The cat was speeding us into oblivion, downshifting into the corners, giving me that aint we having fun now look, as the tires staggered across the pavement, screaming in protest until the road straightens, then, catching traction, hurtling us towards our doom.
How I came to be in a runaway sports car driven by an adrenal addicted tabby is quite a tale. This however is not that story.
I staggered into the bar about ten thirty slumping onto a stool, wiping the memories of last night from my eyes. Mike had already done the prep work and opened the shutters and doors overlooking the beach. We don’t normally do much business this early, but, occasionally a thirsty tourist comes in looking for one of our signature dishes. As young warriors on liberty in the French Quarter we had learned the secret to tropical drinks is pineapple juice, umbrellas, and lots of grain alcohol.
In reality business hasn’t been good since Club Misogyny opened up down the beach. Recently Mike has been working on new recipes to try and bust back into the lead and today, he greets me by sliding a martini glass filled with a frozen purple drink down the bar, “drink this bro”. I sniff tentatively and Mike explains, “it’s blueberry schnapps and rum I call it a bluna colada.
“You know brother sometimes I think, it would be easier for me to have stayed with one of my wives, then it is for me to keep you as my best friend.”
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