A couple of years ago, my friend Awlette and I took a girls’ trip to Disney to watch our high school friend Chantelle get married by Mickey Mouse.
On the way home, all misty-eyed, we got to talking about how handsome the groom was. Now Chantelle looked pretty good herself, but we got to admit that her new husband is really something. He is almost as good-looking as our garbage man.
Almost. We got a garbage man who happens to be legendary. I live in an apartment behind the Sloth Lounge — my gentleman friend Lust owns it — and every day before 5 p.m., which is garbage pickup time, ladies of various ages just happen to pop into the Lounge for a quick drink, and bunch up near the window and door to eyeball Louie. (The ladies call him Luscious Larry, but not to his face.) If the weather is hot and he happens to take off his shirt, they all got to revive themselves with another drink.
He’s definitely good for business.
Anyway, back to the story. I get home from the wedding, and just before I open the front door, I brace myself.
My son Gargoyle, who is home from college for the summer, and my daughter Gladiola have been in charge of the place.
I open the door and — no litter lying around, no shoes, no socks, no plastic Mardi Gras cups, wrappers, cans, bottles…nothing piled up on the sofa — even wastebaskets emptied.
Evidently them two had realized that they better at least try to pick up before I got back.
Come to find out, the day before, they were discussing who’s going to clean up what, when in waltzed their Aunt Gloriosa with her three kids.
She come to the Quarter to pre-order a Mardi Gras wig, but the kids are too restless to sit still for the fitting. She forgot I was gone and was hoping to leave them here with me. Gargoyle quick offers them a job — $5 each to make it spic and span while Gargoyle and Gladiola run off and do important errands. They are pretty good negotiators themselves, and they finally agree on a price of $30 — $10 each. (!)
But everything gets done. I can’t believe it.
And, turns out, I shouldn’t have.
I got to explain. I myself love to soak in the bathtub, but I don’t get to do it much. Every morning Gargoyle, Gladiola and I take turns jumping in and out of the shower before we race off, shaking our hair dry.
But I get home early one afternoon and decide to treat myself. I pull open the plastic curtain around the tub. And there it is: a bathtub full of litter.
So I wind up spending the next hour sorting actual trash — candy wrappers, papers, crumpled tissues and old magazines into one trash bag and things to keep like coffee mugs, romance novels, pencils, boxes of Kleenex and such into another.
I can hear the garbage truck rumbling down the street, so I quick throw my clothes on and run out. Unfortunately, I grab both bags, the trash and the stuff to keep.
I rush through that bar full of women and yell “Laaaaarrrry!”
Larry stops in his tracks. It’s definitely hot and he does have his shirt off and tiny rivulets of sweat run down his biceps. He gives me a big smile. Someone in the bar says “Oh, my gawd.” But I keep my dignity. I do not lick my lips. I smile back. And then I hand him BOTH bags.
“Thank you,” I say politely.
He says, “You’re welcome!” He smiles again. I smile again.
I go back inside. The ladies in the bar are fanning their faces with their hands. And my gentleman friend Lust, is leaning against the bar, grinning and holding out a Frozen Irish Coffee for me.
“Laaaarrrry!” he says in a high-pitched voice. I tell him about the bathtub (not mentioning that I just got rid of two coffee mugs and some other perfectly good things.)
Now I know that Lust, even without the Frozen Irish, is worth 10 sweaty Larrys.
But a girl can look.
