Laura Ellen Scott

That What

That happened to me once, actually. Before Katrina. An antique shop on Royal hosted a wine tasting in a maze of hallways and mildewed rooms jammed with anxiety of provenance—how does one acquire a sixty piece golden tea set from a sunken ship or slave shackles from the very same? Thirty little slurps of wine later I tiptoed through a room packed floor to ceiling with hideous Capo Di Monte vases, dead ending at a closet full of stinking books and one plump, famous chef.

Monsieur got to work behind two steaming pans on a portable cook top. His assistant readied a plastic bowl. The maestro conjured plumes of humid spice and said something to me like: “Yalla, yalla, layya.” Suddenly I had a bowl of crawfish etouffe in my hand.

Some on my shirt, too. The gentleman worked fast. I did not. From behind, a strange hand checked the quality of meat on my bones while urging me to move along.

That was a good day for me. I loved my little dish of crawfish. I loved my little sips of wine. The sweat pouring down my back. I staggered out of the antique shop onto the banquette sucking a plastic fork, and I decided right then and there that I would.

Same As It Is

A spirit play: Eagle and Iguana on the bare stage of your future. Fuck all for lighting, props.

Eagle: Hello
Iguana: Hello
(Enter American Snake)
A. Snake: Hello
Eagle: Oh no.
(Eagle eats snake. Waits)
(Eagle eats Iguana)

An audience member whispers too low to be heard, “This happens in spring, like nature.”