What does a hardware store, two drunks, and Dan Akroyd have in common? Turns out, quite a bit.

I grew up in a one red-light town village down south. My house had a big ole’ yard and oak trees. Cows grazed in the pasture behind my house. Probably about the most boring creatures in existence. Good for eating and little else. Definitely not cow tipping, by the way, unless you’re gullible or want a belly-full of horn. There was a pond, too. No fish, though. It mostly served as a sewer for the cows. I almost drowned in it one time. Dead of winter and I went through the ice. Came out covered in filth and shame.

Basically, my childhood and teenage years can be boiled down to one word: uneventful.

College gave my life some spice by necessity, as did teaching, but it wasn’t until I moved to New Orleans that the weird world of my imagination met reality. And never did I agree more with Mark Twain: truth is stranger than fiction.

So allow me to tell you a little story from my day’s adventures. It involves, as does seemingly everything, alcohol.

New Orleans is like a more chill version of Las Vegas in that pretty much anything goes, especially if you’re on Bourbon. Basically every tourist and their stepmom coming through my bar tells me that. And since New Orleans has more people visiting it than the average piece of rotten fruit has flies, I hear that daily. It’s enough to make my ears bleed.

One way New Orleans stands out, though – and this is a big one – is its drinking laws. Specifically, wonders among Bloody Mary drenched wonders, is that in New Orleans, you can drink on the street, provided it’s not in a glass. When people ask me that, they do so nearly universally with eyebrows raised.

“Drink in the street?” they say, followed by a disbelieving chuckle and a rueful shake of the head. “You Americans must be mad.” (That’s actually a direct quote from a guy who came through one day wearing a rather beautiful purple hat).

That concept out of the way, let’s move to the meat of the story. I found myself walking to a certain unnamed hardware store today. I was in need of a pair of bolt cutters, a tool big enough to double as a murder weapon if anyone decided to try and jam me up while walking through the streets. When I got in the parking lot, I noticed two guys leaning against their truck, shotgunning the rest of their respective beers. They had the veiny forearms and paunchy bellies of longtime construction workers.

Nothing unusual about that. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday in New Orleans. What else would you be doing other than guzzling beers in the parking lot of a hardware store?

Thanks to my dazzling sense of direction, I got lost in within approximately three seconds of walking through the sliding doors . Somehow ended up in an aisle with a bunch of doorknobs before I found my way to the tool rental area.

Here’s where the story starts to get interesting.

I walked in and immediately found a way to make myself irritating. There was a laser running from one end of the door to the other. When you stepped through it, a signal bounced to the room’s other end and a beeping like hell’s own fire alarm sounded. Obviously, this was to make sure that the employees were paying attention to customers entering their section of the store. I, however, had my headphones in and didn’t know any better, so I just stood there for a goodly while until one of the employees kindly slid his finger across his throat and gestured me forward.

Instantly, I was enemy number one. But not for long. One old man proceeded to copy me for a wanton desire to burn the world. No way he had not seen and heard my gaffe twenty seconds beforehand. I attempted a high five but was pointedly ignored. I went back to my headphones. Fuck him.

There was a bit of a line in front of me. Everyone had paint on their shirts and looked like manly men, the types right at home in a hardware store. I had on a bright pink shirt and Converses with holes in the toes. Out of place, my specialty. The two alcoholics from earlier were in the line next to me, returning one of their tools. Some kind of paint mixing thingamjig. Soon, I began to hear them through my music, so I turned it off and tuned in to eavesdrop – if you can count listening to shouting as eavesdropping.

One of the men was bigger, the type I would corral into lifting the heavy end of the fridge when moving into a new home. He was doing most of the talking. And arm waving. And spitting. Lots of spitting. All aimed at one of the hardware store’s managers who looked like Dan Akroyd, he of SNL fame and Tommy Boy. The second of the alcoholic duo mostly just scurried beneath his friend and Dan Akroyd, like a a rat trapped in a box. One that has lost its teeth to gingivitis and can’t gnaw its way free. I’ll call him Bubbles. Pretty awkward scene.

“I sure as fuck ain’t paying three days for that thing. It doesn’t even work!” The big guy, whom I shall name Gus, had a wonderfully diverse vocabulary.

“How long did you have it for?” Dan had hair like a balding porcupine. At this point, I didn’t care whether or not I got my bolt cutters now or in an hour. This was good entertainment, so I leaned against the wall and watched. The old man behind me left in a huff. Spoilsport.

“Three days,” Gus said. “But I only used it for two.”

“But you’re going to pay for three.” Dan was being patient at this point, I thought. Cooly professional. “We rent our tools out based on the amount of days customers keep them. You had it three days. You owe it to us for three days.”

“I ain’t paying three! I’ll pay for two,” Gus said. Had there been anymore menace in his tone, I would have been slightly nervous about where he was standing – right next to a mess of murder-worthy bunch of hammers and the like. A lot easier to swing those than a lawnmower, which Dan happened to have near him.

Apparently Dan had the same thoughts. “Call security.” He twirled a finger at one of his employees, who picked up a phone. At this point, Gus decided that enough was enough. He started screaming at the top of his lungs about the cloud of bullshit surrounding him, and how the management was out to get him, Dan most of all. Literally screaming. He gathered quite a crowd, which managed to block him from my view until I elbowed my way back to the front of the line.

I should add that the stench of alcohol was nearly enough to put down a draft horse.

“This fucking thing didn’t even work!” Gus picked up the hose of the tool he had rented and threw it across the room. Dan, to his credit, did not hit the man with a lawnmower. He simply started chewing on his cheek so furiously that I’m led to believe he now has a gaping hole in there to explain to his wife.

Bubbles popped a beer.

Shit you not. Middle of this calamity, the son of a bitch opens up a beer. I want to say it was a PBR, but that’s South Park’s undue influence swaying my hand. And he doesn’t sip it calmly, like a spectator eating popcorn. Nah, that’s not good enough for Bubbles. He smoked that beer and crushed it back beneath his jacket. All the while, Dan and Gus continued butting heads. No one other than myself and a few of the crowd even paid attention to little Bubbles.

The fight continued for another couple of minutes, complete with threats and security showing up. Eventually, I grew weary of the scene and just wished I could rent my bolt cutters and be gone. Long story short, one of the other managers came down and managed to calm down good ole’ Gus. From the time I walked in, here were the problems:

He wanted to pay for two days but actually owed three.
Equipment was missing from the tool, which meant he hadn’t returned it as he had rented it.
It was dirty as hell and filled with paint.

Of course, American consumerism being the most important part of our lives, the manager bent the rules and let Gus get away with two days and waved the cleaning fee. Bubbles, by the way, smashed another beer in the corner of the room while they continued their dickering.

Lesson learned: if you’re not right, scream. If you’re still not right, scream louder.

On the way out, bolt cutters on my shoulder, I saw Gus and Bubbles sitting on the tailgate of their truck, popping open a few more beers. Good ole’ New Orleans.

God forbid this city rethink their open container laws. Half the city would lose their minds, including myself. Walking Blue with a cold one in hand is one of my favorite pastimes. But that doesn’t help the poor hardware workers and Dan Akroyd. Have one tonight on me, guys. Cheers.

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