I arrived at the Free Press, self-proclaimed New York Times of the Bayou, during the oil boom of the '70s when cash was abundant and apartments not so much. Rents, of course, were unaffordable. Jean-Paul Gelpi came to my rescue with a two-room garage apartment next to his two-room garage apartment atop George Lasseigne's 356 Porsche Speedster – the whole garage shook whenever George turned the engine over. Four years before, George stopped building and repairing fishing boats, and began building and repairing oil-field supply boats. And buying Porsches.
One evening during my first week on the job I stopped to eat at the all-night Blue Bird Grill across from the bridge before taking the Lafayette highway to a friend's sofa – I was homeless, you might say.
That night in the booth next to me sat two young Canadiennes, Marie-Louise and Josette. Josette was one of the "French Teachers," a group of about 200 or so young people brought to Louisiana to teach French in elementary schools as part of an unconscionably political program run by the unconscionably political Council for the Development of French in Louisiana, CODOFIL. Jean-Paul was one of only a handful of men in the program.
Louise was Josette's friend come to visit from St-Bozo-de Clown, Quebec, or someplace like that. Josette was most unattractive, with a nasty personality, a big ass and a pair of enormous tits, though of different sizes. Louise was pretty but very thin – no boobs, no butt. I was flirting with Louise for a good 10 or 15 minutes before, in my bad French, I introduced myself and asked them to join me. They were the ones who told me about Jean-Paul and the garage apartment.
Jean-Paul, a Parisian, had this good looking girlfriend, Claire, who was from Canada. She was relatively tall, with dark hair, wide hips and an ass to die for. But we'll get to that later.
Jean-Paul had already warned me that most of the French Teachers looked more like Josette than Claire or even Louise. Jean-Paul and Claire promised to introduce me to Claire's roommates, two other Canadiennes also named Claire, who lived in the eponymous House of the Three Claires, a former rectory on St. Anne Street. My hours at the newspaper were irregular, but it seemed that every time I walked up the stairs to my apartment, Claire was walking down. We'd say hello and all, but that was about it.
Being the ass-obsessed son-of-a-bitch that I was/am, I made regular visits to the Blue Bird Grill hoping to run into Louise again. No such luck. So, next time I saw Jean-Paul I asked him if he had a phone number or address or whatever for Josette. To show I still maintained a modicum of taste, I quickly mentioned that my interest was in Louise, whom I assumed I would find there. He seemed to approve (with a big smile I might add) and, after finding a mimeographed piece of paper, provided me with an address for Josette. He also told me that Louise spent most of her days alone at Josette's mobile home watching television. I began trying to come up with a plan, for lack of a better word.
CODOFIL provided a wealth of single women to South Louisiana, and I knew I had to get the first one right to avoid unfavorable gossip. Mess up with Louise, and it may be hard to recover. At first I thought of waiting around her trailer park and "accidentally" bumping into her when she walked to the store. But I didn't have enough patience. Besides, that was a stupid idea. Then in a fuck book I had bought in New Orleans at Christmas this guy shows up at his lovely neighbor's house with a bottle of champagne and a pack of condoms.
Yreka!
Originality doesn't count in these kinds of things, so two days later, with three hours between deadline and a city council meeting, I picked up a loaf of French bread, wine, sausage and brie, and drove to Josette's trailer. I found a place to park, straightened my tie, brushed off my jacket, and at one thirty-five knocked on the door of the trailer in Lot No. 9.
"Oui?" came the voice from inside. Suddenly it occurred to me that Louise may be out and the voice behind the door was Josette's. I certainly was not familiar with either voice. And again, what if it was the wrong trailer? I mean a lot of people spoke French in South Louisiana in those days. What do I do with the wine, bread and stuff?
"Jack de Blue Bird Grill. Le restaurant pres de pont bridge." Gibbrish, I guess, but I was trying.
Well, Louise excitedly called my name, flung open the door, pulled me inside, and proceeded to welcome me with hugs and kisses as well words I couldn't possibly understand even now – that St-Bozo accent I guess. I felt I had crossed the finish line before the race even began. I pulled my bottle of wine out of my sack, which Louise grabbed from my hand and rushed off to find a cork screw and glasses. I closed the door behind me, walked to the kitchen, and began putting the groceries on the counter.
"Non, non, non. Ici, là bas, here, there" and she pointed to the coffee table in the living room. So, while I sat on the sofa and arranged the bread and stuff on the table, Louise was in the kitchen collecting wine glasses, knives and plates. She was all giggly and excited, acting busier than she really was.
