No Tuesdays
by Keeper March



Author's Note: This is a bit of a sequel to . I didn't think that story would have a continuation but I just got back from livin' it up at Mardi Gras this weekend and thought that it was such a wonderful thing that I had to share it and who better to do that with than my favorite Ice Queen and Labrat. If Nic could please archive this I'd be forever grateful. If anyone else wants to archive it, have at it, just let me know. Feedback is always appreciated.

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.


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I wake up to an open door and a cool breeze. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's 11:00 in the morning. Parker's nowhere to be found and that doesn't really surprise me. I figured she's fled the scene of the crime. I'm still in my jeans and t-shirt so all I need to do to erase the memory of this is tug on my shoes and jacket and drive away. She'll never mention this again and I doubt I will either. No one would believe me anyway. I rinse my mouth out in the bathroom and walk through the open door to the parking lot. And who should be transferring some bags to the backseat of my mustang but the one person I would have bet any amount of money would already be back in Blue Cove.

"Hey. Get the lead out. We have some place we need to be."

She can't mean the Centre because I'm not in cuffs and she's not pointing a weapon at me.

"Where are we going?"

"Do you know what this Tuesday is?" she asks.

"It's the 27th."

"No, it's fat."

I rack my brain trying to come up with some slang terminology that may apply and come up with no hits.

"What do you mean, it's fat? That's not an adjective that necessarily applies to days of the week."

"This Tuesday is Mardi Gras which means that this weekend is Ground Zero for a good time in New Orleans. And since I've never been to the Big Easy this time of year, I'm going now. You can come or you can report your car stolen. I don't care either way."

Someone has clearly replaced Miss Parker with a normal human being. I don't have time to analyze more of this since she has now started up my convertible without me in it. It's all I can do to jump in as she begins to spew gravel.

"All right, here are the rules."

I've been hoping for rules or at least some indication that she hasn't suffered a complete breakdown.

"New Orleans, in general, is a particular and unique slice of Americana. During Mardi Gras, it turns into Sodom and Gomorrah. There will be bead throwing. There will be hurricanes and too, too much liquor. There will be a good time had by all. First rule, you have to come up with a fake name. There's no real reason for this, it's not a precaution. It's just funny. Mine will be Lola. Yours can't be Jarod Something-or-another. It has to be a name no sane person would give their kid."

Getting into the spirit of it I offer the name Levon.

"Perfect," she purrs.

"I know you have a million questions so let me answer the first 400 in one swoop so we can never mention them again. I called my father and told him I was taking a vacation and going to visit a friend. Will he send sweepers? Possibly. Will they find anything? Doubtful. We took your car and I tossed the tracking system on my Porsche a few days ago. We're pretty covered if they do come sniffing around and I don't think they will. Am I insane? No, I just want to pretend. I'm a Red File so dammit, I'm simulating a normal existence. You could hold this over my head for years to come but right now, I don't give a shit. We're going to Mardi Gras for the weekend and past that or around that, nothing else matters. Any questions about the Centre are pointless and irritating. Please don't ask any. So, are there any questions?"

I look at her for a few moments and she's in faded jeans and a sleeveless gray t-shirt and her sunglasses are reflecting my face and I think that even under pressure from Raines I couldn't imagine this.

"No, no questions."

"Excellent," she says as she guns the engine a little harder.

I don't know why I brought Jarod, scratch that, Levon along with me. Last night just felt so right that I got a little dizzy from it I suppose. We just laid there curled up into each other but I woke up feeling so much better. This little jaunt to Louisiana is something I've always wanted to do. There's really been no rhyme or reason to my actions lately. I truly can't tell you why I'm doing half of the things I do. I used to have a reason or a guide but it all feels so false. Enough deep analyzation. We're cruising down Magazine Street and I can hear the jazz softly playing and the humidity is making everything a little stickier and I've got a disposable income and I craving for etouffee. There ain't nothing in my world that can't be cured in this atmosphere.

"We'll never find a place to stay in the Quarter." Spur-of-the-moment trips have a few flaws and this is one.

"I have a friend who can get us a place," he says. "I helped him and he told me if I ever need anything to call."

"Well, Levon, let your fingers do the walking and get me a place with a balcony."

Ten minutes later we have a room on Bourbon Street with a balcony. Parking's a bitch and we have to walk a few blocks but all irritation leaves me as we get to the French Quarter. It's Saturday night and people are everywhere. Everyone has beads around their necks and a drink in one hand. Steam and sweat and alcohol and revelry cocoon everything. We have to hold hands so we won't get lost in the crowd and this makes me even happier and I let out a totally uncharacteristic yelp and receive a few back.

This guy Jarod knows meets us in front of a three-story building.

"Jarod. It's so good to see you. I have a front room for you on the third floor. All of this is so crazy but hey, it's an annual event. The room isn't furnished so I got a mattress from one of the other room and brought it in. The place is clean, I was just waiting to refurnish it until after the crazy crowds. Come on up."

He unlocks the front door and locks it behind him and then we follow him up two flights of stairs. The building and therefore the room are older as are most things in New Orleans. It's a loft apartment and while it's clean, it's also bare. The walls are off-white and the floor is hardwood painted white. The only thing in the place is a double mattress that has a few sheets and a comforter on it and a killer balcony with huge windows flanked by gauzy white curtains. Jarod's friend is apologizing for not being able to get us a better room when I interrupt.

"It's perfect," I say and he can tell from the huge grin on my face that I mean it.

"Well, if you're sure.'

"I'm beyond sure," I call over my shoulder as I step out onto the balcony.

The huddled, drunken masses are gathered below me. I almost want to breakout in a song from Evita but decide not to. I can't distinguish how many people are packed in the street. They're barely moving and their laughter and calls and the music of the shops is just carrying everyone along and I'm so damned happy right now that I just close my eyes and try and form a special place in my brain for this one perfect moment. Jarod comes out to stand beside me and I finally open my eyes and he's looking at me instead of the crowd and I want to make this perfect for him too.

"C'mon." I grab his hand and we spill out onto the street.

*****

The streets are filled with noisy, drunken people. The trash has overgrown the gutters and is now piled up on the outskirts of the streets. Everything is wet, either from beer or urine or throw-up but it's all there in some disgusting concoction. She jumps over a puddle of it and remarks "Mardi Gravy" over her shoulder. It's a good thing we have fake names because she is definitely not Miss Parker. She still has my hand as she leads me into a shop and picks out twenty bags of beaded necklaces and a few specialty ones.

She puts one around her neck that has little martini glasses interspersed with the beads and she puts a necklace around my neck that had a set of breasts that light up. She thinks they're great and laughs as I question her on their taste and stupidity.

"They're supposed to be bawdy, Levon. Do you know what Mardi Gras's about? It's the last hooray before the forty somber and sacrificial days of Lent. It's about having something to repent for."

Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl on some guy's shoulders lift her top and expose her breast. The people on the balcony above her throw her some beads to the cheers of the crowd.

"Did you just see that? That young lady exposed herself!"

"Oh Levon, Levon, Levon. Your eyes are going to be opened tonight."

We push our way into a bar and she orders two of the largest beers I've ever seen in my life.

"Come here. We're going to do a few shots before we head back up."

"You said you weren't going to bring your gun."

"Not that kind, this kind."

She hands me a small plastic cup filled with a green liquid. She downs it in one gulp and I follow suit. It stings all the way down my throat and I knew I'm probably making a very unattractive face right now.

"What was that? Battery acid?"

"Nope, a cherry bomb. This is a Purple Hooter Shooter." She downs that one too and I do the same. Four more shots later she grabs my hand and we're on the crowded street again.

I can already feel the alcohol doing things to my system and I know the whole intoxication thing is pointless and stupid but I don't know, I just want to go along with her. We go back up to our room and she throws the doors to the balcony open and beckons me out.

"Open a bag of beads and separate them." She's already got her bag open and her beads almost separated. She leans over the railing and makes eye contact with a few people in the crowd.

*****

I make eye contact with this one guy in a toga. I swing my beads in my hand and raise my eyebrows, silently asking him what he'll do for them. He flashes a bit of his chest and nods his head, asking if that's enough. I shake my head and he lifts up his toga to reveal his upper thigh. Then he blows me a kiss and gives me his version of puppy dog eyes. Good enough. I toss him the necklace. He catches it and points to his chest. He wants me to show him my assets but it's still too early in the evening for all that. Not to mention, living in the Centre all my life, I'm wary of any action that may be caught on tape for posterity or someone else's prosperity. I shake my head that there ain't a chance in hell and he nods that he's o.k. with that. I blow him a kiss and he removes a string of beads form around his neck and throws it up at me. I catch it and place it around my neck. Round one has just ended and I'm already in love with this town.

Levon is watching all of this and has picked up on the nature of the game. He makes eye contact with some girl and just smiles. He doesn't even indicate that he needs to see her chest, she just lifts up her top and gives him an eyeful.

"Did you see that?" he sputters.

"Yeah, now throw the woman some beads."

We stay on the balcony, finishing our beers and throwing beds until three in the morning. We're both pretty drunk and giggling at various people. We've probably been thrown as many beads as we've given away. At one point in the evening, the crowd gathered at our balcony starts shouting "Tits, tits, tits." I know what they want to see but I also know there are about twenty cameras with their flashes ready to capture my naked chest. Instead I just keep taunting them and finally I turn my back on them like I'm really going to do it and instead pull Levon to me and plant a big wet one on him. He wasn't really expecting that and it was all over before he could react. The crowd roars with delight, not at my almost exposure but at the look of shock on his face.

We stumble back into the room and I decide that we need to go out.

"Let's go fraternize with the unwashed masses, Levon."

"All right, Lola."

We hop from bar to bar, club to club and encounter people far drunker than we are and at this hour, we're pretty hammered. At 7:00 the crowds begin to thin a little and now we're just sloppy, tired drunk. I spy this little place that sells beignets and we grab half a dozen to go and some chicory coffee. We sip and eat as we make our way back down Bourbon to our room. Back in our room I tug off all my clothes except for my panties and a tank top I brought and wash up as best as my altered state will allow. Levon makes the bed and also washes up. He's in his boxer briefs and we're both just coasting on the fumes.

He smiles at me and says, "I really enjoyed this."

"Well, it's not over yet. Wait until tomorrow," I say as a pass out on the bed.

*****

We wake up around 11:00 with dry mouths and wobbly heads and I just feel so damn good. She's curled up in my side and the breeze from the street and the gulf is so cooling. The humidity hasn't gotten unbearable yet and I think this is as happy as I've ever been in my life. She rumbles awake, her hair messed up and her tank top strap falling off her shoulder. "Hmmm, let's shower up. We have a parade to make." I didn't realize that yesterday when she left me, she went shopping. She's picked out a pair of jeans and a pair of khakis and some casual shirts for me. She even bought us athletic shoes and socks. I throw on the khakis and a blue polo shirt. The gray New Balances she's picked out are a size smaller than I prefer to wear but they're still a good fit. She's wearing gray slacks and a white top with Adidas sneakers and she looks ten years younger.

"C'mon, Levon. If we don't get to the route in time all the beads will be taken."

I love Mardi Gras. I love the floats, which are so extravagant and decadent. I love the spirit of the event. People wrangle for these ridiculous trinkets and everyone is just happy to be having a good time. I have about thirty necklaces around my neck but that doesn't even come close to how many Levon has. Most of the attendants on the floats are female and one look at him and they just start tossing those beads his way like Tom Jones gets tossed panties. He has to resort to giving them to kids because there's no way he can carry all of them. We find this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that has the best muffulettas and ice cold Dixie beer and just gorge ourselves. We walk around the city and watch the sunset as it creates patterns on the avenues as it shines through the overhanging trees. We stop into a little art gallery and while he's not looking I buy him a watercolor of the French Quarter. He insists on buying a portable stereo and some Dixieland CDs so we can pipe our music out to the crowd. We deposit all of our goodies back in our room and leave to go watch the Endymion parade. More beads, more booze, more acting like idiots. I've totally believed my own lie, that this is reality and that the entire state of Delaware is all a bad imagining.

On the way back from the parade we eat an authentic Cajun dinner. We laugh and feed each other and he learns how to suck crawfish and people look at us like we're crazy until our attitude become infectious and they smile themselves.

On the way back to our room an older man selling flower wreaths that you wear like headbands stops us. He implores Levon to buy one for his wife,

"I'm not his wife," I say laughing.

"Your girlfriend, then," he questions.

"I'm not his girlfriend, either. Levon's just some guy I picked up in a hotel room two days ago." The older man smiles and places the wreath on my head.

"If that's the case then this is on the house," he says with a chuckle. Levon gives him twenty bucks anyway.

I'm dancing this little imaginary dance to an imaginary song as we walk down the street and pretty soon Levon's doing the same thing. And before I realize it, he grabs me and we're waltzing down the middle of St. Charles Street, doing dips at random moments. We drink more hurricanes and buy more beads and just act like good-time tourists. Back in our room, he sets up the CD player and we bop around to some Buckwheat Zydeco and then Beausoleil. By the time 4:00 am rolls around we've exhausted our bead supply and decide to go dancing. He quickly picks up a Cajun two-step and we don't leave until the band quits. Walking to our room it starts to rain and we have to sprint half the way there.

Inside he takes off his shoes and his shirt and he's toweling off in his khakis. He puts the Neville Brothers on and the music is so soft and slow as the sun begins to bounce off the glistening streets. I put one of his white v-neck undershirts on and let it hang below my knees as I take off the rest of my clothes. He's watching me from the balcony and he comes up to me and extends his hand for a dance.

*****

I'm holding her close to me and she's wearing nothing but one of my oversize undershirts. The rain has washed everything clean and Aaron Neville is softly crooning in his falsetto. We're barefoot and her cheek is resting on my bare shoulder as I gently sway her. She's still wearing her wreath. I know I shouldn't say it but I can't help myself.

"I think I'm falling in love with you, Parker."

"Then you're falling in love with the wrong girl," she whispers. "My name's Lola."

"Ahh, well, Lola. I know I'm in love with you." I pause for a while.

"Tuesday's not here, it's not over yet. We still have time before we have to repent." She looks up and laces her fingers through my hair and pulls my head down to her mouth. She feels so right, this moment feels so right that it's all I can do to convey that to her.

*****

We barely make it to the mattress but it's funny because our movements weren't hurried. We just kiss each other like we're sipping. We take our time and finally when any longer of a wait will be wrong, I roll onto my back and he rolls into me. For a moment he just stops and holds himself there looking into my eyes and I'm so scared that he's going to say something he shouldn't. But he doesn't and we begin to move together like we dance, slow and precise at first and then eventually frenzied and dizzying. I come latching onto his neck and he comes saying my name. Not Lola, not even Parker but my first name. And that seems like a fair compromise because somewhere in between both people is the person I am. I couldn't live like Lola everyday and living like Parker is becoming harder and harder.

*****

I know she's gone before I wake up. I knew it couldn't last. The alcohol is becoming nauseating, the noise unruly. I knew she'd leave. I fucked up calling her name last night. I know I shouldn't have but I couldn't help it. Next to the stereo is the watercolor she bought. She thought I wasn't looking and while I didn't think she was buying it for me, I smile that she anticipated what was going to happen. She bought my morning-after gift the morning before. It's a little scene stolen from our weekend. It's a study of our balcony. She's also left a little note. I smile even bigger when I read it.

"There's no need for after-Tuesday if there are no regrets."

The End


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