Living in the Bywater

There are parades. Not big paper mache floats or anything, but groups of people around my age with dreams of being gypsies and vagabonds. They're often led by troupes of musicians with trombones and tuba that lost their shine years ago, were probably found in a dumpster, then brought to a workshop and lovingly restored to life. They parade all the way down my street to a bar called Mimi's. If you don't know New Orleans, Mimi's is the place to go for dancing. We don't have clubs here. Am I fond of Mimi's? Yes. Do I go there often? No. I sit usually at the coffee shop across the street and usually read or sketch. Say hello to the people walking by. Read Franny and Zooey for the first time the Sunday before Salinger died. That night a guy on hydraulic stilts dressed up as a cyborg dinosaur came strolling out of Mimi's. He was about eight feet tall, with fingers about two feet long, and little l.e.d. lights like antennae going down his spine from forehead to the end of his long rubber tail. Living in the Bywater is like being told you did everything in your life right, everything that brought you to this place was the right decision, have some mirliton cole-slaw.