Mardi Gras Memories, (C) Nicole Hadaway 2012
And so it begins, the Mardi Gras madness…. she thought.
“Damn!” Kit exclaimed aloud, as large, pink plastic beads nearly whacked the side of her head.
Really! Can this holiday be any more ridiculous? Year after year, drunkenness, beads, boobs – get a life and get over it, people!
None of that was said aloud, of course, as Kit didn’t have the guts to anger the two beer-soaked frat boys standing right next to her, waiting for the float to pass so that they could cross the street. Krewe d’Etat wasn’t as famous as the Muses, Komus, or Bacchus parades, but it still drew large crowds on the Friday before Mardi Gras.
They should all just wrap themselves up and take it elsewhere. Brazil. Away from where I live, for sure.
Now, where’s my apartment again? St. Charles and … which cross-street?
“Can’t remember where you live, eh?” the old, fat gentleman behind her said. She’d not noticed him before, but there he was, hovering behind her, his whiskey-breath and sweaty hair making her nose wrinkle in disgust. Kit wanted to smack that smug smile right off his face.
“That’s the sign, you know. It’s been more than a year,” he nodded, shuffling his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Not nervous, though. Not exactly.
“Get away from me!” Kit yelled, not caring what the frat boys thought, but looking in their direction anyway. They didn’t notice her one bit.
The sweaty man caught her gaze. “They won’t notice you. Some still will, but after a year, it’ll get harder and harder. Best move on, honey. You’re not happy here, I can tell.”
“What the fuck do you know about me?” Kit retorted, hands on her hips, ready for a full fight now. She’d make those frat boys notice her. She’d make everyone on the neutral ground stare at her. Because no one did that anymore, no one talked to her, smiled at her, or walked out of her way on the sidewalks as she wound her way through town. No one. Not anymore. Not since that night…
“That’s who you are!” the sweaty man exclaimed, jabbing his pinky finger at her as he held his beer. “The girl from last year’s Mardi Gras, what got herself killed right behind Jacques-Imo’s restaurant. You wanted some beads, showed what ya got to a guy, and then he strangled ya. They hushed it up, though – woulda been real bad for business. City still strugglin’ after the hurricane and all. Dumped your body in the Mississippi, didn’t they?”
Kit knew she wasn’t crying, because ghosts shed no tears, but she thought she felt them anyway, hot and salty, coursing down her cheeks.
