Driving Miss Fais Doh Daisy

Driving along St. Charles Avenue you will encounter the muses. Erato, Melpomene, and Terpsichore greet you as you follow The Avenue to the river's bend. Along the way a siren awaits, her song so seductive that you will throw yourself in front of a passing car to reach her voice that promises everything you desire. This is my Davis' sister.

The first time I laid eyes on her was at a the Windsor Court High Tea. She arrived in a halo of blue smoke with her tiny body draped in a pink fuchsia flapper dress with a pink marabou feather hat cocked flirtatiously over her silvery eyes. Taking her cues from Daisy Buchanan she was of course fashionably late and like a bird of paradise in a room full of pigeons, she flitted to her seat, pulled out her sterling silver flask and the got the party started. She called herself Sterling and thrilled me with her smokey voice that was filled with money and promises of better things on the horizon.

She was too superficial to be preoccupied with herself and her earthiness transcended her materialism. Like Daisy, she came from a family of careless people, she smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into her vast carelessness. Sterling followed her gilded rule to let other people clean up the mess she had made. And oh, the messes she could make from human hearts to Baccarat crystal all broken with her engraved calling card of nonchalance. Yet somehow her deathless song compelled me to follow her home.

The minuscule foyer in Sterling's flat on Jefferson Avenue was jumbled with discarded gifts from her admirers: European chocolates, antique jewels from Royal Street merchants, and a giant Russian Imperial samovar. Sparse furnishings and an abundance of half-filled wine glasses and over flowing ashtrays comprised her parlor. Designer clothes, most of them gifts from her beaus were stained and strewn everywhere from the rabbit ears on her television to the arms of her chandeliers.

She poured a spilling glass of Beauregard for herself, lit a long cigarette while she stripped down to just her skin. Pulling out her little blue leather diary she reported to me that she had several social dates to prepare for and she wished that I would join her as a driver and companion. I was so distracted by her careless ashing, blatant nakedness and sloshing wine that I agreed to drive her around the city for the evening. She instructed me to find something presentable to wear from her wardrobe while she bathed. The Girbaud jeans and Indian headdress I had selected were not what she had in mind for me, instead we left her home swathed in silk, stone martins and white pumps.

Sterling was and remains a terrible passenger, she insists having all the car windows open, she smokes and ashes incessantly and reaches over to try to grab the steering wheel. Her worse habit is when is throwing her left leg into the driving pit and pushing her foot down on your accelerator foot. The roads of uptown New Orleans are well known for breaking axles and eating mufflers, but Sterling had no care for my car maintenance future, she had men to seduce, wine to drink and gifts to receive awaiting her. I also discovered that along with her impatience, Sterling also gave terrible directions - we ended up speeding through Thomas Housing Projects (in retrospect, she seemed to be recognized by some of the dealers hanging on the corners), crossing the Avenue according to her directions and ended up in the midst of Calliope Project before finally reaching our final destination of Patout's miraculously without being shot.

A table full of European gentlemen greeted her - watching her was a bit like watching Scarlett work the picnic at 12 Oaks prior to the war. She actually sashayed and batted her eyelashes. She ordered for everyone - the most expensive wines, food and of course champagne. She delighted everyone with her polished french and latest thesis on classical rhetoric. Once her gentlemen suitors were plied full of fine Creole cuisine and loads of alcohol she would begin to divest them of their valuables. She would admire a watch, ask to try it on and then somehow forget to return it. Palming a gold nugget bracelet she begin to feel faint and asked me to accompany her to the powder room. Sterling said she was bored and needed to go to her next engagement in French Quarter at Maximo's. It was time for me to drive. Citing motion sickness, Sterling sat in the back of my car and barked out short-cuts to the Quarter.

Upon arriving at Maximo's we were escorted to a table full of Australian tourists, they were a bawdy sort. Sterling transformed from pseudo courtesan to an outback wrangler right before my eyes. She threw off her white shoes and jumped up on the Maximo's bar demanding shots and zydeco music. (note to reader: Maximo's in the 80's was a trendy bistro) She made each of the hulking Aussies join her on the bar lying down while she straddled them and poured liquor straight from the bottle into their open mouths. Suddenly she screamed, "Take me to Tips". This time I have Miss Daisy and 6 large men in my little Honda. All drunk, all yelling, all singing, all throwing my tennis balls from backseat to front seat. I was just trying to stay on the road and off the neutral ground with all of the debauchery taking place within my vehicle.

As I pulled the car to the corner of Napoleon and Tchoup, I could hear the sounds of the Radiators pouring through the side door. Sterling jumped out with her admirers and led them straight to the bar and then to the dance floor. She two-stepped with furs flying around her shoulders, a menthol cigarette in hand and never spilling her glass of wine. She whirled in a silky blur from partner to partner until a dark brute man leaning against the bronze bust of Professor Longhair caught her eye. He was rich, old Garden District money - he wore an expensive seersucker suit from Perlis and immaculate white bucks. Like so many of those uptown men, he looked like he could throw a mean punch and never wrinkle his Brooks Brother shirt. She fais-doh-dohed over to him and they huddled together as intimates sharing a secret dance. I thought I saw a jeweled flash and perhaps a large amount of currency pass to her hand as she draped her arms around his broad shoulders.

I look back over my shoulder at the drunk Australian tourists, wondering how many hundreds of dollars they must have spent tonight on entertaining Sterling. As I begin to feel a bit sorry for their empty wallets, I saw Sterling disappear in the wet New Orleans night with the dark Garden District hulk. Her charms spent and her appetite sated for the evening, she left with her new prizes to toss carelessly about until the next time she would go for a drive.