Leaving New Orleans also frightened me considerably. Outside of the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland, begins.
~ John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces
The gray sky continued to spit a light rain as Kathy and I walked down Royal Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Named Rue Royale by the French, Royal Street was an international shopping district by the end of the 19th century, and if you love upscale antique stores, you’ll find them there in abundance.
I spotted one of the familiar hot-dog shaped stands a block away, and my mouth instinctively watered. “Lucky Dogs” had been a French Quarter fixture for decades. Where else can you find priceless antique shops and five-dollar hot dog stands side by side?
My pace quickened but Kathy’s slowed, and as the rain strengthened, we ducked inside a shop. The first thing I noticed was that everything inside looked expensive, and that I was still hungry.
I tried my best to look like a rich person, maybe a world-renowned shipping magnate, or better yet a bestselling author, but the way the old guy with the beard and the tweed suit was staring at me, I wasn’t pulling it off.
I saw a basket full of wooden and brass canes next to me and picked one out. A small white sticker at the top read $4,800. I tightened my grip and carefully put it back. Had I mistaken gold for brass? It wasn’t really what I was looking for anyway.
Slightly above me, hanging from the ceiling, was a gorgeous chandelier I thought would look great in our dining room, but I knew if they were getting five grand for their canes, then I didn’t need to bother.
The old guy stayed close and eyed me suspiciously, so I tried smiling at him; he didn’t flinch. I wondered if he had ever had a “Lucky Dog” as I read the chandelier’s tag – only $33,000. I wanted to ask him if the price was firm, that I might be interested in it at say, 31 or 32,000. Instead I left and found my wife in the next store, looking at a $12,000 chair. I told her we should head back to the room to get ready for dinner.
Once back, I opened the mini-bar and grabbed a Heineken. Kathy said, “Do you know what they’re charging you for that stuff?” I told her whatever it was it was a bargain compared to what we’d just looked at.
I turned on the TV and saw the “Guest Services” option. I wanted to see if they had given me my $60 AARP discount on the room.
My bill appeared, and I was pleased to see the figure $129 pop up. What wasn’t as pleasing were five other charges – a beverage for $2, two beverages for $5, some nuts for $3.50 and some candy for $3.50.
I knew mini-bar prices were ridiculous, but come on. Was Elvis playing in here? And even more shocking than the prices was that I had already been charged. How had they known? I began looking under the bed and inside the closets for someone, almost expecting to find the guy in the tweed suit.
Thankfully, he wasn’t there, and I quickly turned the channel so Kathy wouldn’t see.
“You know that mini-bar has a sensor that charges you every time you remove something?” she said from the bathroom.
I tried to process what I was hearing. How had she known? Was she secretly working for the hotel?
“Yeah, sure, I know that,” I said back.
I frowned and dreamed of a “Lucky Dog.”