Masquerade Ball at Mardi Gras

Masquerade Ball at Mardi Gras

     Mr. Baumgartner was an older man with a receding hairline, light complexion, and a thin black mustache like Hitler’s. He was a predator with pale blue eagle eyes. Mr. Baumgartner said, half-jokingly, that if he hadn’t been a writer he would have been president or a messiah.
     Mr. Baumgartner stood in the large room that took up the whole side of the house facing the street. He looked at the print of the Mona Lisa, Da Vinci’s perfect woman. Then he looked at his wife and sighed.
     His wife had grey hair, wore glasses with coke bottle thick lenses, and wore her hair in a bun. She looked like a woman in a Norman Rockwell painting. Her eyes were owl like and had a searching look.
     Lately he felt unsettled about his life. He felt a void within but didn’t know what to do about it. He had even taken to reading, perish the thought, romance novels. He had a stash of harlequins hidden in the bathroom cabinet beneath the toilet paper.
     Mr. Baumgartner stood surveying the room. Then he put on his fake vampire teeth, smiled, and told his wife. “I won’t be late but don’t wait up for me.”
      Mrs. Baumgartner said, “Try to be home by ten. You know I worry about you.” She smirked, “Oh, I cleaned out behind the toilet paper today.”
     Mr. Baumgartner was dumbstruck and quickly walked out the door. He went to his car trunk to get the rest of his costume. As he looked down, he saw a tuber protruding from his exhaust pipe. As he watched the boy run away, he brandished the tuber like a weapon and yelled, “Damn punk, shove this potato up your own exhaust pipe.”
     He drove his Lincoln Continental down the French Quarter streets. It was Mardi Gras and Mr. Baumgartner liked the watch the hordes of hoi polloi getting drunk because he felt superior to them. He was above their antics. He finally got past Canal Street and left the zoo of whistling animals that inhabit the Quarter.
     Mr. Baumgartner was going to a Mardi Gras
ball, a masquerade in which he would test his popularity by seeing if people recognized him with his face made up as Dracula. He arrived at his destination, a private neighborhood off St. Charles Avenue. He stopped at the gate and identified himself to the guard. When the guard recognized him as a famous writer he asked for a memento. Mr. Baumgartner pulled out a handkerchief, sneezed on it, and handed it to the guard. He drove up to the old mansion and parked. There were rivers of costumed people flowing in and out of the house.
     Mr. Baumgartner stepped out of his car. He felt lucky that night. He didn’t know what but something was going to happen for him. He walked past a lady dressed as a black cat. Her Gothic charm won him over. She was the woman dreams are made of. There were impressionistic paintings on the walls. There were sparkling chandeliers like star clusters illuminating the revelers. The whole atmosphere was one of culture and money. Like the paintings the scene seemed too beautiful to be real. Johann Strauss’s ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’ reverberated across the ballroom.
     Mr. Baumgartner sipped punch. Someone dressed as Peter Pan approached him. “Charles you must remember to dust the furniture. It looks just awful. And when was the last time you cleaned the windows? This house looks like it’s in the ninth ward.”
     Mr. Baumgartner’s mouth hung open. He said, “Ma’am you’re mistaken. I’m not the housekeeper. I’m a very well-known count of Transylvanian roots.”
     The Peter Pan lady pursed her lips. She said, “Charles you don’t sound like yourself. You’ve been drinking too much wine. Go to your room, drink some coffee, and sober up.”
     Mr. Baumgartner watched the lady leave as two people dressed as bumble bees approached. They made buzzing sounds. One said, “Where ya at Dawlin? Who are you? A over the hill character from the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show?’”
     Mr. Baumgartner smiled and said, “Have you ever heard of Bram Stoker? Or is your knowledge of Gothic literature limited to the latest Anne Rice novel? She is the contemporary queen of the genre
but surely you are acquainted with the classics.”
     One of the bumble bees put her hands on her abdomen and said, “Oh yea. Youse the one that stalked young ladies in London. I saw the movie with Bela Lugosi.”
     “Do try to read the novel it is far superior to the film; that is if you ever read books.”
     “We’ve got ot get back to da party.”
     Mr. Baumgartner, weary of conversation, retreated to a corner of the room.  A person dressed as a gorilla ambled up to Mr. Baumgartner. The gorilla grunted and stared at him. Mr. Baumgartner said, “Yes I’m sure you had a hard childhood.” The gorilla man pounded his chest, shrieked, and bounced up and down with some smaller gorilletes.
     Mr. Baumgartner once again encountered the lady dressed as a feline queen. His eyes were fixed on his prey. He smiled and said, “May I have the privilege of dancing with you?”
     She curtseyed. “Of course, Monsieur.” They waltzed to Strauss’s Blue Danube. Cat said, “You dance wonderfully. Where did you learn?”
     He said, “I’ve been dancing since the age of five.
I took formal lessons at the Feltus studio in New
York.”
     They stopped dancing but the Cat Lady still held his hand. She said, “So you travel a lot?”
     He said, “Yes I go to Europe every summer and stay in Marseille.”
     The cat lady held his hand tighter. She said, “Really? Marseille is beautiful. We drove from there to the Maritime Alps once. The countryside is just exquisite. The whole country of France is wonderful. By the way how do you like my dancing?”
     Mr. Baumgartner said, “It’s well exquisite.”
     She moved to within less than a foot of Mr. Baumgartner. She asked “Do you write? I love writers. They have such interesting personalities.”
    Mr. Baumgartner looked into her eyes. He said, “Ma’am I write more beautifully than the birds sing; more intellectually than Thomas Aquinas.”
    A person costumed as Napoleon came up and asked for the Cat lady to dance with him. As they moved away, she said, “Pleased to have met you.”
     A person dressed as a giant dragon marched up to Mr. Baumgartner. Its tongue brushed his face. He said, “Don’t get too close to the black cat  
because they are bad luck. But she told me you’re a
writer. You know I’m a writer too.”
     Mr. Baumgartner arched his head and said, “Tell me about your book. I might recognize it.”
     “I’m hoping to publish a novel soon. I’ve gotten a good start, about three pages. I want to write a story about a war between Russia and France in the early nineteenth century. I’ll call it ‘War and Peace.’”
     Mr. Baumgartner asked him, “Have you ever heard of Tolstoy?”
     The dragon retreated. He said, “No. Is he from Gentilly or something?”
     Mr. Baumgartner spoke in the gentlest voice he could muster. He said, “You probably read only the comic strips, don’t you? Stay away from the intellectual stuff, like Doonesbury. It’ll only give you a headache.”
     The dragon shook hands with Mr. Baumgartner and said, “Thanks. I can use all the advice I can get.”
     Mr. Baumgartner said, “Yes. I can see that.”
     Mr. Baumgartner thought of his beloved wife and her years of devotion to him. Then he thought
of the lady dressed as a sultry black cat with her beauty and charm. He plunged into the crowd and barged his way through people. He desperately hoped she hadn’t left the party.
     He found her wiping a stain off her dress. He beseeched her “Come over here I have something to tell you.”
     She smiled and said, “What is it darling? Are you going to tell me who you really are?”
     Mr. Baumgartner grasped her lightly by the arm and said, “No. something much more important.”
     They walked close together down a dark hallway into a dimly lit room. In the middle of the room was a nineteenth century bed. Mr. Baumgartner closed and locked the door behind them.
     Mr. Baumgartner took Cat’s gloved hand and said, “Whoever you are I’m charmed to meet you. I hope that our acquaintance is just beginning. Please meet me at Antoine’s. I’ll be in a private room. The maître d’ and I are close friends. Ask for Big B.”
     She purred, “I’d be delighted. You are a very nice man. But please, tell me who you are.”
     Mr. Baumgartner smiled and said, “I am certainly not a blood thirsty vampire. Have you
ever heard of the book, ‘The Marital Dungeon in three Parts?’”
     She frowned, “I hardly think of marriage as a dungeon. I long to be swept off my feet by a prince charming.”
     He said, “I’m Mr. Baumgartner, a famous writer. I’ve been on the Johnny Carson show, twice. Please don’t tell anyone. I’d be mobbed.”
     “Oh my. I’ll be at Antoine’s at ten. Adieu.”
     Mr. Baumgartner sat at the table and sipped vodka. The stronger his emotions were, the stronger the drink he imbibed. The prospect of adultery loomed over him like a dark cloud.
     The time came for the coronation of the king and queen of the ball. The king waved his scepter and bellowed, “All hail Mardi Gras. May all your dreams come true.”
     Mr. Baumgartner knew that he would get his dream which he deserved of a night with the Cat lady. He noticed in the corner of his eye, someone looking at him. The lady dressed as Peter Pan moved toward him. He thought, “Oh no. She still thinks I’m the house keeper.” He sprang out of his
chair and dashed for the door.
     The lady said, “Goodness gracious…”
      Mr. Baumgartner was on the verge of opening the door. She said, “I realize who you are. I offer my humblest apologies for mistaking your identity. You’re Mr. Baumgartner who wrote, ‘Marriage Takes a Holiday’ and ‘McCarthyism A Now Thing.’ Do you really believe that Pinochet should be used as a role model for elementary students?”
     A crowd gathered around him. A man dressed as batman plunged through the circle of people. He said, “I’m doing a comparison showing the similarities between Mahatma Ghandi and Machiavelli. Would you read it?”
    A man dressed at a banana wobbled through the crowd. He said, “I’ve got a really worthy cause. We could use your support.  Would you honor us with your membership in the American Nazi party?”
     Mr. Baumgartner shoved his way through the crowd and into his car. Instead of hooking up with the Cat he went straight to Pat O’Briens. The place was packed. He sat down at the only open chair. Across from him was a plump lady with short black hair. But what was most conspicuous about her was the huge green boa constrictor wrapped around her neck. He ordered a whiskey sour and gulped it down. He said, “Fans, you can’t live with them you can’t live without them. They’ll harass me till my dying days. And women will be the death of me. They lead me to perdition,” he lamented.
     The snake woman said, “Yea. I know what you mean dawlin.”
     He noticed that the Boa was sipping brandy from a glass. The lady said, “Stop that, Arthur. You know you can’t hold your liquor.” She tenderly stroked the snake.
     Mr. Baumgartner ordered a rum. He said, “You
know I’ve been a writer for twenty-five years and the average person doesn’t recognize me or like me for who I am.”
     The snake lady said, “Oh, I know darling.”
     He ordered a hurricane and drank it through a straw till the glass was empty. He began weeping. “I don’t know what I want out of life anymore. I don’t
give a damn about anything.”
     They lady said, “I’m so sorry.” The snake sipped some more brandy and the lady brushed him away from the glass. Mr. Baumgartner ordered tequila and practically inhaled it. He said, “I didn’t work all those long years for misery. I need to figure out what I want. I need a vacation to think about things; somewhere without phones or fans.”
     Someone at the bar yelled, “Try Borneo or the South Pole.”
     The snake lady’s eyes were glassy and she was obviously soused. The snake looked at Mr. Baumgartner. Quickly it slipped from the lady’s neck and slithered under the table. It wrapped itself around Mr. Baumgartner’s leg. He jumped and spilled his drink in his lap.
     The lady got up saying, “Shame on you Arthur.”
     Mr. Baumgartner said, “Get this drunk monster off of me.”
     The lady exclaimed, “He’s not a monster, he’s my Arthur.” She unwrapped Arthur from his leg. Then she petted Arthur while saying, “My poor baby. My poor baby.”
     Mr. Baumgartner staggered out and into the street. He flagged a cab home. His wife helped him
out of the taxi and into the house.
     The next morning, he arrived at the Rivergate to give a speech to the Alcoholics Anonymous.