The Floating Bordello of Golden Meadow

I'm a story teller and a good story teller can tweak a tale in such a way that it becomes more interesting than the original circumstances.

Life experiences are usually dull and mundane and wouldn't actually become great stories unless a little "artistic license" isn't applied.

Some people would call this lying.

My great aunt Tish called it ,Blowing Wind, and she would know, on account of her brothers being some of the most god awful liars ever born!

I suppose I inherited the gift because I like to take a relatively boring event and add a bit of glitter and paint and color it up a bit. That being said, I'd like to tell you about an experience I had, way back in my oilfield days, when I worked offshore in the Gulf of Mexico.

This story is based on an actual experience, but it really didn't happen exactly as I tell it.

So, sue me!

I was what, we in the industry call, a "Mud Logger". It's actually a pretty good job, on account of about 80% of the actual work is from the neck up and the remainder is just absolute drudgery in the most miserable conditions.

Anyway, on one occasion, my co-worker, Revette, (he was french, you know), and I, were dispatched out of Lafayette, La. to catch a crew boat out of Port Fourchon, pronounced (foo-shon).

Unfortunately, we got away late and by the time we arrived at the docks we had literally missed the boat. The dispatcher tried to get us on a helicopter but they had stopped flying for the day and the turn around time for the boat was about 9 hours. So, we found ourselves with a lot of time on our hands. The earliest we could get a ride out to our rig was about 10 AM the next day.

Being young men, and single, we knew an opportunity for an adventure when we saw one. So, we hopped in our company furnished ride and headed north, back to the first town we could find, Golden Meadow.

Now, I don't know why this place is called Golden Meadow, because there sure ain't any gold there and I never did find a meadow. Just a swamp.

The community itself is built on the west side of a dredged out bayou and must stretch for five miles or more along its banks. The main industry in the area is commercial fishing and oil field support.

My friend, Revette, said he was familiar with the area and knew a place where we could drink a few beers and play some pool while we waited. So off we went!

If you've ever been to Golden Meadow, you know that the main road follows the bayou. The channel has been widened so that the shrimp boats and commercial fishing trawlers can navigate to the warehouses and seafood processors on the waterfront. It is here you will find all sorts of sea going craft. They are tied up to the wharfs and boardwalks for miles. Our destination was one of these boats.

On the trip up, Revette told me about this old fisherman that retired his shrimp boat and turned it into a floating bar. He had died a few years back and his widow now ran the place. He hinted that she may even be a Madam! Just a rumor he heard.

"Yeah right!" I said.

Sure enough we whip over to the oyster shell parking lot in front of this huge old wooden shrimp boat. It needed paint badly! It was tied up to creosoted pilings driven into the mud next to a boardwalk. The gang plank was fixed with a hawser railing, in a weak an attempt to give the place a nautical atmosphere I suppose. I quickly snatched my hand back from this feature, on account of the seagull droppings.

Anyway, we hop on this gang plank and step over the rail onto this wonder of wonders.

They had extended the main cabin to about amidship to increase the enclosed area of the establishment. The entrance was framed by a couple of portholes on one side and a large picture window with a flashing neon sign, advertising Jax beer, on the other. The door was a hatch that was blocked open for ventilation.

Walking into this place was like stepping into a bad dream or the fun house at the parish fair, you decide.

If you have ever been on a shrimp boat you know that the deck is anything but level. We entered where the deck was at it's lowest point. From there you looked uphill toward the bow of the boat to a long bar that was built from gunnel to gunnel. There was a partition at one end that was fixed with a top that swung up and out of the way for the barmaids to come and go.

Several, round topped, tables were scattered around the deck and were fastened to the floor in such a way as to simulate a level surface. Chairs were positioned along the uphill side of these tables with modified legs that ensured they sat flat enough so as not to pitch the drunks head first to the floor. On the stern side were modified bar stools with legs of the same fashion.

Along the walls were benches that resembled a terrace. If you were so lucky as to find a seat on the short end your knees were up around your ears and at the other end you could swing your legs to the rhythm of the Zydeco and Cajun music that blared from the juke box.

The juke box was positioned along one wall with one side propped up on a plastic milk carton. Unfortunately, I fed this contraption a fist full of quarters once during the night, only to find not one rock and roll song among the limited selection. Instead I played "Joe Leblanc" about forty times, but I selected a different artist each time. The patrons didn't seem to notice.

The pool table in this place was a marvel! They had sawn the legs off at one end to make it level enough that the balls wouldn't roll around. The deck had a piece of padded carpet on the uphill side so that the players wouldn't get splinters when they kneeled down to shoot!

The novelty of playing on this table was something I haven't experienced since. You could be shooting a winning game and a passing boat's wake would rock the bar and change the dynamics of the game. Sometimes this could work to your advantage too.

The locals had worked out a system to alert the patrons of a passing boat. Every now and again someone would sing out "BATEAU!!!" Which was a signal for "GRAB YOUR BEERS BOYS, HERE COMES ANOTHER WAVE!"

Now, before I go any further with this pack of lies.....I mean story, it is important for the reader to understand a little Cajun French.

If you ever meet a cajun and the name tag on his overalls says "Herbert", it ain't pronounced in your normal American English sort of way. It is pronounced (A-bear). Yup. Confusing ain't it? And if you were to meet a lady with the moniker of Richard? Nope, that's pronounced (Ree-shard). Go figure. And Melancon? That's (Mel-on-sonn). Uh huh!

Anyway, the purpose of pointing this out is what happened next.

No sooner had we stepped into this smoky environment than a fellow sitting alone at one of the tables hollers out, "REVETTE! You ole bastard! Come set over here wit me!"

I followed Revette.

The dialog went something like this.

"PootPoot! You ugly bastard! I want you to meet my friend."

I extended my hand and said, "High, I'm Chip, glad to meet cha!"

"Pootpoot Meloncon", says the smiling cajun.

I raise my eyebrows and he says, "I know, I know, It's a strange name, but I been tinking of changing it, yeah."

For those of you who don't know, cajuns often end sentences with the word "yeah", or "me". Like in, "Boudreaux, I'm going to go crabbing down the bayou, me. You tink Marie will let you come? Get you nets, and meet me at da pirogue, yeah!"

Anyway, Revette asked him what his new name was going to be and he says, "Me, I don't know, I was tinking perhaps Pootpoot Richard, yeah!"

It was awhile before I noticed my mouth was open.

Now, in this part of Louisiana you will notice a lot of folks wearing white rubber boots. It is quite the fashion among the fishermen here. Everywhere you go people are strutting around in white rubber boots. From the oldest grandmothers to the youngest child, everyone has at least one pair!

Sitting there, nursing the first round of beers that Pootpoot had so graciously paid for, I noticed I was the only one in the place wearing leather lace-up work boots. I had wondered, at the time, why Revette had changed into those boots he had stored behind the seat of our work truck.

I'm telling you, I was quite put out! He should have told me this was a classy establishment and you were supposed to dress up. I was quite self conscious, and uncomfortable the entire evening.

There were about three couples on the small dance floor and if you have never seen a cajun dance, I'm here to tell you, it is something. I think you could call it a modified jitter bug, and looks quite fun! Unfortunately I never learned to "jitter bug" and it's a good thing too! After about the third beer my inhibitions were such that even had I known a smidgen of what to do, I may have had a go at it. I probably would have gotten up to speed, found myself headed downhill, and wouldn't have been able to stop until I had gone out the hatch and over the stern.

It wasn't long before I noticed this gorgeous little bar maid.

Funny that.

I hadn't noticed her before, and we had only been here long enough to drink 13 beers! I'm pretty sure she had been there the entire time.

She was wearing this denim shirt with a knot cinched up under her ample cleavage. Her smooth belly segued nicely to her hip-hugger cut-offs. She had beautiful tanned legs and her feet were clad in....., yep, you guessed it, white rubber boots!

Anyway, I watched her for awhile.

After some time a young gentleman came in and climbed up the hill to the bar to talk to the old woman that obviously owned the place.

The old woman motioned for the barmaid to come over, and the three put their heads together conspiratorially.

Soon, some sort of agreement was reached, because the young man reached into his pocket, brought out a wad of bills, and counted them out to the old woman.

The little barmaid smiled and took the gentleman by the hand and the couple disappeared down a spiral staircase.

Now I'm not stupid, you know. I was young and didn't even know what an STD was back then.....or at least I thought I was bullet proof.

Let's just say that a young man with testosterone poisoning and alcohol surging through his system doesn't care!

I intended to investigate, so I got up and climbed the hill to the bar.

I sat down at one end and the old Madam soon noticed me and walked over.

"Qu'est ce que je peux nous server," she says?

"Huh?"

"What will you have," she says again in English?

"Oh, well, I was just wondering about something."

"Oh, yeah, and what was you wondering about?"

"Where did that couple just go?"

"What couple?

"You know, the barmaid and the young fella that came in and went down those stairs."

She leaned both arms on the bar and looked me up and down. Satisfied that I wasn't there to shut her down, or at least too inebriated to be a threat, she says, "Oh, dem two? They went below to take care of some bidniz."

Now I'm savvy to the ways of the world, you know? So, I whisper, "Uh, how much does it cost to do some bidniz?"

"Well, now, dat depends on how much you got!"

At that I started emptying every pocket I had, change was rolling around the bar, crumpled bills piled up everywhere. Soon, with her help, we smooth out all the notes and stacked all the change according to denomination and right there, all in a pile, was the sole remains of last weeks paycheck, $16.57! Ha!

I looked up at her expectantly.

The old woman looked down sadly at my net worth and shakes her head. She says,"Oh, mon enfant, you can't take care of no bidniz here, no!"

I was crestfallen!

She looks me sadly in the face, undoubtable sympathetic to the suffering of my condition, and says, "But don't despair mon amie, have a beer on me", and she sets a Miller Pony on the bar.

So, readers, if you like a good yarn, leave a comment below.

Any up votes are welcome and I'm looking to add friends and followers!

Carry On!

The picture is a painting by Flaven aka Robert LeFevre

Check out his fantastic art here:

https://flaven.deviantart.com