I was talking to Vincent, as I often do over the course of any given week. We were sitting at the bar at our usual roosts, where our plaque is glued to the marble.
Vincent asked me if Mrs. Peel is real or if I am making her up. I will tell you what I said.
“Mrs. Peel is a real as you and I,” I said.
Mrs. Peel’s signature look is sporting a short skirt and a long jacket. She has assets. She is a flower with two stems. I wear a suit most of the time.
Fact and fancy intermix every day in New Orleans. I am real. Vincent is real. I am looking at the plaque on the bar as I write this that proves it. That brass plaque speaks volumes. It pays to be a regular.
Mrs. King is real. Python Lady is real. Mrs. Peel is real. California Girl is real. Daphne is real. Chicken Lady is real. The Landscaper is real. Tomboy is real. Sweetboy is real. Shugee is real. Frickin’ Shugee. I wish he was made up. Nick Lobo is real, as is Alice. Alice looks like Imogene Coca.
Whatever characters I am forgetting are real. I have little need to make anything up. Why bother? Life is a cabaret. Every day in New Orleans is a parade. Life goes on twenty-four hours a day.
I just saw Ed, my neighbor. Ed is real. I just talked to him. He is doing something I have no interest in. Ed is smoking bacon. We talked over the fence à la Home Improvement. I was the one wearing the hat.
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Now, I am going to continue the Mrs. Peel narrative as it unfolded today.