full party mode ... my world was in perfect balance.

I drove past the sign before what was painted on it struck me. "BEST MUSUEM IN THE WORLD - $1...TURN NOW". I eased my dented rental ride onto the shoulder of the road, took a long pull on the morning margarita and swung back round to find the appointed side road to the "musuem". The arrow on the sign pointed down a one-lane dirt track framed by fields and fences.

"This," I thought, "I can't pass up." Fred's would have to wait.

No buildings were in sight but all roads lead somewhere as the front end of my rig began to smooth the center ridge of grass. Flat does not describe Southern Louisiana. It is as if the earth has a dent in it ... there is no curve here ... the fields and rutted dirt road I am slowly making my way over are no exception. The green fields closed in around me as Highway 13 disappeared in the rear view mirror. Cruising speed now reduced to a crawl, the driving tunes of Boozoo Chavis seemed out of place. At 5 miles an hour I can just break into second gear and keep the margarita in the cup. Any faster and the floor would be drunk before I arrived. I switched off the CD and rolled down the window. Hot wet air poured into the car and sweat formed on my entire body simultaneously ... so much for air conditioning.

It was 1.5 margaritas from the turn off to the tin roofed shotgun shack and assorted out buildings I was approaching. One tree, one house, one chicken shack, one cinder block garage ... this had to be the place cause there was nothing else around. The road swung into a cleared area around the buildings and stopped ... it only needed the END OF ROAD sign like we use in Alaska to restate the obvious ... this was it.

I drove into the yard, pulled up in front of the cinder block garage and cut the engine. Now I knew this was it ... painted on the tin garage door, in the same hand as the road sign, was "BEST MUSUEM IN THE WORLD-$1 ... HONK". Great sign, the marketing committee at work should do so well.

I tapped the horn ... one short hello honk. The horn seemed too loud for the situation ... like an overly friendly drunk at a funeral ... but that is what was called for. I waited. Arm out the window, chin on arm staring at the front door of the house for a sign ... my mind running through old Twilight Zone episodes trying to remember if there was a scene like this and thinking if there was I should stay in the car until someone came out. Nothing. No movement, no breeze, no chickens ... nothing.

I tapped the horn again, twice this time ... still being polite about it and waited. No movement ... no nothing. The .5 of the margarita that made it to the driveway was almost extinguished and a decision was needed; one more tap on the horn and if no answer just leave or get out and walk up to the front door and knock. Just as my straw started sucking air from the bottom of the Dixie cup the front door opened and a thin shadow stood behind the screen door.

"Alright, someone is home ... howdy!" I said and waved.

"Be right down ... just gots ta gits my boots on...and stay in yer car till I gits the dog staked," the shadow said.

"Not a problem." I replied thinking how the margarita just saved my life by delaying an exit from the front seat.

The yard was hard, flat and saw little traffic from the looks of it. Paths wound through the grass to the privy and one to the chicken shack next to the tree. The tree was big, old and offered shade to the two chairs and crate made into a table. I bet around sundown or sun up when the air is cool and the light softer, that would be fine spot to sit and assess the moment.

The screen door opened and my host came into view...one bone thin, weathered old dude... moving fast and sure, directly to the garage door. He never looked in my direction until he had the garage door up and stuffed a two by four into the jamb to keep it that way. He walked over to the car and held out his hand. "Ya got a dollar...then ya gits 10 minutes," he said.

I gave him the dollar and inquired about the dog.

"Ain't got no dog...honk when yer done," he replied, as he walked back towards the house.

I watched him retreat then climbed out of my car right as he opened the screen door...our doors closing together.

My eyes took a few moments adjusting to the darkness in the garage...my nose did not require the waiting period.

"He sure seems to be up on the current trends in museums," I thought. "Low light levels and olfactory stimulation to enhance the visitors experience. Phew."

Taking one last breath of air from the present, I stepped deeper into a single room lined with shelves, the floor set with tables and narrow aisles and stuff hanging from the roof rafters.

There were rusted tools, old work clothes and boots, harnesses and hay cutting equipment, car parts, tires, cans and jars of stuff long evaporated...just what you expect to find in such a place...even a pinup calendar with its months torn off but the important parts still there shining through the gloom.

"He could use a bit of work on the labels," I thought, as I poked around the mounds of the static past. I got used to the heavy smell after a bit. It was damp, organic and petroleum product, sweet ... like a wet cow pie coated in engine oil. I worked my way to the back wall of shelves picking up and setting down an assortment of items ... no problem with object relocation ... the dust outlined placement perfectly.

I was about to leave, as my 10 minutes was rapidly coming to a close, when the contents of a half opened closet called out. The tall closet door looked more like the lid to a standing coffin...a thought I quickly tried to dispel with a step or two closer. I slowly pulled the door open ready for it to fall off its hinges and a desiccated corpse to plunge into my arms...but nothing happened.

The contents was a costume and mask from the old style trail ride Mardi Gras...the party held on Shrove Tuesday, the day before Lent begins.

"The old man must have been a capitaine," I thought looking at the finery attached to the baggy suit with fringe. His painted screen face stared blankly at me from the closet door.

"Ya got another doller...then ya gits 10 more minutes cause ya first dollar time is up." His voice made me jump back from the closet like it was coming from the mask.

I looked toward the open door and saw only my host's outline against the daylight. "You bet" I said making my way back to him holding a dollar in my outstretched hand.

He took the bill and was turning to go when I asked if he was a front capitaine or a rear capitaine.

"Whacha know of these things?" he asked, turning back, looking straight into my eyes.

"Not much, but I do play some of the tunes from around here and have friends that talk about the old ways of marking the day. Sounded like a great party." I said looking at the ground to break his stare.

"Well, it ain't that way no more...old ways end up in da museum"...the words forming and releasing as if the air was being let out of his body.

He didn't move nor did I. For a long moment I thought my second dollar was going to be spent with me looking at the ground and my guide staring through me.

"I was da rear capitaine," he said, "had da best horse in da parish ... spent more time on her decorations than on myself. Did da bridle and saddle to match my costume and put stars all over her chest ... she was a big ole mare that always found her way home ... even if I had ta tie myself on and was hanging down ... she knew what to do, never shook me off no matter how much drinkin' I be doing."

"Da Sunday before Mardi Gras, dey call that da "little Mardi Gras." da old man Bode would gets a white flag on a bamboo cane, and he'd go 'cross the fields with twenty-five to fifty little boy Mardi Gras. Dey'd be waitin' for us. I first ran when I was six years old. All day we'd run all over Tasso. Den da women, dey take the chickens and make a big gumbo. We had a dance at night. Da big Mardi Gras, we would ride horses, and just sang for da music, we didn' have instruments on da run. Dey had a buggy to pick up da chickens. We'd ride horses around all day, drinking, hollering, raisin' holy hell," he said, still staring through me.

"But dem days is done, no more like da old rides," he said, turning towards the open doorway. "Now days its all da tourists in New Orleans thinking dey keeping things in balance with the spirits. Dey don' have no idea...no idea at all."

"Ya want another 10 minutes?" he asked looking down the road. "It's on the house this time."

© 2007 Robert Banghart

Flambeaux Royalty

By Aileen McInnis

He know the real colors of Carnival
not be king purple, doubloon gold or cash green
but be bright spark, gravestone ash and blue black flame,
silver glint of coins tossed in an arc when
he dance extra fine and make the blazing torch pulse
to the trombone-drum-trumpet-tambourine,
silk-blazoned, hat-topped, metallic-bead-draped, slightly-drunk Second Line
crowding him to strut and shine
and make his way.

He don't feel the pinpricks of heat, splashing kerosene
and tarnished metal cutting into his shoulders.
He wrap a tattered cloth round his face
to stop embers from burning too deeply
and done make him even blacker
more beat up than the day before.
He know on this night,
Rex be no bigger king
than him leading the parade

in fire and flame, mask and blister,
iron, spark and flash,
the true colors of Mardi Gras.

© 2007 Aileen McInnis

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