If You Don't [Mess] With Me...

I went out on a week night. Ok, so that's not such a revelation. I'm 21 in New Orleans for the summer after all. But, just for the record, I've been quite well-behaved (read: no debaucherous, shameful nights). Just putting that out there for any family/ potential employers that may read this later. Anywho, confession over and on to the immersion and growth and reflecting and such.

Let me just say that last night was pretty friggin awesome. We went to Maple Leaf Bar, definitely a bit divey, but not too sketch, and saw Rebirth Brass Band. Absolutely best thing I've heard since I've been down here. Granted, I'd been primed to use superlatives about them because they'd been talked up by almost everyone who's opinion I trust down here. But, unlike much in life, they're hype was worth believing. Once I adjusted to the intense volume of everything- both the piercing quality of a powerful horn section and the number of people in a tiny place- there were nothing but good times and grooves to be had. I was thrilled to find that I didn't leave feeling as though I should probably be intoxicated to have as much fun as those around me, which is a common feeling (at least for me) after night life.

But, not everyone agreed with me on the need to stay sober (or even lucid) on a Tuesday night. And the other patrons definitely added to the experience, each in their own special way: The man in his forties who decided to appear at my shoulder several times and pantomime taking a picture of me. The old man with dacquiri stained lips that popped out of the darkness in the hall to the bathroom like a haunted house actor. The OG in the straw hat that may have been the coolest person in the room. And, a special shoutout to the couple who provided the evening's teachable moment.

These two were both heavily under the influence, which explains most of their behavior, such as the man running into the same chair twice on their way out. Knowing this, I really wanted to make allowances for the fact that their judgement was impaired. So I made no comment when they decided to salsa in what had formerly been my personal space. And I simply nudged the man forward gently when his elbows began to fly into me and his sweat covered back got a bit too close to my face. And I tried hard not to judge the way he was holding a woman apparently young enough to be his daughter. (I'll admit, that last one was mostly unsuccessful).

But, when they started searching feverishly for lighters, my patience wore thin. I don't like smoke, actually I hate it. And yes, I am aware that bars are smoky, but the open patio at the back had kept this one breezy thus far. Besides, even in a bar I never expect to have someone's smokey cigarette held directly in my face. After fanning a couple of puffs, and coughing up a lung, I was more than done with these two. When a friend contemplated flicking the woman's cigarette away, I for once had no desire to calm her anger. The man of the pair had barely avoided a fight earlier, and now I understood why.

And then, just when things might have gotten unattractive (not quite ugly; we're too classy for that) the band unknowingly intervened. They started singing the lyrics to what had been instrumental so far. "If you don't [bleep] with me, then I won't [bleep] with you." Listening to their advocacy for a live and let live lifestyle, I was reminded just how ridiculous antagonizing two drunk people would be, even if they were incrediblly obnoxious. Sure, they were slowly killing me with second-hand smoke. Yes, the woman's hair got stuck in my lip gloss every time the man spun her. But hey, it was New Orleans.

My friend must have had the same realization, because as the next puff of smoke wafted into our nostrils, we both decided to make dance moves out of fanning it away. The air cleared, we laughed hysterically, and decided that salsa may not be such a terrible idea. It wasn't.

Nonviolence prompted by profanity. Only in New Orleans. Well played Rebirth, well played.