Entering a New Orleans brothel is like cracking open an agate.
There is a surprise, a feeling of discovery, of a new world.
Surprise, feeling of discovery, and then a feeling of relief.
Standing out on the street with another guy from jail, Alex said, “We’re going in there, and it is going to be great.” Alex felt great. He didn’t care if he sounded giddy.
“Oh God, yeah,” said the guy, who was in the exact same frame of mind as Alex.
For a moment the two stood outside, in the sunshine both smiling the same silly smile. Both squinting the same squint.
Both were coming from the same jail, though they hadn’t known each other. Their release dates coincided, as did their idea how to shake gray from their souls now that they were free.
Just a bit of hesitance before. This was not from guilty conscience or the thought maybe doing the thing meant getting sent right back to jail. (High class joints virtually never got raided.) The beauty of the day, the dazzling sunshine, the magnificent feeling of fresh breezes caressing their pale, dessicated, irritated skin delayed their gratification.
They were standing on the street, with the brothel in front of them, an old cemetery behind. The cooling breezes came from the cemetary. Among the graves were ancient oaks, vivid green grassy patches, and here and there, accomodating black cast iron benches.
The two decide to sit and savor.
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