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Mimi's Bar

"The dry land of Louisiana is disappearing at an unprecedented and alarming rate. In some areas, the swamp is expanding at a rate of one mile every year. This emerging crises has put many coastal cities at risk, most notably New Orleans, and threatened thousands of homeowners. Unless something is done to stop the encroaching swamp, millions of lives could be disrupted and hundreds of millions of dollars worth of land permanently lost." - Jason Clark, spokesman for the Committee to Reclaim Louisiana

Mimi Delacroix never met Jason Clark, the spokesman for the Committee to Reclaim Louisiana, but it is probable she wouldn't have liked him. Mimi was a resident of the swamp and would have wanted to know just what was so alarming about the expansion of her homeland.

She was small of stature, not the broadest of minds, and was of no consequence in politics of any sort. She did nothing for her community. She brought no large tobacco companies to their knees; taught no children to read or play the flute; did no favors to the swamp in which she lived for two years, and in fact there is one less citizen in the world than there would have been had she never existed.

Mimi was small but powerful, with distinct arm muscles covered with soft, downy brown skin that faded into an egg-speckled whiteness. She had dark hair as clingy and heavy as the wet rope of a mop, and she usually kept it in a bright sparkly red elastic band which took some of her hairs with it every night when she pulled it out. She had wide caucasian eyes the color of the shadows of oak trees, deep sunk in her face and shaded with overhanging lashes of an extraordinary length. A wet and tropical smell continuously evaporated off of her, a sweet and rainy odor very much like some herbal shampoos, which was odd considering she rarely showered. (The chairman of Chanel would have given his eye teeth to get a whiff of her.) Her wardrobe consisted solely of: white cotton underpants; black silk bras; plaid flannel shirts; and dark, snug fitting Levis. She wore cowboy boots. That was all. She walked with a long, loping, even stride, the way a rocking chair would walk if it ever got a mind to go more than one step forward, one step back. She walked as though every step brought her closer to someone whom she was crossing a crowded room to talk to.

She was originally from New Orleans, where she had been heavily involved in the disco scene during the seventies, which lasted longer for Mimi than for the rest of the nation. By the time she was thirty she had spent over half her life in small, dark clubs, and knew that soon she'd begin to look it. She had strong self-preservational instincts, and saw quickly that unless she wanted to spend the next thirty years of her life in support groups and church basements, working low income jobs and paying back her monstrous debts to every loan shark in the city, she would have to make a speedy getaway. When she decided to leave it was 1993. She got out of the city of her birth fast, giving minimal notice to very few people. She certainly didn't give notice to the man she was going to see. He was an ambulance-chasing attorney, with several shady dealings and a couple of outrightly unethical courtroom stunts to his name. These violations had been brought to the attention of the county clerk, two local judges, and anyone else who might have been interested, by none other than Mimi Delacroix. He had lost his license to practice law and would have been jailed had he not agreed to leave the New Orleans area promptly and forever, and never come back. He now sold bad business insurance from a cruddy office on the edge of the swamp Mimi was planning to open a bar in. He was stupid, slimy, and simple. He was harmless, but he didn't know it. He had a silly haircut.

His name was Marty Merkle.

He was Mimi's ex-husband.

By all accounts, he was still in love with Mimi.

Mimi was looking forward to seeing the expression on Marty's face when she walked in the door …

Mimi just hoped he didn't still have that haircut. She didn't think she could refrain from laughing.

Marty opened the door to his office. He still had that haircut. Slicked over with about a tub of Dippity-Doo (they still made that stuff?), with a little duck's tail in the back. Marty still thought he was hot stuff. Mimi tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. He couldn't contain himself.

"Here, Mimi, sit down, can I get you anything?" He was obsequious. Either he was still scared of her, or still infatuated, or both. He complimented her on her hair, on her shoes (she was wearing cowboy boots), on how nice she was looking.

Mimi had expected nothing less. She sipped coffee and waited for him to finish before telling him what she had come for.

"Insurance?"

"Yes. I'm opening a bar and grill and I need some business insurance before they'll let me."

"You know it's bad insurance." Marty was still stupid.

"Gee, Marty, sell it to me." Mimi decided to toy with him. "I can see why you're still selling from this dump. Maybe I oughta just go somewhere else."

"No! No, I think you oughta buy it from me, then sell it back. That way you can ... you can get around the four year requirement."

"Four year requirement?"

"Yeah. They only ask for proof of insurance every four years, so you can buy it back from me then and you won't have to pay the fees for four years."

Mimi sat back. She turned it over in her head. It was painfully obvious Marty was trying to get an excuse to see her twice every four years. But that was okay. She could put up with a hopelessly infatuated ex-husband if it meant a good break on bad insurance. She would have to check and make sure it wasn't every three years and Marty was screwing her over. There was always the chance that Marty was smarter than he looked. She looked at the haircut again. Nope. No chance. "Okay," she agreed.

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