Fat Tuesday Massacre

by Katrina Crew

We walk along the crowded street, my friends and I, side-stepping our peers who stumble around us. A faceless stranger pushes between us, arrogantly shoving a strand of jaded beads in my face, silently taunting me to raise my shirt. Cheap plastic rounds in exchange for my self-worth. I walk on, ignoring his surprised and incensed hoots, as if I should be grateful that he offered me the opportunity to bare myself to him.

We stand in line to enter our favorite jazz club, which tonight has sold its soul to the festivities and is pumping forth thumping techno music and, God help us, charging cover. On the sidewalk above us gathers a group of thirty salivating jackals, some with camcorders thrust in the air, others shoving cameras to their friends in the center of the crush. Two cops on bikes ride up and, after a few winks and smiles to each other, disperse the crowd. A lone female emerges from the melee, straightening her shirt and licking her lips, and she is the one they detain.

Inside the club an even bigger crowd of men waves cash in front of the bar, and women wearing too-tight leopard lycra sit at tables waiting for their liquor. Bodies writhe on the dance floor; a woman grinds herself against a man, whispering in his ear. I sit on the side, legs and arms crossed, clutching my purse, and realize how ridiculous I look.

We leave the club and there are other crimes against my memory. At a red light he leans over and bites her breast; another she yells at another him for punching her, as if this is as commonplace an argument to them as the trash; two men fall on each other in an attempt to settle who saw her first; a woman trips as she searches for her car keys; Sierra brags, "If you end the night wearing a bra, it’s just not Mardi Gras..."

And as I walk through the hoards of revelers, I have never felt so isolated.