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Rest In Peace, Sweet Camelot

Chapter 8 Perspiring before Conspiring

By David X. SheehanPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
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THE HURRICANE

"In the 1940’s many US distilleries were used to manufacture necessities for war time, and domestic liquor was scarce. However, Rum coming up the Mississippi river from the Caribbean islands was plentiful. In order to buy a case of Bourbon, for example, there was strong incentive to purchase large quantities of rum. With General manager George Oechsner Jr at the helm, the folks in the bar experimented with recipes, and eventually everyone agreed that passion fruit was a hit! A glass shaped like a hurricane lamp was the perfect vessel and the Hurricane drink became New Orleans favorite libation."

Dave, sat on a stool at O’Brien’s. Sucking down New Orleans famous drink, The Hurricane. It made him feel warm and adventurous, a second one and he would begin to look around for someone to play with and possibly take to his two-room apartment on the outskirts of the Vieux Carre. A third or fourth drink would find him in someone else’s room the next day, dizzy, hungover and sexually drained, and physically sore. That is, if Frenchy didn’t show, which, lately, was often.

Since they landed, back in April, Frenchy and Dave had attended several meetings of the group Frenchy's Aunt Lucy had been involved with her husband, Robert. They were a group of fifty or sixty Cuban refugees, a few of which just avoided capture at the failed “Bay of Pigs” of April 17-20, 1961. These men fumed, continuously, at the inaction of John F. Kennedy to assist the invasion, causing defeat and death to family inside Cuba. The meetings were to further the original plan to invade Cuba, but included that Kennedy must be removed, so that a more enlightened replacement would assist in the retaking of their homeland.

Dave got what they wanted and nodded with his partner, Frenchy, who had his own reasons for hating the president. A lot of what Dave heard was in Spanish and Cajun, so he tried to look like he understood. He spent an entire week in the swamps and bayou’s and did not like it, too many snakes and alligators and especially biting bugs, made Dave beg Frenchy to get them back to civilization ASAP.

It was August and the heat and humidity drove Dave to find the coolness of whichever bar, he could reach, before he melted. Then he would work his way to O’Brien’s and wait for Frenchy.

Dave found part time work, installing carpets at night in a new office building next to Tulane. He also sublet an apartment from Lucy, who had moved in with Robert. From here, Dave could take a street car to work and French Quarter with ease, and it gave Frenchy a haven, when not on bayou maneuvers with his friends, the group that was now called The Fair Play for Cuba Committee.

This night, Frenchy arrived before Dave could order his second drink. French said, “want to go to a party? It’s going to be wild and the drinks are free.” Dave said “sure, do I have time to change?” Frenchy looked at him and raised his eyebrows up and down several times and said, “I’m pretty sure clothes will be optional at this party.” Dave said, “let’s go.”

Dave and Frenchy arrived at the lush apartment of a man named David Ferrie, he was anti communist and very much hated Fidel Castro, and worked closely with a right-wing Cuban exile, Sergio Arcacha, to also plan a new, successful, invasion of Cuba. David Ferrie had strong allies in the air industry and was himself a pilot, some of his friends belonged to The Fair Play for Cuba Committee, and were present, including a friend, A. Hiddell, and a New Orleans business man, Clay Shaw.

Frenchy and Dave shook hands with everyone and headed to the very open bar. Everywhere there were couples, in various stages of nakedness, women with men, women with women and much to Frenchy and Dave’s delight, men with men. Clinking their glasses, they toasted each other and then to anyone they could. Last thing Frenchy said, “I’ll find you later” and he was off after a tall man with a long beard. Dave stood alone at the end of the bar, and drank as the music burrowed into his head, the smells and pheromones intoxicating him. Soon a muscular, very smooth skinned man approached and began kissing him, Dave would not be alone this evening, night, or morning.

Historical
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About the Creator

David X. Sheehan

I write my memories, family, school, jobs, fatherhood, friendship, serious and silly. I read Vocal authors and am humbled by most. I'm 76, in Thomaston, Maine. I seek to spread my brand of sincere love for all who will receive.

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