CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY grinning like fools — and as the car glides through the crowd people are hanging strings of beads on the cops’ bolstered guns. Driving the car, another smiling cop holds the microphone for the overhead speaker next to a cassette tape recorder on which “Mardi Gras Mambo” is playing. Behind the car, a long line of Jimmy Carters, rabbits, fairies, Spocks, frogs, devils and face-painted teenagers are dancing to the music, second-lining the police car. “ Quick,” says Les, “ get me over there.” He lifts the camera and starts filming as I grab his shoulders and walk him alongside the slow-rolling cop car. Presently it stops, and the driver holds the microphone out the window so a street fiddler can play over the sound system. Square dancers clear a space around the car and swing partners in a Texas Star. People are laughing, drinking whiskey, smoking dope. From high balconies, masked women throw streamers and golden doubloons. The air is filled with falling beads. Mirrored costumes flash yellow and red, catching the car-top light show and tossing it back. Les steps up to the window of the car. “ Do you do this every year?” he asks. “ Nope,” says the cop, 35 years old, with a moustache under his nose and a flower behind his ear. “ This is the first time. I did something like this one Halloween, though. I made a tape of spooky music and played it through the speaker, and I got a good response.” “ Does the Police Department approve?” asks Les. “ I hope they never hear about it,” says the cop. A beautiful, barefoot 16-year-old girl wearing nothing but red lace underwear dances up to the car, hangs a string of beads over the mirror, leans in the window and kisses the cop full on the lips. The kiss goes on for a long time, and the crowd roars. Finally the girl dances back into the crowd, the cop switches on a different sequence of flashing lights, and the car inches forward again, heading toward Canal — and the protest marchers. The second-line is even longer now. On the loudspeaker, Marvin Gaye is singing, “ Got to Give It Up.” Quickie The light changes fast as the afternoon rolls on. I ’m taking a meter reading somewhere on Dumaine Street when a young woman wearing a bright red poncho over a long peasant dress and leather-thong sandals comes stepping up to me. “ What are you doing?” she asks. I’m too busy being professional to pay her much attention. “ Light meter reading, TV commercial...” she nods, walks on, stops a few steps away, turns back and kisses me on the mouth. She puts a lot into it for a quickie. She steps back smiling. “ Um, any chance we could try that again?” I ask. She shakes her head, still smiling, and disappears into the crowd. “ What’s the reading?” asks Les, who’s missed the scene completely. “ Just fine,” I grin at him. I’m starting to catch on. Dirty Boogie The gay beauty contest is long over, but Royal Street is still full of costumed winners and losers. The biggest crowd is clustered around a beautiful young man in mesh tights, high heels and blue ribbon, dancing the dirty boogie on the front porch of a low, one-storey house. Loud music blasts onto the street from its open doors and windows. Something must be going on inside because, one after another, drag queens mount the stairway, pat the young man on the ass (cheers from the crowd) and enter the house. No one comes out. “What’s going on in there?” pipes up a little old lady in the front of the crowd. The young man shoots her an arch look, and says nothing. “ I want to see!” she insists. The young man’s look grows It's just a dick," snaps the young man. "Surely you've seen a few before." The little old lady misses his sarcasm. "You know," she says, almost to herself, "I haven't seen that many. . . ." scornful. “ There isn’t much to see,” he says, bumping his hips at her. “ Just some hair and a little piece of meat.” The crowd laughs, but the little old lady has gone too far to back down. “ You let me in there!” she orders. “ It’s just a dick,” snaps the young man. “ Surely you’ve seen a few before.” The little old lady misses his sarcasm. “ You know,” she says, almost to herself, “ I haven’t seen that many...” It’s the last reply the young man is expecting, and his scornful mask cracks wide. For 30 seconds he roars with laughter. Then, recovering himself, he dances down the steps. “ OK,” he says, taking the little old lady by the hand. “ Come on .” Elegantly he escorts her up the steps into the house. The door slams closed behind them, the windows slide shut, the music dies. Silence hangs over Royal Street. Five or ten seconds pass, and then a lovely young woman of 25, wearing a short .red dress and sensible shoes, runs up the stairs and bangs on the door. Nothing happens. She bangs again, harder. She turns to the crowd, her face desperate. “ Mother!” she screams. Ten minutes later the door opens, the windows slide up, and the little old lady emerges with a bemused look on her face. Presently she joins the young man in mesh tights in a boogie on the front porch. His boogie is dirtier than hers, but she does the best she can. Nameless Zulu Hero The woman behind the bar at Gladstone’s doesn’t even blink when we walk in face-painted, costumed and crazy. The sun is going down, but it’s still Fat Tuesday and it will be until midnight. G ladstone’s is a black jo in t, uptown on Magazine Street, with a loud jukebox loaded with rhythm and blues, a jumping bar, and rooms that rent by the hour for nefarious purposes. On top of that, Gladstone’s serves cheap, delicious New Orleans eats — red beans and rice, gumbo, corn bread, shrimp. Also fried chicken. We’ve been munching Dixi- Fried since dawn, but it’s 8 pm and we’re suddenly ravenous. Must be the cold. Maureen, Morthland and I order gumbo and red beans. “ I’ll have the chicken,” says Les. We stare at him, speechless. “ I want to see how it stacks up against Dixi-Fried,” he says. When the chicken arrives it’s delicious — fresh and fragrant in a crisp, flaky coating, just a hing of herbs in the batter. It tastes like it was cooked by a human being in the next room. It’s 20 times better than Dixi-Fried. We raise our beer cans and drink a toast to the nameless Zulu hero who threw the Dixi-Fried in the river. Rejoin America It’s nearly midnight and all film is gone, but we’re too beat to sleep and too crazy to stop. We’re down by the docks, driving along Tchoupitoulas Street, following the Mississippi back toward the Quarter when a big river rat runs in front of the car and disappears into a vacant lot. “ I just had a silly thought,” says Les. “ I wonder if the cats and the rats have Mardi Gras too, and stop chasing each other.” At midnight on the dot, cops will walk into the Quarter and arrest anyone still on the street. Law will prevail, order will reign. Giant water trucks will spray the streets. Teams of trashpeople will drive garbage-eating monster machines through the Quarter, sucking up beer cans, condoms and whiskey bottles. The army of everyday will take apart the ancient dream by morning. New Orleans will rejoin America. But I might not, I might go looking for music at Popeye’s. I might go looking for someone in a red dress. I might go looking for Leslie. It’s midnight. Michael Goodwin is a Take One Contributing Editor. CASH FOR RECORDS BIRD 'S SUITE RECORDS 3736 S.E. 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