“Where y’at, Scrim?” called Mr. P, a towering seven-foot peacock with shimmering feathers, catching the morning light.

“What are you doing on this side of town?” Scrim asked, tilting his head.

“We’re getting ready for a second line!” Mr. P announced proudly. “We’re celebrating 100 years of men’s fashion on Canal Street! Did you know Rubensteins has been family-owned and operated for a century?”

Canal Street has long been a melting pot of fashion influences. Mardi Gras costumes, jazz musicians, street performers, and cultural traditions have all contributed to New Orleans’ signature style.

“One thing about New Orleans folks—we’ve always had style,” Mr. P asserted, giving a confident shake of his tail feathers. “Back in the day, a gentleman wouldn’t be caught on Canal Street without a sharp suit, tie, and a top hat.”

“Hey, do you know my band?” Mr. P asked, motioning toward his companions. “This here is Ronnie the Elephant. He’s the oldest in the bunch… been around since the 1920s, but still looks pretty good, right?”

“What’s the secret?” Scrim asked, intrigued.

“Doing something that brings you joy,” Ronnie replied with a grin. He licked his lips before blowing the first few notes of a classic Meters tune on his trumpet: Bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, da doobey dum bum bum, dump, dump, dump, da doobey dum…

“The best part of my day? Hanging out with this krewe, playing music, carrying on… and always looking good while we’re at it!”

Ronnie chuckled before adding, “I’ve seen Canal Street through all its changes. I remember when it was the go-to place for high-end fashion. Big department stores came and went, but Rubensteins? They’re still here—making folks look good and feel good, all at the same time. They’re a cornerstone of men’s fashion and a true steward of Canal Street.”

“And this,” Mr. P gestured, “is Sylvester the Giraffe. He’s been around since the ’70s… still stuck in the Age of Aquarius, if you ask me.”

Raising his long neck high, Sylvester let out a bombastic blast from his saxophone—right into Mr. P’s ear.

“What was that, P?” Sylvester teased with a sly grin.

Mr. P shook his head. “Our friend Saffron the Opossum is late as usual. I wonder who we can call to fill in. Hey, Scrim, how about you? Want to play in the band?”

“Would I?!” Scrim beamed.

“I think you’re just the right size for Saffron’s suit,” Mr. P mused.

Scrim slipped into the hat and yellow blazer, strapped on a drum, and grinned. “Ready!” He pounded the drum, imitating the rhythms he had seen in parades, and began to march down the street—Bop, bop, bada bop, bop!

“There he goes again,” Mr. P sighed with a smile. “See ya later, Scrim.”