Yesterday was Wednesday for the masses but a ravenous river of hysteria for me. It began as many New Orleans mornings do, humid and cloudy with those deceptive mists of rain lingering about. Breakfast was hearty--Kraft mac and cheese with kale and eggs--and provided me with the strength I didn't know I would need. Meal consumed, dishes done, dogs walked, teeth brushed and tai chi-ed, I left the house and began my weekday errands as usual.

First stop was the bank down the road from house near the river. I had no real business to tend to there; I instead have this habit of going to the bank lobby to chat with an elderly widow teller named Mrs. Wilda who works Tuesday and Thursday mornings (the slowest shifts). She is always pleased to see me, yet when I leave she is glad I'm gone. This time was no different. Our exchange started off friendly enough--How are the kids, How bout this crummy weather, How are you, Thank you, You're Welcome, How's ya mutha. We then argued about stingy CD rates, the practicality of the Sacajawea dollar, and the Coptic Christian Schism of 451 AD.

Wilda starting to get irritated by my views

She sent me off with a decidedly amicable "up-yours" gesture as we parted ways, which suited me just fine. I really just come here for the free coffee.

I was sufficiently awake and alert now from the effects of the caffeine and the adrenaline from the arguing. I thus took to my next task: keeping my appointment with the French Consulate to the U.S., a Mr. Pierre Bourgault. A friendly if not outspoken ne'er-do-well, Pierre and I make a bi-monthly rendezvous at a local gambling venue of his choice. We've won and lost thousands at the racetrack, OTBs, casinos, barroom poker machines, underground poker clubs, back-alley dice games, and--for the first and last time yesterday--little league sporting events.

Pierre emerged from the back seat of his 1998 Lincoln Town Car limousine at our usual bar-cafe meeting place. "What season is it?" he asked me before even saying hello.

"Uh, spring, I believe."

"Naw, what spowt dey playin now? What spowt season?"

He meant "sport season." For some reason, Pierre learned to speak English with a thick Brooklyn accent.

"Basketball, baseball. And, I guess hockey, too." I replied.

"Aw, dey playin hoops? C'mon, let's go."

We got in his car before ordering our usual aperitif and headed briskly to some unknown location. He kept telling the driver to go down side streets, as he searched frantically through every window. "Try dis one, Jimmy" he said as he pointed at a gymnasium of some sort. We pulled in and parked near the entrance, as the sounds of squeaks and bounces reverberated around us. I hesitantly followed him into the gym and onto some bleachers along the wall. There were two teams of young kids doing passing and lay-up drills on the court. There were also a referee and two coaches, so we concluded they were warming up for a lunch-time match--scoreboard and all.

"You got reds or whites?" he asked as he pulled a pint of Remy Martin from the inside pocket of his jacket. Seeing little height differential, I randomly selected the red team. We put equal amounts of currency into an envelope that he put into the pocket where the cognac had been hidden. We both took a pull of the liquor to make it official.

It didn't take long before someone noticed our presence. A short, bald red-faced man with tiny gym shorts, balls-a-bulgin', approached us with that sarcastic "May I help you?" to which Pierre quickly retorted, "If you got stat sheets on these boys, dat would be helpful. We out here scoutin' for da prep schools."

"Lemme go ask Mr. Regency, he does all that."

"Don't bother Mr. Regency, I'll speak with him afta da game," said Pierre confidently, buying us time.

The game concluded, the white team a winner by a 26-14 margin. I don't mind losing money to Pierre; he makes it up to me in numerous ways. We saw the little red faced man and another man in a suit start approaching us when Pierre pulled out his flip phone and started spouting out nonsensical French gibberish--a sure sign he was pretending to make a call. He held up the wait-a-minute finger to the approaching men as we descended the bleachers and made our way outside to the limousine. "Lou and Roger's, Jimmy" he instructed the driver, as we quickly exited the parking lot.

Lou and Roger's is our go-to amusement center on days like these when our first few activities end too soon or are anti-climactic. It is a former jazz club located on the edge of the French Quarter near the athletic club. It was made famous in the 50s and 60s by such greats as Bob Nehmer, Earl Henry, Philandreus "Phinger Bang" Jackson aka Philly Jack, Corey "Cornish Game Hen" Watson, and Art "Inappropriately Aroused" Albertson, to name a few. Those days are long gone, and Lou and Roger's is now an unmarked building nestled inconspicuously between two more frequented establishments. Its door is always closed and usually locked. You have to knock and be inspected through a sliding rectangular peep-hole before gaining entrance. We followed protocol and were quickly granted access to the facility.

Monterey greeted us excitedly, "Pé-Bé! Cadillac!" as he liked to call us. (P.B. for Pierre Bourgault and Cadillac Slim for me). Monterey stood before us as he normally does, 6'6", 300 some-odd pounds, a large, friendly, well-groomed Haitian man in a baby blue guayabera and the last quarter of a cigar resting permanently in the corner of his mouth. He always had a cigar, it was always lit, he was always puffing it, yet it was always down to the stump. We were old friends, the three of us, and we exchanged French pleasantries before proceeding further into his smokey establishment.

Monterey wouldn't want his picture on the web so here's Kim Jong-Un holding a guitar.

He led us toward the bar while repeatedly reminding us, "only stud pokah today, just stud"--a reference to the sole poker game occurring in the corner of the room. There were several other people seated at the bar, all of them older than me. This was almost always the case, as it was rare for anyone under 50 (other than the occasional performers) to be allowed in or to even be aware of this place's existence. I had earned the respect of the Lou and Roger's community through years of frequenting the establishment with Pierre and playing thousands of hours of poker at its tables. It didn't hurt that for the first year, I almost exclusively lost money.

Pierre ordered some form of Brandy or Cognac, and I had a Whiskey Sour, the real way--egg white and all. We had every intention of joining the poker game, and the shriveled, bee-hive haired, butterfly-glasses wearing, Virginia Slim-smoking cashier already had a few dime-racks of chips ready for us in her little cage near the bar. Pierre motioned to Gertrude that we would be over shortly as he ordered yet another Hennessy.

Gertrude in 1982--the most recent photo I have, as photography isn't allowed at Lou and Roger's.

After a few minutes of mindless yet amicable banter at the bar, Pierre and I headed double-fistedly toward the chip counter while commencing premature shit-talking to the old men playing 7-card stud.

"Fredrick, you little twat. I'm gonna take every last chip off ya if I hafta shove my hand up your ass and pry it from your rectum," Pierre quipped to the surly mustachioed gambler in seat 4.

"Sock my four-eench uncut cock," replied Fredrick, matter-of-factly.

"Merlin, your money's so dead I already got a t-shirt made," Pierre shot off.

"Ya mother sucks dicks in hell," Merlin responded through a cloud of Marlboro smoke.

"Micky! I'm gonna fi…"

He was interrupted by a sudden smashing sound that blasted through our environs. The front door flew open and knocked Monterey out of his perch near the peep hole. Two masked men with machetes barged in and sent the patrons immediately into hysterics. The shorter of the two men, a round, pudgy little thing, headed straight for the poker table. The other went right for Gertrude.

The short one starting throwing fistfuls of the gamblers' poker chips into a black leather bag--worthless, rubber poker chips redeemable only at Lou and Roger's. The other man who pursued the cashier was disappointed to find that Gertrude had already exited her booth through the back door when he arrived at her window. He started slicing at the gold-colored bars protecting the cashier's booth, mostly out of anger as it was causing little damage to the sturdy decades-old metal cylinders. The noise and commotion distracted the short guy long enough for Pierre to throw his pint of Remy Martin VSOP at the temple of the raving lunatic. Dazed, he stood there motionless for a minute while his short, fat little friend came running to his aid. Monterey form-tackled the little man from behind and fell on him with all 330 pounds of his massive Caribbean frame. I seized the little man's machete as he lie there lifeless and deformed in a fast growing puddle of his own vital fluids. I sprang up toward the larger intruder, which prompted him to regain his awareness. Just as he reached back to guillotine me with his sword, he expelled a fast moving projectile from his mouth. He squirted blood from his cranium and oral cavity as his legs buckled and he coiled into a lump of the floor. There behind him in her booth stood Gertrude grasping a 9mm pistol with a silencer attached. "Fear not, the ocean said" quipped Gertrude as she blew out the smoke from the barrel of her gun and dropped it somewhat irresponsibly on the floor.

Gertrude and Monterey asked us all to kindly gather our belongings and leave so that they and the bartender could prepare for what was sure to be some new, unwanted attention from local law enforcement. Pierre and I left in silence, called his driver, and had him bring us to our respective dwellings.

And now here I sit before this computer screen, sharing the events of my crazy Wednesday with the Internet. I still haven't gathered all my thoughts as the adrenaline has yet to wear off. Who knows what silly adventure Pierre has in store for us next time, but perhaps I'm getting too old for this shit.

Drew Meez on the Keys

Fear not, the ocean said.