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To Charles O'Hay's previous piece

Algiers

It was just after ten a.m. and a white hot sky had already settled over the city. Nick sat up and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed.

"Whiskey and eggs," he said.

"Whatsat?" mumbled Clara, still vaguely drunk from the night before and having trouble rousing herself.

"I need something to get the pistons pumping."

Clara didn't answer. Instead she rolled over and pretended to sleep.

Hangovers are different for everybody, thought Nick. His always made him hungry. Clara liked to sleep them off. That was the strange thing about being a drunk. One was never quite in synch with the rest of the world. For example, most honeymooners would be in a luxury suite on the other side of the river, where polite people in pressed coats and white frocks would drift by carrying platters of chilled drinks and freshly prepared food. There would be overtures, amenities, perhaps even a cat curling and uncurling about the fencebars of a wrought iron porch hung with magnolia blossoms.

Nick checked the pint bottle on the nightstand. Empty. "I think I remember a Circle K up the street," he said, "I'll get us something." Clara groaned.

With some difficulty, Nick reached under the bed, found his pants and shoes and pulled them on. He didn't bother checking his pockets. When one drank as he and Clara did, Nick knew it was never a good idea to take all one's cash on an outing. Best to leave some hidden for later. He walked into the bathroom, reached above the medicine cabinet, and brought down the envelope. He counted the bills. Two hundred and forty-seven. "Not bad," he said, then slipped a ten, a five, and two singles into his pocket. Grabbing his shirt from a chair back, he walked to the door. "Back in a minute," he said. Clara didn't answer.

Outside, it was hot and breezeless. The air, thick and wet. The streets were generally quiet, although a few local residents could be seen sitting and talking quietly on their front steps. Some had bottles. Nick liked them. Back home, he thought, you'd be jailed for getting drunk on your own front step. Here, it was routine. Whiskey was sold at the same place as tampons and ice cream. It was a truly egalitarian society. As long as one didn't shoot or stab anyone, everything else was acceptable. In fact, he and Clara hadn't seen a cop since they'd arrived.

At the corner, an old man played a sqeezebox and sang:

"Jesus dancing in a black top hat
Jack of Diamonds on a shoeshine stand
Drunk again, can you imagine that?
River running like a hunted man.

Little angel with a butterfly comb
Razor driving out a crooked line
You got a twenty, you can take her home
Have yourself a real good time..."

Nick found the Circle K. He filled his basket with soda, breakfast pastries, butter, a dozen eggs, and Alka-Seltzer. When he got to the counter, he ordered a pint of Old Crow and a paper and pad.

When he returned, Clara was on the phone. "I hope that's not long distance," he said, placing the bag of groceries on the dresser. She waved him off and continued talking: "And then we went to this great little club and when we ran out of money Nick got up on stage with his harmonica and started playing..."

Nick reached into the bag and pulled out a small package. "Finer DoNut," it said. Finer than what, he wondered, then threw the package onto the bed near Clara.

She went on: "...that worked for a while, I mean, people bought us drinks, but then the bouncer said we still had to pay up for our last round and that's whan they threw us out. Yeah, that's what Nicky said. I guess we're lucky they didn't call the cops."

Nick sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the paper. "Times-Picayune," it said. Well, thought Nick, that's as good a name as any. He opened to the want ads and began looking through the jobs. Dishwasher. Front Desk Clerk. Busboy.

Clara said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. "What do you wanna do?" she asked.

"We could go back to bed," said Nick, folding the newspaper.

"My head still hurts, maybe later."

For a moment, they sat in silence. A fly landed on Nick's forehead and he brushed it away.

Across the river, in New Orleans, the bars were beginning to open.

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