She came home at 3am, smelling of cigarettes, cheap beer and urine. She tried to get undressed quietly, as if to sneak into bed. Her judgement and sense of hearing had been dulled by the beer. She was oblivious to the fact that she sounded like an alligator wrestler in mid-fight as she struggled out of her boots. Thump, she landed heavily on one leg as she pulled off her trousers and lost her balance. And then came the noise that all husbands hate to hear after Fat Tuesday – the sound of a bundle of beads falling from their loved one’s neck.
To get beads in Austin, a man has to hand over around ten dollars to a trinket seller. For a woman to get beads, she must show her tits to a man with beads. That was how the tradition started at any rate. But now, the Mardi Gras scene was much worse. Police patrol cars cordonned off 6th Street as a matter of routine. Riot police flanked the boundaries, and horses waited for the charge. Other riot police stood in circles here and there, all facing outwards with their truncheons set to stun. Now, whenever a boobs for beads transaction took place, upwards of 30 men were involved. The men encircled the boob-bearer who was ready to flash for beads. Drunk and lecherous men craned their necks and stood three or four deep to see the action. People held cameras and video cameras over the heads of the men to get a shot of the boobs.
His wife’s boobs were going to be plastered on frat-boy notice boards and emailed all across the globe by the time he was reading his morning paper.
