Free Courir De Mardi Gras by Lynn Shurr

around the bar as if he were going to bodily remove this annoying Yankee girl. Rolls of fat undulated softly beneath his Lite Beer T-shirt as he made headway. She tried another tack.
    “You see, I’m doing research on Port Jefferson, and everyone said you have to go to Joe’s Lounge. They have the best bands in Louisiana. Are you Joe?”
    “Me? No! Dere ain’t no Joe, no more.” The bartender’s big belly quivered with laughter as if she had tickled him in the stomach, but he stopped advancing. “Me, I’m Hypolite Huval. ‘Hippo’ people call me. Guess you can see why. I own dis place now. Used to have da Roadhouse, but one of da young Sonniers bought me out to fix it up fancy. Old Joe, he was ready to retire down by Grand Coteau wit’ his daughter, and I had to have me a place, so I bought him out. Bon , no? Old Joe’s been dead, I t’ink, since some time last year. You gonna put Joe’s Place in da city papers, cher ?”
    His pudgy fingers pulled on the soft drink tap and extracted an extra-large Coke onto half a glass of crushed ice. “On da house,” he said, pushing it toward Suzanne.
    “Actually, I’m not with a newspaper. I’m staying up at Magnolia Hill while I prepare a booklet on the house and town.” She half expected the friendly Hippo to repossess the drink. “I understand Mr. Jacques St. Julien came here often.”
    “Near every night. You be sure to mention dat. Here’s where da men meet to plan da Courir de Mardi Gras, and Jacques, he was da Capitaine.”
    “Tell me about the Courir.”
    “Well, I can’t. It’s a secret society like da Masons, you see. Womens ain’t supposed to know not’ing about it.”
    “I understand.” She thought “male chauvinist pigs,” but didn’t say it.
    “But you come back wit’ a date on Saturday night and dance. I always say, me, free drinks to anyone from da Hill, but George ain’t sociable like his daddy. He don’t even ride wit’ da Mardi Gras.”
    “Then tell me about Jacques.” It would take a while to swill the Coke she’d begged. To leave after her victory seemed out of character for a journalist who was going to put Joe’s Lounge on the map.
    “Oh, Jacques, he was da best of all da Capitaines in all my years. When he blew dat horn, all dose riders had better saddle up or he’d fight ’em, and he stayed sober so he could do dat. Mais cher , he let you have some fun, too. Sometime, he ride off wit’ one of da pretty girls on his horse. Da mamas would cry and pray ’til he brung her back, but dey was only gone jus’ a minute. Maybe he kiss her out around da barn, dat’s all. Rest of us do da Mardi Gras song and dance for da old and ugly ones to make ’em feel good. We have a little beer, chase da chicken for gumbo, and move on when Jacques tell us. He gallop us into town, stirring up dust and scaring dose old roosters, and we dance and eat and drink ’til midnight. Den, he make us all go to Mass.”
    Hypolite sighed deeply. “Now dey want to let the womens ride. Man, dat’s da end of a real good time. I mean you could piss off da side of your horse, and everyone laughed. Can’t do dat wit’ womens along.”
    Wondering why any female would want to ride, drink beer, and chase chickens all day, Suzanne almost sympathized, but her mother’s feminist upbringing held her back. How much more appealing to be carried off on a white horse for a kiss behind the barn than to be one of the boys, but to each her own. She finished enough of the enormous drink to be polite and said good-bye and thanks to Mr. Hippo who shouted after her, “Y’all come back Saturday.” Between coffee with the St. Julien sisters and Saturday night at Joe’s Lounge, her social calendar was certainly filling up.
    She rounded off the afternoon by exploring another of the side streets, appropriately named St. Julien, running alongside the old basket maker’s shop. Behind the row of shops lay a pleasant residential strip of small white, blue, and pale yellow