Riding the Sexy Beast in New Orleans

The Night I Rode the Sexy Beast
By
Debbie Lindsey

It began like any unpredictable New Orleans evening. The range of our random stardom led us out of our more familiar environs. Boyfriend and I were to read, sign and sip wine at Octavia Books as part of the statewide book signing of Louisiana In Words. Never having been published in
a format requiring a purchase we were feeling kinda hot, kinda literary. Okay sure, there were 110 other writers published in this $19.95 paperback, but hey, the book was getting lots of local press and our fearless leader and editor, Josh Clark, could really work a crowd.
Near the end of our soirée I was pretty pleased with myself – the reading I had dreaded with wallflower reticence went smoothly with no embarrassing faux pas like passing gas or biting my tongue and bleeding out. Boyfriend, on the other hand, rarely suffers a “case of the nerves” and therefore read beautifully without incident. With the wine running dangerously low and our reputations still intact it was time to beg a ride back to the Quarters.
We volunteered our editor extraordinaire to be our chauffeur. He said sure but we’d have to climb in through the windows. That didn’t sound odd to me -- having once been pushed home in a grocery cart -- so, into the night we went.
Following Boyfriend and Josh backwards, so I could ramble aloud to no one interested about how much I wanted “that little cottage with the funky awning” we just passed, had me a bit distracted. So when I turned to them, after a near plunge into a pothole, my distraction changed to…whoa! There before us was the Sexy Beast. I had never seen it outside the Quarter; yet how could something so obviously meant to roam be corralled? How could one confine such a spirit?
Face to face with it I realized the Beast was no kid – it was an ’86 Chevy Monte Carlo Super Sport. And just like some tough guy rendered toothless from one brawl too many, the Beast had two gaping spaces on either side of its T-top. In a junkyard somewhere the missing panels were laid to rest like the tusks of fallen elephants -- except this Beast was far from fallen – you could sense this. The Chevy’s body was gussied-up (albeit rather ominously) with enameled flames and its name, Sexy Beast, painted bold and large for all the world to see.
Where was the driver, the owner, the trainer of this Beast?
For years I had seen the Beast and wondered who belonged to it. Some twenty-something drenched in tattoos and flesh pierced with more metal than the Beast? Perhaps an ex-con scarred from too many years in the Big House whose trust would never go beyond his car. Or, maybe some 21st century cowboy – I could just picture Hank Williams serenading from the radio as man and beast cruised the lonely flatlands of the city, an unfiltered smoke dangling from the cowboy’s lips and time on his hands.
“What are you two doing?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Boyfriend was disappearing into the Beast and Josh was already swallowed and in the driver’s seat. Well, hot damn! The master of the beast had been there all along. This was bigger than discovering the guy behind Spider Man, the man inside the Santa suit, the Rove behind the Bush. Our mild mannered editor was behind the wheel of the Sexy Beast!
So, after much flailing, twisting and twirling I climbed inside the beast via the hole in the roof. As we took off we were warned that we may run out of gas (the gas gauge is broken) but not to worry -- a gas can is ever present and sometimes filled. He asked if we were going too fast for our taste because he could slow down – the speedometer no longer works but rest assured, the brakes do.
Yes, the seatbelts were operable, but we were encouraged to please help with hand gestures, full-throated honks, and eagle eye glances out the passenger windows (“careful, the seats are loose”). Apparently the turn signals, rear view mirror, and horn were all retired -- along with the glove compartment latch (it really did not hurt so much when it flipped open on my kneecaps).
Remember those desperate over-sexed dates in high school and the get-to-first-base maneuvers? You know, the classic “Oh gosh, we are out of gas here in the middle of nowhere, don’t be scared come a little closer”. Well, I’d always hoped for that date but my sweet nerds always picked me up in a just-washed-and-waxed car with a full tank of gas. Try as I may to surreptitiously siphon the gasoline from Dependable Date’s car as he waited patiently for my return from the powder room, I never got to succumb to that scenario.
So, as forewarned by our Josh/editor/driver, we ran out of gas. Had poor Josh waited for this moment to happen with a willing damsel in tow? If so, all he got were two middle-aged goons, a romantic view of the nursing home at Jefferson and Magazine and the only thing getting “ a little bit” was a determined mosquito.
The emergency gas can yielded enough fuel to transport us to the Exxon at Lee Circle. As we pulled into the station I felt certain the cops would surely swarm us. They must have seen us flying through the night. But Josh had learned long ago how to rein in the Beast with or without a speedometer. As he climbed out and began feeding the Beast at the pump, a quite inebriated crackhead, short in statue and short on teeth, came over and stood next to my car door.
Maybe it was the booze or the rock; perhaps the moonlight or the glow of neon; or…maybe he too fell under the spell of the Sexy Beast. Regardless, the ever-swaying little man began to profess his adoration for me and my hair (that I must admit really looks good in fluorescent lighting). He even went so far as to tell Josh and Boyfriend, “Man she’s beauuuuutifuuuul”. This went on for several minutes. I knew it was true infatuation -- he never once asked for money or a cigarette. As we drove away he was still declaring his devotions. And they say a good man is hard to find.

The road trip home may have lasted only twenty minutes but I will always remember it as the night I rode the Sexy Beast. Those Uptown miles flowed into Lower Garden streets, turned and straightened onto St. Charles and with every inch of asphalt I felt dizzy with the sense of trespassing. The Beast made you feel like an outlaw and every mile an adventure. I felt certain that if there were a rearview mirror it would reflect a young girl – giddy and brazen.