Vieux Carre -- The Sequel
Return to the French Quarter
Hello, yeah, it's been awhile--English Dan and John Ford Coley
Let's catch up.
I was back, 18 years later, in the city I probably love more than any in the world. I hadn't been here in New Orleans since Katrina rolled in and devastated the city. I did see the devastation on television. I also found myself totally fond of "Your Honor" with Bryan Cranston on Showtime. I was (and still am) a big fan of the actor, from the "Breaking Bad" days. I loved that show because I saw things in it that reflected my own career (no, I wasn't making meth). Busted dreams of a talented chemist who found a way to resurrect himself. I did, but not in the lab. In the boardroom.
Carla and I, if you remember my previous entry, saw each other for many years but did not last. Things did progress, and we got to a point where we (I thought) were going to eventually be together. Unfortunately, Carla was a free-spirit. She ended up moving to Utah. We did see each other, once a year at a conference in Las Vegas, where we were able to spend four to five wonderful nights together each year. We even staged our own wedding ceremony in Chicago at another conference, which was somewhat legitimate as I am an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. I was the happiest man in the world for four days. I wrote vows pulled from the works of Richard Bach and Bob Marley, and we exchanged hers and ours beside the Centennial Fountain. It was one of the most sensational experiences of my life. We woke up every morning, drank coffee, made love, ate sushi in the afternoon, watched The Umbrella Academy on Netflix, and enjoyed the best of what Chicago had to offer.
Afterwards, COVID came, the conference in Las Vegas got cancelled and I never saw her again. We talked frequently on the phone, and then infrequently, and then not at all. From what I understand, she's ended up in Michigan. On the left side of the Mitten. Don't ask why. I don't understand either.
I went through a season of depression. Middle-age, loss of confidence, resignation to a lost youth, and being stuck in a home office.
Jackie changed all of that.
Eventually I changed jobs and was requested to come into the office each day. This was a breath of fresh air, less the maddening commute that I had forgotten was so aggravating.
At any rate, the coffee pot is the modern water cooler in the office. Often, you have to wait, whether it's a drip coffee pot or a pod maker, to get your fix. As a by-product, you get a lot of facetime with your officemates.
This is how I got to know Jackie. Her full first name was Jacqueline, but she was known as Jackie around the office.
Let's be frank. I never dreamt she would even look at me. I am older now. But she was beautiful. Brunette with slightly longer than shoulder-length hair, brown eyes you would get lost in, wonderful petite body with lovely breasts. And she loved to talk with me. We would sit and lean against the counter and chat. She was so chatty and funny. I am not a man of tall stature, but she appealed to me as she was reasonably short. A better fit. "Fun Size", if you will. She had the most impressive wardrobe--professional but flattering red blouse and black skirt on occasion, then at other times a lovely emerald velour dress that--well--would drive me nuts thinking about when I got home. For whatever reason, I sensed she had been married at some point but I never broached that subject and, honestly, I didn't care. If she wanted to mention it, she would.
We had wonderful banter and conversation that flattered me. I probably looked at her longer and harder than I should have on almost all mornings, and as I'm aware, women pick up on being admired and ogled, but as a famous country singer once said, "I'm just a guy." And I am. Sue me.
Time passed, and we saw that there would be an upcoming conference in New Orleans. Obviously only a select group of folks to get travel to these. As has been my experience in the past (not bragging), I was one.
Jackie was one of the others.
Okay, I thought. This was not anything to worry about, despite the fact she was the subject of many of my fantasies during self-love sessions. Especially in that green dress.
As it turned out, we flew out separately, to Louis Armstrong Airport, a day apart. I took a cab in from Kenner and arrived at the reasonably sized boutique hotel that I always frequented. Inexpensive yet beautiful. Paul McCartney and his family stayed at this particular hotel during the recording of one of his albums. I revel in the fact that I stay in the same Paul McCartney Suite where my favorite Beatle stayed.
I had the night to myself, but largely stayed in the hotel, eating from the hotel restaurant, and catching up on "Better Call Saul". I was grateful that I had stopped drinking. I remembered Pat O'Brien's and Bourbon Street, as well as the late-night strip club experience that could have ended up with me dead.
New Orleans for a solitary drinker can be a disaster and you can get your ass in trouble. The voice of experience. Enough there.
The next day, Jackie called and let me know she was in town. Much different than the Jackie that I knew, she seemed intimidated and guarded. And I am thinking, "why"? She was so beautiful. So young (compared to me). I was honored to have the potential to be in her presence. When I saw (and still do) a woman with this incomparable beauty, I am always reminded of Helen of Troy. A face that could launch 1,000 ships. She was that. And more.
I asked if she needed a ride in and she said yes. Now, granted, Louis Armstrong Airport is a good ride down I-10 from the French Quarter. It was also obvious that she didn't want to ride in alone. Nevertheless, I told her, "I'll grab a cab if you can wait a few minutes. Maybe 25?"
I rode in the cab back up to Kenner. Long trip, but not bad. As I said, I love this city. I had massive butterflies. The ride helped. But I was wondering why she didn't just get a cab herself.
Jackie met us at the front of the terminal. She was so stunning. She had worn the emerald dress that I was so enamored with. I couldn't help but wonder if she had done it deliberately, after which I took the figurative sledgehammer and beat my ego back down.
She climbed into the cab after the driver had helped with her suitcase. We comfortably sat in the back as we began to make our way back to the French Quarter.
"How was your flight?" I asked.
"It was fine." She looked out the window. Odd. But there was a lot to see and take in. We really didn't chat a whole lot, which was also odd. There were the iconic cemeteries to pass on the way, all built above ground due to the high water table. There were also the Ninth Ward houses destroyed by Hurricane Katrina that would never be rebuilt again, which were somewhat depressing. Nevertheless, this was a strange interaction for us. In the office, she was always jovial and chatty and fun. I couldn't help but notice something was on her mind.
We arrived at the hotel, the driver once again assisted with the luggage, I paid and tipped him well, and we headed in.
She checked in (of course we had separate rooms--this was a business trip) and headed up. Her room was down the hall from me. As she began to walk down to it, I felt the stirrings I'd had that I'd never acknowledged--but I knew in my heart and my mind I'd definitely had them.
"Dallas, I'm going to freshen up a bit," she said.
"Perfectly fine," I said. "Shall we go to dinner tonight? Maybe Antoine's or Tujague's? Arnaud's?"
"Sounds wonderful. Any." And with that, she continued to her room. I went back to mine and laid down on the bed. I was struck with a sudden feeling of fatigue. I couldn't understand why I was so tired. It just hit me. It was not long before I was taking a nap. And I dreamed.
I was standing beside the Pontalba Apartments, next to the Saint Louis Cathedral. And there was Carla, standing before me, as beautiful as ever. She was dressed in a white blouse and white skirt. As I stood there, stunned, she walked up to me, wordlessly took my hands, and kissed me ever so softly on the lips. She looked into my eyes one last time with her green ones, smiled, let my hands go, and walked away around the corner.
And almost instantaneously, Jackie came around the same corner, in that same maddening green dress. She took my hands just as Carla had and pressed her lips onto mine. Unlike my kiss with Carla, the passion began to build. Soon we were sharing lips and dueling tongues and my hands began to explore her body.
A knock came at the door.
"Dallas?"
I awoke in a start. I was shaken. Where had that dream come from? I knew I had to get my stuff together. Be a professional, Dallas. But this was shaping up to be a challenge.
"Just a minute, Jackie." I got up, raked my fingers through my hair, straightening it, looked out the peephole as sensible people must do, and opened the door.
There she stood, just as in my dream. Green dress, beautiful brown and luminescent eyes, full lips, perfect body.
"Hi," I said. "Ready to go to dinner?"
I was in awe of what happened next.
Jackie came in the room and pressed me up against a wall and began to devour my lips and tongue. Although surprised, I didn't resist in the slightest.
She was moaning into my mouth and pressing herself into me. I responded in turn, rubbing her wonderful slim curves through the velvet dress. Our mouths were open, hungrily tasting each other. Her hands were on my chest, and I pressed back against her below my belt. I had gotten erect quickly, although I think I may have already been partially hard from the dream.
We continued to kiss for what seemed like forever. We were both moaning with abandon as we indulged ourselves with each other. And then, I stopped for a moment. She looked at me questioningly.
"Jackie? Would you be OK if I called you Jacqueline while we are here? It seems more appropriate."
