“That’s important, Jesse. Good for you, but I don’t know how they survive financially in this state. The pay is peanuts. Still the lowest in the nation, right?”
Indeed it was, but such an observation coming from Felix was unnecessary.
They spent half of dinner talking about associates and partners, lawsuits and trials, and for Jesse the conversation cut two ways. First, it was mildly irritating to be reminded that teaching school would always be a financial strain, especially for a male breadwinner with four kids at home. Second, the more they talked the more intrigued Jesse became with the idea of becoming a lawyer. Given that he was already thirty years old, it seemed an impossible challenge, but perhaps he was ready for one.
Felix paid the bill and they set off to find “trouble,” in his words. He was from a small, dry county （all eighty-two counties were still dry in 1954） and had only heard the legend of Biloxi vice. He wanted to drink, roll some dice, see some skin, and maybe rent a girl.
Like every kid from Biloxi, Jesse had grown up in a culture and a town where some of the men enjoyed bad things—gambling, prostitutes, strippers, whiskey—all illegal but accepted nonetheless. As a young teenager, he had sneaked cigarettes in the pool halls and beers from certain bars, but once the novelty wore off he forgot about such prohibited activities. Every family had a story of a young man with gambling debts or a drinking problem, and every mother lectured her sons on the dangers lurking just across town. The night before Jesse left for boot camp and the war, he and some friends hit the bars hard and spent their last dollars on hired girls. Over breakfast the next morning, his mother said nothing about his late night. He was not the only soldier to say his farewells with a hangover. When he came home three years later, he brought a wife and his brief stint as a hell-raiser was over. Occasionally, once a month at most, he met some friends for a quick beer after work. His favorite bar was Malco’s Grocery, and he often saw Lance there mixing drinks.
He wasn’t sure what kind of “trouble” Felix was thinking of, but the safest place to lose cash was Jerry’s Truck Stop, a fixture on Highway 90, the main drag along the Coast. In years past, Jerry had actually sold diesel fuel and serviced rigs passing through. Then he added a bar behind his café and offered the cheapest drinks on the Coast. Truckers were delighted and spread the word throughout the region that you could have ice-cold beer with your eggs and sausage. Jerry expanded his bar and was counting his money until the sheriff informed him that drinking and driving were not compatible. There were some wrecks caused by intoxicated truckers; folks were dead. Jerry had a choice—diesel fuel or booze. He chose the latter, took out his pumps, converted his shop into a casino, and began servicing soldiers instead of long-haulers. The “Truck Stop” became the most famous lounge in Biloxi.
Felix paid the one-dollar cover charge and they went inside to the long, shiny bar. He was immediately slack-jawed at the sight of two lovely dancers shimmying around a pole with moves he’d never seen. The club was loud, dark, and smoky, with colored lights sweeping the dance floor. They found a spot at the bar and were immediately accosted by two young ladies in heavy makeup, low-cut blouses, and short skirts.
“How about a drink, boys?” the first one asked as she squeezed between them and pressed boobs into Felix’s chest. The other one came on to Jesse, who knew the game.
“Sure,” Felix said, eager to spend some money. “What’ll it be?”
Jesse glanced at one of four bartenders who was ready to mix their drinks. Within seconds, two tall greenish cocktails arrived for the girls and two bourbons for the boys.
The friendly bartender eagerly agreed and said loudly, “Remember, every fourth drink is free.”
“Wow!” Felix practically yelled. So, to make the economics work, a fella would need at least eight drinks to call it a good night.
The green drinks were nothing but sugar water and each included a colorful plastic swizzle stick with a cherry on top. In due course, the girls would collect the swizzle sticks and hide them in a pocket. When the night was over and they settled up, they would be paid fifty cents per stick, nothing per hour. The more drinks they solicited, the more money they made. The locals knew the game and from somewhere the term “B-drinking” had evolved. The tourists and servicemen did not, and they kept ordering.