Hurricane

You are in New Orleans. The calendar on the opposite wall says August below the images of coffee beans. You are in a coffee shop, sipping your insanely expensive watered-out coffee-like concoction while taking advantage of the wireless connection to the outside world.

The buzz at the counter is friendlier than usual, and inbetween the shouting of made-up Italian words and handing-over of thick paper cups with beige plastic lids on, a couple of words are repeated. No, not “thank you” or “have a nice day” or even “caffè molto sottile, venti”.

“Storm season.”

Then you remember Katrina. Shit. Fuck. Oops.

You should have been somewhere else, but you aren’t. You gotta cash your paycheck first, and that takes some time. Besides, you aren’t done with your coffee yet. Hurricane or not, you are not going to leave a three dollar cup of coffee for some godawful hurricane. No way.

Eventually you disconnect from the world, pack up your laptop and make your way outside into the incredibly fucking awful humidity. The paycheck-cum-cash is burning in your pocket and subsequently hot-potatoed across the counter and transformed into greens.

You pass outside Bar 76 and recognize Marco behind the counter behind the glass behind the sidewalk behind the road. There’s a bar and in the pocket is a wad of money.

“Fuck this, I’m having a drink”, you utter to yourself, all Charles Bronson-like.

Marco just looks at you, mentally shaking together a glass of what you always drink when you’re around.

“Surprise me”, you say.

Marco surprises you.

New Orleans Hurricane (serves one)

  • A handful of ice
  • 60 ml light rum (151 proof or thereabouts)
  • 60 ml syrup tasting of passion fruit
  • 235 ml of a lime-like soft drink
  • Some lime juice.
  • A splash of rum which isn’t considered light

Pour everything except the heavy duty rum haphazardly into a shaker, shake the shaker about (put the lid on first) and pour everything into a nice looking glass. If the guy in the back doing the dishes has fled the county, use a paper cup or something. Be creative. Ask the coffee shop next door if you don’t have any. Carefully float the rum that didn’t go into the shaker on top of the mixture now in the glass or cup. Stick a straw into the drink and go from the bottom. Enjoy it while you can.

While your head starts emitting a pleasant buzz, you think Fuck this. Dallas can wait.

———

Kommentar: i august 2005 satt vi en hel gjeng i den såkalte catboxen på everything2.com. En av de som var til stede var en kar som bare kaller seg discofever. Han satt på en internettkafé i New Orleans og lurte på om han skulle rømme nå eller vente på noe de har i junaiten som heter paycheck. Så fikk jeg en personlig melding fra JohnnyGoodyear der han ba pent om jeg kunne skrive noe til discofever siden han ikke hadde tid selv. Hva annet kunne jeg skrive?

Dagen etter kom Katrina, og discofever forsvant i to måneder. Han har det mye bedre nå.

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