I didn’t feel like he was looking in my eyes. I felt like he was looking through my eyes to my soul.

“I’m in public relations,” I said.

Tom politely nodded, ran his finger through his thick black hair, and smiled, acting as if mine were a real job. He is a scientist, I thought, and I am an illusionist. Our two worlds couldn’t have been further apart. I spent my days putting spin on the misdeeds of a water polluter and he was studying the effects of the worst environmental disaster to ever hit the Gulf Coast. Yet, I felt chemistry with him. I have always loved science and I did take first place in the county science fair once. But I gave into my searing passion for journalism, although I can’t help but wonder if journalism is what I’m doing. Public relations is not journalism. Have I sold out and taken the easy path?

I ordered another martini. Tom nurtured his first beer as I dove into my second martini. As a marine biologist, surely he knew about Bayou Oil’s spill. I was afraid he would find out that I was getting them off the hook for poisoning the marine life he was studying.

“Do you enjoy doing PR work?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Charlotte and Brad were lost in their own conversation. They were going on and on about the Mardi Gras Season. The first parades rolled one week from today. Parade after parade for two weeks, ending on Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras sights and sounds dazzled their beholders with elaborately costumed, bead-wielding riders perched on purple, gold and green floats. As they snaked though the streets, they pelted hand waving revelers with brightly colored beads and trinkets. Each parade-goer shouted, “Throw me something, Mister.” The float caballeros eyed the crowd for kids and costumed folks, fully into the carnival spirit to toss their beads to, but saved their best beads for boob-flashing babes. Marching bands, jazz musicians and powerful sound systems pounding out uplifting tunes like Mardi Gras Mambo fueled the crowd’s enthusiasm. Every structure with walls and roofs had King Cakes boxed or half eaten. Topped with the mandatory tri-colored sugar icing, these cinnamon cakes were often filled with cream cheese. Tradition required the person who got the slice containing a hidden plastic baby to buy the next one. King cakes and Mardi Gras are like Christmas and eggnog but without the nasty aftertaste. What a great marketing ploy—a cake that when eaten required an unlucky baby holder to buy another one. Only Ash Wednesday, the day after Mardi Gras, relieved the loser of his obligation to replace the cake with another.

Charlotte loved the King Cake tradition for two reasons. First, she worked in marketing, as the in-house marketing director for Superior Sugar Company, and loved any great marketing scam.