The spirit of carnevale is seldom found in the gold-plated bathrooms of the rich and uptight. They know the cost of everything, the value of nothing. They can’t let go of their wanting long enough to just be, so carnevale passes them by, leaving them on the fringes.
Carnevale, like Lady Luck, flees when you seek it, flinches when you snatch it, and bestows itself like an unseen kiss on the back of the neck upon those who think they do not deserve it.
Walking the crowds of Mardi Gras, you can see those who have it and those who don’t.
Bob doesn’t have it. He wants it so bad, and it shows in the clenched fists, and tightly compressed mouth, and the greedy calculator eyes looking always to see where the most fun is, who is having it and why they deserve it and why he doesn’t. If he could he would claim it, bottle it and sell it. Bob thinks that money can buy everything, including happiness. Bob is wrong.
Walking the crowds of Mardi Gras, you can see those who have it and those who don’t.
Tom has it. His face alight with joy and his trumpet sings out, the notes coming perfectly, infusing the very air and those around him with joy and ecstasy as though the Holy Spirit has come to The Big Easy and is whooping it up this evening.
The rain begins in that intemperate way it has, and Bob stiffens, curling in on himself and hunching as though a little more visible scapula is all he needs for mastery over the weather. Tom laughs around his mouthpiece, lifting his happy overheated face to the drops, letting them wash over him.
They anoint him, and he plays on.
Carnevale.
Liz Milne has a PhD in Creative Writing and writes everything from flash to novels, and when she's not writing or teaching, she's probably reading, preferably with a cat on her lap.
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