Naughty Gras: Tales of Fat Tuesday

by Sable Jordan, Jessa Callaver, Perri Forrest, The KWEEN

  Sable Jordan

  “Nooo… Please please plea– Dang it!” Tayden banged her palm against the steering wheel. This couldn’t be happening right now; out here. Muttering a prayer, she turned the key in the ignition again. The car emitted a pathetic, mechanical chug, straining and straining to catch. “Come on… come on…”

  Nothing.

  Tayden dropped her chin to her chest and groaned, long and loud. Just her luck. The one American-made car left on the lot and it was a lemon. She blamed Carson. He’d sent her here and now she was stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

  “‘Bring you back some beads, Tay,’” she mocked in a whiny voice, lips curling. As usual, the good girl got the punishment while the bad girl was rewarded. Tayden had tamped down the emotion for weeks, but being here now, actually living this nightmare, the anger begged to be unleashed.

  She choked it down. Anger wouldn’t get her out of her current fix. She snatched her phone from the cup holder and read the time on the cracked display—6:10…? No, 6:18. It was a similar struggle to make out the battery icon. An eighth of the bar remained—a quarter at best.

  Squinting through the windshield, Tayden searched for a landmark. Fog blanketed the area, limiting visibility to an eight-foot radius. Misted green pastures on the passenger side mirrored the scene out the driver’s window, and neither offered a point of reference.

  Two taps of the screen zoomed in on the MapACity navigation app on her cell phone. She dragged her finger over the glass, searching the obliterated map for the tiny village she was headed to. No surprise it wasn’t there. That would be too much like right.

  Grinding her teeth, Tayden zoomed out, pulling up a greater area of land. One splinter of the glass bisected the red dot indicating her location; another divided the name of the last town she’d passed almost an hour back. If she was going to call for a tow truck—well, call information and then call for a tow…Wait, did they even have 411?—she’d need a guesstimate of where–

  The phone beeped. The screen darkened and then went black.

  She pressed the power button. Pressed it again. Perfect.

  Lips pursed, Tayden dragged a deep breath through her nose. “Of course the battery went dead,” she murmured, rifling through the contents of her tote. “Story of my frickin’ life.”

  She shifted the items around; the book, wallet, passport, house keys, travel socks, music player and earbuds, tablet computer and wireless keyboard, notebooks and pens and a tape recorder and a camera and gum and lint and everything but the damn car charger! An image flashed in her head, and in an instant she knew exactly where the cable was. In the cubby on her desk, right next to the phone’s wall plug. And the international converter for said wall plug.

  “Oh, come on!” She knocked the back of her head against the firm headrest. “Can I get a break? Please?”

  That niggling sensation she’d had at the airport now made sense. Standing in the long line for security at JFK’s International terminal, a flight attendant went by, drawing Tayden’s gaze. White uniform, flaxen hair pulled bag into a chignon. She was stunning, easily capable of doing print work or runway. A wheeled carryon bag trailed behind her as she hurried into the coffee shop. That’s when Tayden spotted the electronics store nestled between the familiar green of Stardoe’s and the obnoxiously bright orange of Burger Czar. Something told her to go into that electronics store.

  But then the metal detector screeched as she passed through and intuition took a backseat to shame. Her face flushed and pulse spiked as the machine announced to all the irritated, barefoot travelers that she was “that girl”—the idiot who couldn’t remember to clear her pockets of change or take her belt off, preventing them from getting to their flights. Easily commandment number 11, and a transgression punishable by death when it occurred in the early hours of a cold New York morning.

  Stripping down to an undershirt and her long skirt weren’t enough to stop the sensitive equipment from screaming out her grievous offense. Her penance? A pat down so thorough the TSA agent performing it owed her dinner. Or at least a lollipop.

  By the time she was absolved of her sins they were calling for her flight to board. Frazzled, Tayden shoved her foot into her shoe and snatched her belongings from the basket on the table.

  One moment she was slipping the second sneaker on and the next she was on the cold floor, staring at the jean-covered legs of the Mac truck that ran her over.

  “Andrew!” the woman called, chasing after a child of maybe 6 or 7 years old, oblivious to the wreckage she’d left in her wake. “Andrew, come back here!”

  The barefoot youngster ducked and dodged his way through the crowd, laughing like a cartoon villain. A crowning example of why every mother should be beatified upon learning of her pregnancy and canonized once the umbilical cord was cut.

  The contents of her tote lay scattered about the floor. Disembodied, Tayden watched as people stepped over her shoe and phone and wayward pens, far too hurried to help. A notebook went flying, skidded to a stop a couple feet away. Were there no decent human beings left in the world? Just as Tayden was ready to scuttle off into a corner and cry, a man stooped to gather her things. Then his hand was on her back, the gentle touch sending a shock of heat up her spine. She looked into his gray-green eyes and time stopped.

  “Are you okay?”

  He had the faintest hint of an accent Tayden couldn’t place, not that she cared much about his pedigree. A delicious flutter had started in regions she only reflected on in the privacy of her bedroom, if then. And what an odd thing that was. Tayden wasn’t the type to be bowled over by good looks, or to jump straight to the physical. Mommy raised her a good girl. Daddy, two brothers, and a frequently-mentioned shotgun scared the boys off, ensuring she stayed that was. Anything but a respectable relationship was out of the question.

  For this guy, she might make an exception.

  “Miss?” His brow creased.

  Another wave of heat scorched Tayden’s cheeks at being caught staring. Mute, she bobbed her head and he pulled her to her feet in a move smooth as floating. His concerned gaze skated over her face, scrutinized her eyes while Tayden searched for something intelligent to say.

  Nothing came.

  The source of the accident returned, her little redheaded hellion in tow. In spite of the mother’s harried appearance, a bright smile lit her heart-shaped face. Reddish-brown hair in a just-rolled-out-of-bed style draped over her shoulders. She pushed a stray lock behind her ear, looked Tayden squarely in the eye and said, “You should confess.”

  Tayden’s brows squished together and her head drew back. What the hell kind of apology was that?

  See? Carson’s fault. Had her flight been domestic—like it was supposed to have been—Tayden would never have landed on the sticky floor of JFK and then been subjected to that little nugget of coo-coo and her heathen spawn! Or been on the wrong side of the world as she as now, stuck in a tuna can of a car without an ounce of juice on her phone!

  That settled it. Everything that happened on this trip was unequivocally Carson’s fault. Tayden had tenure, dammit! Didn’t tenure count for anything anymore?

  Cursing under her breath, she kicked open the door and unfolded from the driver’s seat, stepping into the fog. Anyone coming up the road wouldn’t see the car until it was too late. She dipped back into the interior to flick on the hazard lights, snagged the card and her tote, and slammed the door shut.

  A strong wind buffeted her face and she hugged the jacket around her tighter, inhaling the scent of smoky chocolate that could only be from a cigar. She glanced down at the black sports coat and frowned. This wasn’t her coat. The breeze kicked up and she decided not to argue. Her sleeveless blouse and skirt were a bad choice given the weather. And who’s fault was that?

  “Fluff,” Tayden spat, studying the blank beige rectangle in her hand. The other side of the business card repeated the emptiness. She shoved it into a pocket and set off up the road.
The manor couldn’t be too far, or at least she hoped it wasn’t. Funny how the last place she wanted to see was now the one place she needed to reach to get help.

  The scents of grass and cow manure burned her nostrils, and yard after yard of endless dirt road lay before and behind her. This was not how she envisioned spending Mardi Gras. Tayden expected hot, sultry nights. Energy and jazz and coconuts from the Zulus. Parade floats and costumes and a little touch of voodoo.

  She expected New Orleans.

  Right now, she should have been sipping café au lait while eating the most sumptuous, gooey slice of King cake she could find and gathering sources for her article; an article with an idea so fresh it gave her goosebumps. But six weeks ago, sitting in the cramped office across from her editor, her skin-prickling idea got shot down before it had a chance to take flight.

  “You promised me–”

  “It’s Mardi Gras, T.D.,” Carson had said in a near whisper. He had a habit of lowering his voice when delivering bad news as though that would soften the blow. It irked her. It also irked her when he called her T.D., like she was some sort of football score, and she knew he knew that. “You know, indulgence before repenting. People want…”

  Carson trailed off and leaned back, the well-used leather chair creaking with the shift. “The history of the Mardi Gras Indians is too…deep for what we’re doing here. I need edgy.”

  A grin flirted at the corners of her mouth. In a rare occurrence it seemed her gamble might pay off. Pitch the second idea first to make the real idea sound even better. “Fine. How ‘bout hoodoo?”

  Carson’s thick brows popped up. “Come again?”

  “You know, hoodoo. Like voodoo, but N.O.-style. New Orleans is a hotbed for unexplained occurrences, especially during Mardi Gras. Believers in the mystical say there’s power in the energy that comes from having so many souls in one place. What I’ve got in mind you can’t find out on the Net, Carson—not spooky tours and dolls and potions.” Tayden set the book on the table to face him, opened it to the correct page. “I’m talking grimoire.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Grimoire,” she repeated, frowning. “For Pete’s sake, you’re French, Carson.”

  “I’m Canadian.”

  “Same difference.” Tayden waved her hand dismissively. “Grimoire—something hard or difficult to understand.”

  “Like you.”

  “Aren’t we the comedian.” She rolled her eyes.

  “I know what it means, I don’t know where you’re going with it.”

  “Mangeurs de Rêves,” Tayden said quickly, tapping a finger on the open page. “I’ve only found a few specific references to this type of grim in this book. It’s centuries old, and speaks of–”

  “Mangeurs de…?” Carson squinted. “Dream Eaters?”

  Head bobbing frantically, Tayden hopped up from her seat to pace, excitement rising with each step. “A special sect of hoodoo practitioners. People so powerful it’s rumored they can delve into your mind, manipulate your thoughts; dig out your deepest, darkest secrets. All speculation, mind you. No one’s ever given a first-hand account, probably because it’s a hoax. But could you imagine?

  “This is really underground, really obscure stuff. I mean, what I’ve culled from the text probably doesn’t even scratch the surface. I’ve got a contact in New Orleans whose girlfriend had a cousin who once ran into someone she thought was an Eater named Jul–”

  “Wait,” Carson said, “I saw this movie. The quirky Ellen Page creates mind mazes with that cheeky Leonardo DiCaprio fellow–”

  Tayden threw her hands up and sighed. “You’re French, Carson–”

  “Canadian.”

  “–‘Cheeky’ is reserved for the Brits and wise-ass Americans who wish they were British. It’s tantamount to you, in all your pale glory, screaming ‘Yo, yo, yo, yo, son!’ in the center of the Bronx while dressed in those casual-knit Dockers and boat shoes. Some things simply don’t belong in your lexicon. Cheeky is one of them.’” Tayden noted her friend’s vanishing hair and glasses. “Add ‘yo’ while we’re making a list.”

  “Yo, Tayden.” Carson set his elbows on the desk. “You’ve pitched some crazy ideas before, but this takes the cake. You don’t believe in this witchcraft and sorcery nonsense, do you? Digging around in minds, altering thoughts? The last time we went for dinner, you didn’t believe your potato soup had real potatoes in it.”

  “I’m a skeptic at the best of times.” She shrugged. “Of course I don’t believe in Dream Eaters, or hoodoo. But that’s why I’m the perfect person to investigate.” Carson shook his head again and she held up her hands to stave off the no she felt coming. “Just a short piece, or…or a series of pieces tucked away in our pitifully tiny Alternative section.”

  “The section I let you coax me into adding because your brother is my best friend and you’re like a sister to me?” he asked, deadpan.

  “Just…let me use my time in New Orleans to bring something meatier than flashing boobies for beads to this webzine. How many times do you expect readers to come back for the same, tired ‘Naughty in N’awlins’ crap we’ve been peddling? Do you honestly believe sweet-as-your-grandma Lilly out there really screwed a strapping frat boy in a back alley behind the Bombay Club last year? With people watching? It’s ludicrous!”

  “And Dream Eaters aren’t?”

  “Come on, Carson! You want edgy, right? This is…razor sharp edge! You could literally behead someone with this story, it’s so edgy.”

  “Easy there, tiger.”

  “It’s got history; it’s got mystery; it’s got witchcraft…ery. It’s a perfect opportunity…to…”

  Carson’s eyes glazed over and he exhaled. “What it doesn’t have is sexy. We’re expanding the Naughty in N’awlins segment. And management wants to cut the Alternative section altogether. ” Tayden’s mouth dropped open. Carson’s voice went whisper-soft. “Sorry, T.D. I had to give New Orleans to Katie.”

  Tayden blinked. Katie? The same Katie who’d been hired 4 months ago and thus did not have tenure?

  She curled her hand into a fist and bit down on her knuckles.

  Two quick raps on the door sounded before it opened. The boobs entered first, dressed in a shirt too small. Cut-off shorts, and sherpa-lined Yuck boots completed the ensemble, perfect office attire for winter in New York. A cherry red grin spread Katie’s lips. “Came to grab my paperwork, Car,”—to Tayden—“Did you hear? I got New Orleans!”

  Tayden smiled tightly.

  “Mmm-mmm-mmmm! Gonna have me some gumbo…beignets from Café du Monde,” Katie said in a horrible southern drawl. She snagged the envelope from Carson and headed for the door. “I’ll bring you back some beads, Tay!”

  Alone again, Tayden rolled her eyes and then glared at her editor. “She looks down to count to two. You do know that, right?”

  “Be good…”

  Why? Being good obviously hadn’t gotten her anywhere.

  “People want down and dirty delivered light and airy.”

  So he’d chosen the airhead. “Fluff.”

  Carson sighed. “Here’s the thing–”

  “Oh, goodie gumdrops, there’s a thing. Please do tell me ‘the thing,’” Tayden begged, breaking her cardinal rule against making finger quotes.

  “The stories you write for the Alternative section are great. Truly, T.D., you have a talent for exploring the unknown. But…”

  She lifted a brow. “But?”

  “The other stories, those outside of your area of interest, are…sound. Solid beginning, middle and end.” She snorted and Carson grinned. “They’re textbook.”

  “Textbook.”

  “They’re missing the ooomph.”

  “Ooomph.”

  “You know–”

  “Clearly I don’t or we wouldn’t be discussing this, would we?” Tayden crossed her arms over her chest. Goodbye sticky King cake, goodbye grimoire. The Big Easy was O-U-T. All this was just salt on the wound.


  “‘Naughty in N’awlins’ is a staple segment, T.D, and one of the most visited pages on the magazine’s website. People don’t read it for accuracy or truth. They don’t care if Lilly really slept with the frat boy. They want to read about someone like them—someone willing to sin a little. Or a lot, depending on who’s going.” He chuckled, picked up a thick manila folder and handed it to her. “We both know you’re not passionate about this segment. I know you’re capable of writing it, but you know you won’t do it justice. Besides, I’m willing to bet your wildest fantasy starts and ends in missionary.”

  So what if it did?

  Tayden was a good girl, and good girls minded their knickers. She’d survived college without a single, alcohol-induced sexcapade where she kissed a curious co-ed or got felt up by a frat boy or did a walk of shame into her dorm room. Plus, trying to eke out a career in the fast-paced, high content, dog-eat-dog world of Internet journalism left her conspicuously inexperienced in the fantasy-making department. Her ex certainly wasn’t into exploring the spicier side of a relationship, and she’d learned to agree with his attitude on sex: So long as the job got done, was there a legitimate need for a position other than missionary?

  “In fact,” Carson said, pulling her from her musings, “You probably haven’t got a single dirty thought in that brain of yours. I don’t look at you and think naughty.”

  Tayden plucked the package from his hand. “You’d better not, or I’ll have my brother kick your ass and I’ll get those casual knit Dockers in the harassment suit. Every judge in town knows how much you French guys flirt.”

  “I’m Cana–” He sighed.

  Smirking, Tayden plunged her hand inside the envelope and yanked out the paper guts of her travel pack. “Lucky for you I’m adaptable…so long as you send me to Trinidad and Tobago. Amazing Carnival celebration and a Vodou culture. A little elbow grease and I’m sure I can find someone who’s a friend of a friend of an Eater—if they even ex–” Tayden skimmed the itinerary, “–ist…”

  Her world shiftedand she swayed. “Car–”

  “You’ll go,” Carson said in that quiet voice, “you’ll do a nice, solid piece tracing Mardi Gras back to its roots, and you’ll still have a job when you get back, okay? I’ll pull some strings; get ‘em to keep the Alternative section so you can write your story next month. And look at it this way: where you’re going, you can keep all those dark secrets to yourself…”