Our hero, standing in front of the mirror, dons his shades and smiles. "The difference between me and the other pimps is that I make this look good", he thinks. Decked out in his "Sunday best", he rides the train with nothing but some id and cash tucked in the folds of his tiger-striped jacket. Big Money E is on the street.
Soulard is a small section of St Louis, near the baseball stadium. It is home to the Mardi Gras festivities, and it's a big deal: more than 400,000 people descended on this quaint part of town this weekend. It's not New Orleans, but it's getting close...
Big Money E struts down the sidewalk; a nearby bar plays, fittingly, "Saturday Night Fever". He awaits his ride: a parade float sponsored by Countrywide Home Loans (America's #1 Residential Lender). Passers-by smile and yet tell their inquisitive children "we'll explain later, honey".
Soon, the float cruises by a huge, noisy mob, 15 rows deep; upturned faces and widespread arms clamor for beads. Big Money E and the Countrywide entourage oblige. It is 40 F and yet the crowd exudes warmth and comraderie. People smile, cheer, holler. Yes, there is flesh, there is debauchery, but having slipped the surly bonds of time and social norms, an eerie peace gels.
Much later, our hero explores the jampacked streets of Soulard. No mere pimp, he transcends into a prophet of profit: the crowd cheers his arrival; some reach out to touch him; some request a photo (seriously). The "good times" have rolled straight from the parade route into Soulard: there are no strangers, no worries, no distrust. Only laughter, sly negotiations for beads, and beer-soaked, newfound friendships. It's the Sixties Lite: all the harmony without that hallucinogenic aftertaste.
Both genders are enamoured with Big Money E: the ladies ooh and ahh; the men offer high fives and unabashed admiration. "That's what Willis was talkin' 'bout!". In life, people come together for many reasons: refuge, spirituality, or in this case, a bacchanal. But it is the very act of coming together that trumps all. Humanity is plural.
Twilight sets in: Big M.E. and a small group of friends walk aimlessly along a street wearily, feet burning at the end of a timeless, epic day. A 30ish woman stands next to an iron-wraught gate, softly pleading, "won't someone kiss me?". Our hero steps up and gives her a peck on the cheek, and thinks maybe -- just maybe -- everything is going to be okay.
