The Devil Always Collects

by John Moore

  “How was your trip to Vegas with Charlotte?” he asked.

  “It was fine. I learned a great deal about the food industry. Mostly about the processed food industry. It’s kinda scary,” I said.

  “No shit. What’s really scary is how the food industry, the chemical companies and the government are all in bed together. I’ve learned so much about the way pesticides and herbicides linger and spread though the environment in the last few years. These poisons don’t just stay where they are sprayed or sprinkled, they leach through the soil into the water supply or find their way into the cattle, chickens or hogs that eat the corn that is grown on the contaminated land. If people only knew what was really going on, they wouldn’t let this happen. People would storm Washington demanding changes. It disgusts me how we allow the environment to be desecrated!” he said.

  I thought about my mother and how she believed that the pesticides and herbicides used on our land gave her cancer. The same chemicals Tom was probably talking about killed her. He’s right we shouldn’t let them get away with poisoning us. But storm Washington, D.C.? They wouldn’t even notice. They only listen to sounds money made when it spoke. Like Sarah said, what could we really do? They were huge multinational corporations with a gazoo of money and political influence. They crushed anyone who got in their way. Maybe it was better to leave it alone?

  “Tom, you learned about chemical pollution since you’ve been working in Louisiana on the BP oil spill?”

  “There and elsewhere,” he said. “It’s terrible and is getting worse. What time should I be ready tomorrow for the limo ride to the big party?”

  “Picking you up at 8:00 sharp,” I answered.

  Wow, he changed the subject abruptly. What’s up with that? There was so much more to Tom than met the eye. His passions ran deep. God, I loved that about him! We were connecting on a level I’d never experienced before. I could see that he was passionately protective of the environment, but there was an angry edginess about his passion that was a bit disconcerting. Was he too dark for me? I didn’t know. What I did know was that a deep visceral energy ran between us. OK, Alex, focus on having fun, not on having Tom’s baby and living happily ever after. You are getting way ahead of yourself here. What the hell was this man doing to me anyway?

  We both ordered a bistro salad, sans the onions for me, just in case. Ahead of myself or not a girl’s got to be prepared, I thought. False alarm, though. We ate and Tom wanted to walk around the Quarter to do some sightseeing.

  “I love the atmosphere these old buildings create, with the black wrought iron railings, and gingerbread molding. Imagining the pirates that roamed these streets really gets my blood flowing,” he said.

  His face was flushed, like a kid about to get on the biggest roller coaster at the parish fair. Flushed with excitement. More dark side? I wished he were this excited about me. Maybe he just takes his time?

  It was a wonderful day. Tom and I had no trouble talking to each other and I was so ready for more. I wasn’t usually a patient person, and I was proud that I hadn’t tied him up and done vile and nasty things to him already. I looked up and thought, Mom, I know you are laughing but please tell the choir members I’m only joking. Even so, it seemed there was a volcano between us, lying just below the surface. Smoldering. Maybe I’d know how he felt by tomorrow night. Now it was time for us both to go home. Big day tomorrow.

  As morning broke on Mardi Gras day, I hopped out of bed and hit the button on my Keurig. Love that sound and that smell. The TV was turned on and weather people were blabbing about no rain and mild temperatures. This was going to be a spectacular day.

  “Record crowds predicted for this year’s Fat Tuesday Celebration,” the talking head with plastic hair reported.

  I looked across the room at my beautiful red ball gown hung on the closet door. I hung it there so I could view it always and think about Tom seeing his princess in it. Maybe Tom had boob blind spots, or maybe it was just like looking into the sun for him. Blinds him and he’s unable to see. If this dress didn’t do it then nothing would. Maybe if I were a mermaid? Nah, he wouldn’t look at my boobs he’d look at my flipper. I made myself laugh.

  Sarah came over at 10:00 with jewelry to accessorize my outfit. Nothing too dramatic, just some glistening, gold bracelets.

  “How did it go with Tom yesterday?” she asked. “Is he excited to go to the Rex Ball with you?”

  “He is. He doesn’t seem like the formal ball type, but he is genuinely excited. Maybe it’s the whole Mardi Gras thing? He loves the French Quarter, too. Sarah, this guy really does something for me. We could talk to each other for hours without tiring. You should have seen him at the Aquarium of the Americas. Tom and the fish acted as if they were on a first name basis. They’re all probably friends on Facebook by now. Sorry, Sarah, I’m babbling. How are things with you?”

  “I am a little nervous about Mark being out of jail. He’s not the type to give up easily. He thinks since he knows important people, he can get away with anything. He scares me, Alex,” she said.

  I felt the blood rush to my face and barked, “If that bastard comes anywhere near us, he’ll be wearing a better looking pair of shoes on his balls than on his feet!”

  Holy shit, I thought, where did that come from? He’s twice my size. So what, I thought, he still had balls and I still had shoes, Jimmy Choos no less.

  Sarah laughed at me and mocked, “You are such a badass. By the way, Jess Johnson at the Times asked if you and I could go by to see her after Mardi Gras. Up for that?”

  “Absolutely, I love her. Now she’s a real life badass,” I said, giggling. “Any idea what she wants?”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t want me to tell you anything till she can talk to you. Jess always has a reason for everything she does. She has been around this city for a long time. Well respected. After Katrina, she organized a shelter and fed hundreds, if not thousands, of displaced people. One thing about Jess, she’s not shy. She’ll come right out and tell us what’s on her mind,” Sarah said.

  Sarah left and time passed quickly. Time for Cinderella to get ready for the ball. After a great shower and triple washing my shoulder length hair, I began my transformation. I wanted to take my time for once and do my make up like the rest of the city girls. I wanted to do it for Tom. My hair would be a dazzling updo that would make any prince drool. Even one with boob blindness.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Mardi Gras Ball

  The white, stretch limo was parked outside my condo. I had time for one quick last look in the mirror. It struck me that I looked like a woman, not a girl anymore. My hair and make-up more elegant, my posture erect, my attitude more confident. One of those moments of transition. I suppose I didn’t look that much different than I did yesterday, but I saw myself differently. I saw both my mother and father in my reflection and I liked it.

  We rolled up to Tom’s place, and I thought I’d faint when he stepped outside, red-carpet-ready, in his tuxedo. How fucking hot! Tom was more of a blue-collar type guy. He was from the woodsy part of Northern California and worked on the ocean. But, OMG, could he rock a tuxedo. Even though we had rewritten the fairytale, the carriage picking him up instead of me, I knew this was going to be a night to remember. I could feel warmth in all my naughty places.

  We entered the New Orleans’ Sheraton Hotel lobby and were greeted by the official Rex Ball photographer. He snapped several photos of us posing and smiling.

  He gave us his card and said, “I’ll be roaming the floor all night snapping pics. You can visit the website on the card and see all of them and purchase any you like. Makes a great keepsake or gift.”

  What a spectacular sight. Live music and a purple, green and gold decorated ballroom. Faux floats lined the walls. Beautifully dressed women glittered in floor-length ball gowns as the light bounced off of their diamond necklaces, earrings, bracelets and whatever else a per
son could put diamonds on. Men handsomely adorned in tuxes escorted their finely coiffed companions to and from the spacious dance floor. Tables were strategically arranged to provide easy access from group to group for those eager to see and be seen. The dance floor sparkled with alternating laser lights keeping the beat with the music. Elegant people gyrated not so elegantly, dancing with moves revived from the past four decades.

  Perched on the stage sat the king, queen and court of the Rex Ball. The king and queen were garnished with gold and silver cloth and sequined robes. Their outfits were reminiscent of the royal French courts of the Renaissance. Each was crested with a magnificent bejeweled crown. They sat regally on thrones posing for photographs and watching their subjects dance, drink, and make merry. This spectacle was both elegant and hedonistic.

  We snaked our way to Bayou Oil’s table. I glided on my Jimmy Choos, trailing the lower portion of my ball gown behind me, escorted by my prince. My boobs seemed to make an impression on the half-drunk lechers, and the outfit evoked jealousy from the women. All in all, a proper entrance for a princess, I thought. Bayou Oil’s table was, of course, as close to the stage as possible.

  When he saw me approaching, Dan Broussard stood and said, “Welcome, Alexandra, so happy to see you. You look lovely. Who is your friend?”

  Tom stretched his arm out to shake Mr. Broussard’s hand, “I’m Tom Sanders.”

  After shaking Tom’s hand Mr. Broussard said, “Alexandra and Tom, this is my wife, Julie.”

  He went on to list the rest of the people at the table. It was difficult to hear but I’m sure they were all important people. I was fixated on Julie Broussard. I had never really thought about Mr. Broussard having a wife. At one time, obviously, she had been a beautiful woman. She looked worn and tired now. Her skin was withered and drawn like a pair of leather pants that have been cinched up too tight. She swayed to and fro, clearly having over-indulged during the day. Just like Sarah said: they were all shit-faced by the time we arrived. Even Mr. Broussard wasn’t feeling any pain. Tom and I sat and made small talk for a short while. The band played I Will Always Love You, written by Dolly Parton and sung by Whitney Houston in the movie The Bodyguard. Tom grabbed my arm and led me to the dance floor.

  He placed one of my hands in his, wrapped the other around me and pulled me in close, smashing my chest against his. He nuzzled his nose next to my ear, and we moved to the music in perfect unison. I felt an electric charge run up my spine and down to my toes. My knees almost betrayed me and weakened. That was a magical moment. Energy flowed between us, heating up the room, or so it felt. When the music stopped, he grabbed the sides of my face, pulled me to him and kissed me. It was a passionate kiss, deep and long. I kissed him back, losing myself in him. Oh, what a kiss! I had never been kissed like that before.

  When we returned to the table, Mandy Morris had joined our group with her date.

  “Hi, Alexandra, I heard you were here. You look so hot! Who’s your boyfriend?” she asked.

  “Tom, this is Mandy Morris and...uhhh...”

  “Bob Broussard,” her date said, not waiting to be introduced. “I’m Dan’s son.”

  Mr. Broussard looked at him with pride. Mrs. Broussard did not. She was too drunk to see that far. Bob Broussard looked like a younger version of his father, handsome and tall. He had a nice Caribbean tan. Remarkable, considering it was the end of winter. No doubt from jet setting. His hair was cropped close to his scalp.

  Mandy said, “Bob and I have been hanging with each other since we were kids. He’s the male version of me.”

  Bob smiled in agreement. There was no doubt that Mandy and Bob were two peas in a pod. Both from wealthy families, never having to worry about making a living like the rest of us mere mortals. They looked the part too, finely dressed, socially confident, with a drink in their hand and a “hey, look at me” expression on their faces. Paris Hilton and her Ken doll. Mandy spotted charter members of her tribe at another table. She and Bob sashayed off to collect more adoration from their groupies. I, for one, never understood the Paris Hilton thing. Famous for being famous? What the hell was that? Having been raised on a corn farm, I had different priorities. I guess I had a blind spot for celebrity status.

  Tom and I drained all of the prattle from our bullshit reservoirs as we drank champagne. Neither of us was good at small talk. The rest of the table seemed to have a never ending supply. Having exhausted our fake smile muscles, we went back out on the dance floor. Tom held me even closer. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be at the ball. Maybe it was seeing Mandy. Maybe it was the throngs of drunken people. I wanted to be alone with Tom. I hoped he felt the same.

  “How do you feel about getting out of here and heading to the condo in the French Quarter?” I asked.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” Tom said.

  We went back to the table to say our goodbyes. Mandy and her date were still flitting around from table to table. Mr. Broussard was helping his drunken wife get to the door. He didn’t seem embarrassed by her condition, though. I guess he’d gotten used to scenes like this one. Tom and I grabbed drinks in go cups and summoned our chariot driver – masquerading as a limo chauffeur – to carriage us to Broussard’s apartment on Bourbon Street. The go cup was almost a mandatory New Orleans tradition. You would never get away with drinking on the street or a car in any other city in the United States. Technically, it was against Louisiana state law but no one seemed to care. The short ride to Bourbon Street gave Tom the quiet time he needed to tell me that he felt a connection to me the very first moment his eyes met mine.

  “Sometimes I’m a little slow to figure things out and to make a move,” he said. “But there is no way I can let you get away from me. We feel right together,” he said.

  I thought, that was an exceptionally short ‘I love you’ speech. But it worked. I was melting inside.

  The taxi dropped us off as close as possible to Broussard’s apartment. Tom, my Jimmy Choo shoes, and I had to make our way to the apartment down Bourbon Street. Not an easy task. The Jimmy Choos will never be the same. Other ballgoers were in tuxes but no one struck a pose like Tom and I. We arrived at the apartment and just like Sarah said, we showed our invitation, security verified our credentials, and we were allowed access to the castle. It was a huge place by French Quarter standards. The kitchen, great room, and one small bedroom were on the first floor. The second floor, accessible by stairs or compact elevator, had a master bedroom and two smaller bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. The master bedroom and a second bedroom had doors that led out to the balcony on Bourbon Street. Tom and I snacked on jumbo boiled shrimp while the bartender made us hurricanes. Drinks in hand, we went upstairs to the balcony.

  “This is so gorgeous,” I said, looking down at the crowd below, a sea of partially costumed humanity. “Let’s throw beads.” There were not many people on the balcony yet. Maybe because the ball was still in progress. Tom and I went to a corner of the balcony opposite the other people. We looked down at the crowd and threw a few beads. At the other end of the balcony, three women decided to have a flashing contest with girls on the street. They flashed their boobs and caught beads. The girls on the street flashed and beads were hurled at them from the balcony. The crowd cheered, mesmerized by the back and forth tit display. Girls flashed and guys, with nothing to flash, just begged for beads as if they were gold. We watched and finished our drinks.

  “I’m cold,” I told Tom.

  Tom retrieved a large blanket from a closet in the master bedroom, snuggled up behind me and draped it over both of us. I clutched the blanket, so Tom’s hands were free to wrap around my waist. He placed a tender kiss on my neck and whispered, “Alexandra, I’ve never felt this close to anyone.”

  His hands worked their way to my breasts. Finally, I thought, he’s discovered my boobs. I could feel his response behind me as he slowly kneaded both breasts in unison. They overflowed his hands, and I smiled as h
e shifted his grip to contain more of them. He whispered again, “I want you.”

  I slightly turned my head toward him and said in a wispy voice, “I want you too.”

  I felt my dress being lifted from behind. I raised my hips and Tom slowly slid my panties down, his hand pausing briefly to stroke my rear. Then, in one maddeningly deliberate move, he entered me. Right there on the balcony on Bourbon Street he was inside me. I arched my back to give him better access. He didn’t need it. He welded his hands to my hips and pulled me to him with each thrust. I pretended to be swaying to the street music to cloak what we were doing. No need, though. The balcony and street crowd were enjoying their favorite Mardi Gras sport of boob-flashing for plastic beads, a sport that united the exhibitionist players with their voyeuristic fans. I lost myself in that moment. I lost track of everything. My head spun and I left my body. My knees went weak and had Tom not been holding me, I surely would have fallen to the floor of the balcony. We both crescendoed at the same time. Cinder-Fucking-rella!

  Shortly after the magical moment, we headed to my place. Our chariot driver read our expressions and quickly navigated the back streets to avoid traffic delays. He deposited us at the curb and said, “You two look like you were made for each other. Broussard has taken care of the tip and strictly instructed me not to take anything from you. Good night.”

  I unlocked the door, and Tom scooped me up and carried me across the threshold. How gallant, I thought. When he put me down, I grabbed his hand and dragged him to the bedroom.

  “I demand a rematch,” I said.

  We wriggled out of our formal attire and tossed it on the floor. I threw him on his back on my bed. My turn, I thought. I climbed on top and guided him into me. I moved back and forth rhythmically.