One Night Only

“This is my break-up diamond.” The Fifi’s clerk waved her hand, and we all turned around. But she wasn’t flashing a square-cut on her finger. The gemstone she referenced spread from right under her neck to her braline. In blue ink. Judging from the size of the rock, it had been a serious break-up -- not one of these “it’s not you; it’s me” quickie splits. Another clerk nodded, and my friend and I smiled politely. “Oh, don’t mind us,” the other clerk sighed. “We’re just tattoo-gossiping.”

Tattoo-gossiping? “Impressive,” J. said, when we‘d escaped with our treats. “You don’t make up a phrase for something you do just once.”

Certainly if a “picture speaks a thousand words,” then the employees at Fifi’s have a lot to discuss.

J. and I weren’t there to eavesdrop, though. We were hunting Halloween costumes. Fifi’s is one of the Quarter’s most upscale accessory boutiques. (Don’t say “costume shop.” It isn’t Party City.) It specializes in wigs, in every color and style, with a specific $40+ price range. I selected a cheap-yet-classy model -- a flipped-out pink bob called The Gidget. The guy who fitted me (spiked hair, metal choker) said I should sweep the bangs over and spray them to the side. “You’ll look adorable.”

I bought fake eyelashes too -- in pink -- and wore it all to dinner Saturday night. Well, why not? J. was just visiting for the weekend, from Chicago, so we couldn’t wait for the 31st to play dress-up. And we needed to vamp for Gennifer.

Gennifer Flowers doesn’t have any visible tattoos or unusual piercings but, I must admit, I anticipated her performance as a spectacle. A freak-a-leak show. NOLA has seen many Lady Marmalades, but Gennifer tops them all. There’s no pun intended there, and if you think I’m bad, you would’ve needed earplugs and rattlesnakes at Gennifer‘s gig. The line-up requires little imagination, Harlequin or otherwise. A tune about “Long John the Dentist” who “takes away your pain, baby” segued into an ode to a sailor named Dickie. Ahoy.

J. and I clapped, and I twirled my hair in a Gidgety way. “Where are you all from?” Gennifer asked a table of khaki-and-collared men. “D.C.? They chased me out of there a long time ago, honey.” The men guffawed; the pianist (Mimi) riffed . . . bada bing! Gennifer launched into “Our Love is Here to Stay” by the Gershwins.

But oh my dear / Our love is here to stay / Not for a year / Forever and a day.

This song reminds me of my parents, because they love it. Sometimes they dance to it in the kitchen, when Ella is singing, or Steve Tyrell. Dad frequently gets a little weepy. It’s about enduring romance -- the kind that outlasts the Rockies and Gibraltar, and probably skin art. Ironic, coming from one of Bill’s mistresses. And maybe a bit sad. Except, Gennifer sang it well. You could tell she’d performed it many times before, at other clubs and cities. She sang it like anyone might serenade a loved one. Sort of soft, not too much fancy inflection. I think she believed it, which makes me happy. If break-up diamonds can be permanent, love should get the same treatment.

“And where are you from?” Uh oh. “Tennessee.” “Why don’t you ladies come onstage?”

If I’d known about my summons from Gennifer ahead of time -- if I’d had a DeLorean -- I would not have consumed so many vodka-tonics at the start of the show. The alternative hairstyle had granted me sufficient gumption for back-up singing. I didn’t really need the liquor. Especially not in heels.

“How about some Aretha?”

I did my best “Natural Woman” in synthetic hair. Even picked out an older fellow in the front row for my “YOU make me feel” gestures. Because a kiss on the lips might be quite continental, but only a microphone pays the rental. Or, if you prefer, Halloween comes but once a year, pumpkin.