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Sarah’s
Beads
by Greg Toney Those beads, those beautiful gold and silver beads, a medallion with the head of Bacchus dangling from them. To me, they were a string of pearls with the Hope Diamond attached. My eyes had drawn a bead on those beads. I would have them. They hung from the teasing hand of a masked reveler two stories up. I was shoved every which way by the throngs of drunken carpetbaggers. No one from New Orleans went to Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras. Only Mid-Westerners looking to let loose. My eyes glued to those beads, I lusted as I had never before for any necklace. A 50-cent hunk of plastic was all I wanted, and I would do just about anything to get it. Cheryl was with me. She and I had driven down from St. Louis, taking the 14-hour trip with only stops for gas. (We were roommates at Wash U., she in med school, me in law school). We had a room at the Royal Sonesta, smack in the middle of the Quarter. My dad’s credit card was our ticket to paradise: lunch at Emeril’s, partrying all night, café au lait and beignets at Café du Monde in the wee hours of the morning. And guys, guys and more guys. Sleep didn’t happen. I knew what I had to do to get those beads. I had on a thin tank top with nothing underneath. My hands automatically tugged at the bottom of my tiny top. It pulled up with ease. I was exposed. My beautiful body was exposed. Who could resist! The beads tumbled toward me. No one around me even tried to grab them. The crowd pulled away from me as my prize fell into my hand. Bacchus was mine! Before I could pull my shirt back, Cheryl screamed, “What are you doing?!!” Annoyed, I replied, “Everybody does it.” “Not here, they don’t,” she said. It was at that point that I awoke out of my Mardi Gras dream. (Sometimes my imagination runs a little wild. My mom says I live on another planet. For example, I really thought I was a princess when I was 5 and was stopped in the nick of time from taking out my brother’s tonsils when I was 10. I am not going to discuss high school.) I quickly realized we were not in the Quarter. Looking around, I saw little kids and their parents with stunned looks on their faces. They were pointing—at me. Oh no! What had I done! As the cop got closer, I saw his uniform with the “BRPD” on it. The narrow streets, nighttime, lighted floats. This was the Baton Rouge Southdowns parade! A neighborhood parade for families. Little kids in wagons. Grandmas in lawn chairs. Strictly G rated. Cheryl didn’t need to tell me to run. We just instinctively took off. The cop quickly gave up, but we kept running until we found our car. We drove back to our apartment on Carlotta Street near LSU. Hardly the Royal Sonesta. I ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My “LSU National Champs” T-shirt was soaked with sweat. I pulled it off and sighed. To think I had caused all that fuss. Wow! |
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