Caitlyn and Marlee ponder the menu looking for the perfect dish. Photograph by Sahir Khan

Imagine never having contact with anyone besides your parent or guardian in your entire lifetime. For half of all intellectually handicapped people, this is a harsh reality. Caitlyn Louviere and the LSU chapter of Best Buddies are working to eliminate this reality.

Louviere serves as president of the University’s chapter of Best Buddies, an international program dedicated to providing one-on-one friendships between members of the community and locals with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

The organization was started in 1989 by Anthony Kennedy Shriver in an effort to improve living conditions for the intellectually disabled. According to its Web site, Best Buddies has an impact on about 400,000 individuals a year. Louviere took over the presidency of the LSU chapter a year ago, revamping the club from a small organization that only had six to eight matched buddies to a force in the community that boasts about 48 matched buddies.

“It’s funny because I never thought the club would be my life, but it has, and it’s a great thing,” Louviere said. Louviere first met her buddy Marlee Richterman at one of the club’s match parties, where college buddies meet their intellectually disabled buddy for the first time. Since their meeting, Louviere and Marlee have kept up a now two-year long relationship that Louviere says is “just like any real friendship.”

Once college buddies get matched with a handicapped buddy, they are required to meet up with their buddy twice a month, and call them once a week. The friendships between buddies usually grow beyond the minimum requirements, Louviere said. “It’s really cool when [college buddies] are proud of what their buddy has accomplished.”

“The handicapped buddies develop social skills to be treated as equals when they are friends with people that don’t have disabilities … when you combine the two, they learn so much from each other,” said Tiffany Rutledge, state director of Best Buddies Louisiana.

Marlee and Louviere often go out to eat, watch movies, communicate through Facebook and speak over the phone every night. “She just makes me happier – I don’t know where I’d be without her,” said Louviere. Marlee’s mother and doctors are unsure of what exactly Marlee’s condition is, but Louviere says her condition doesn’t prevent her from doing what she wants in life. “[The handicapped buddies] have something special about them just like everyone else does, and they may not be as good in other areas, but then, neither am I.”

Just like any other friendship, Marlee and Louviere’s has its ups and downs. When she first met Marlee, the biggest obstacle to overcome was Marlee’s naturally introverted nature, and Louviere initially found it hard to get Marlee to open up to her. “I realized that she really wanted to open up to me when her primary care doctor she knew since birth had died, and she called me crying,” Louviere said. Marlee’s mother apologized to Louviere, thinking Marlee had perhaps startled her, but said Marlee had only wanted to talk to Louviere about her grief.

“One thing I realized is that [Best Buddies] breaks [intellectually handicapped people] out of their shell,” Louviere said. Besides the club’s monthly meetings, Best Buddies also organizes special events such as a prom, a Valentine’s Day party, a Halloween party and the annual fundraiser Midnight Madness, a mission-based challenge in which buddies and chapter members complete tasks to raise money. Marlee doesn’t always socialize with the other buddies, but Louviere says she loves to dance and the Best Buddies prom helped Marlee interact and connect with the others in the group.

The most important aspect of the mentally handicapped community is that they are just like everyone else, Louviere said. “The biggest problem [facing the mentally handicapped community] is that people are afraid to interact with them. For the most part, it isn’t that people are trying to disrespect them. They’re just uncomfortable and don’t know what to say. The reality is that [the mentally handicapped] want to be treated like everyone else. They want to have the same conversations, they want to pay at the cash register at the grocery store, they don’t want people to finish their sentences when they stutter – they want to be independent.”

Lori Moore, program supervisor of Best Buddies Louisiana, stresses breaking down preconceived notions people may have about the mentally handicapped community.

Caitlyn and Marlee at a Best Buddies picnic on the LSU Parade Ground in November. Photograph courtesy of Caitlyn Louviere

“There’s such a stigma [about mentally handicapped people], and [Best Buddies] is trying to break down that barrier,” she said. Moore says mentally handicapped people are typically babied or treated like they aren’t capable of understanding or completing a task. “It’s not OK [to treat them differently]. The only way to learn social skills is to be treated as equals.”

Best Buddies retains a strict one-on-one policy between buddies, and buddies are supposed to get a new buddy at the beginning of every year. When she took over the club presidency, Louviere was unaware of the policy and has been Marlee’s buddy for two years. She, along with other club members who have maintained two-year relationships with their buddies, isn’t excited about the prospect of switching buddies after becoming so close with the buddy she knows so well. “Some buddies are really friendly and open up easily, but I worry about Marlee and buddies like Marlee. I’m worried about her going back into her shell.”

Maintaining the relationship with a handicapped buddy is not always easy for a college student. Louviere says the busy college schedule causes members to cancel with their buddies indefinitely, sometimes without telling Louviere.

“A lot of college kids get busy and have to tell me that they have to drop their buddy, but sometimes they don’t even let me know. I sat down and called all the buddies’ parents, and some of them hadn’t even met with their buddy more than once. What I try to reinforce is to say that it’s volunteer work – this isn’t a house or a vegetable garden; these are real people,” Louviere said.

Louviere plans to maintain her relationship with Marlee even after they switch buddies because Marlee helps keep Louviere grounded. “As a pre-med student at LSU, I’m a worry-wart and I sometimes call Marlee, and when she asks what’s wrong, and I say that I’m tired, she responds, ‘Hi Tired, I’m Marlee,’ and right away I start feeling better.”

After graduation, Louviere plans to attend medical school in New Orleans, but knows this will be harder to see Marlee as much as she does now. In the meantime, Louviere knows Marlee has changed her entire college experience for the better.

“Best Buddies in general has changed my perspective,” Louviere said. “I never looked down on people with disabilities, but I never saw them as able. [Best Buddies] has allowed me to see how very able they actually are.”

“As a kid, I saw a veteran as [an old] bum,” said James Wyant, a clean-cut microbiology sophomore with glasses.  “Now, I am one.”

Wyant, 26, received his discharge letter from the U.S. Navy last August. Wyant, like other men and women on campus, made the decision to postpone higher education to serve his country.

Charlie Pruitt, a 25-year-old landscape architecture sophomore, also delayed college for the military. Like Wyant, Pruitt agrees that he does not picture himself when he hears the word “veteran.”  Instead, he conjures up images of his grandfather.

“There is such a greatness associated with [being a veteran], you don’t associate it with yourself,” Pruitt said.

Although these students say they do not feel like heroes, veterans or patriots, they are. They have traveled from Iraq and back – and today, they are Tigers.

By Sea

“I knew that I always wanted to go to college, but I had no way to pay for it,” Wyant said. “Also, joining the Navy was a way to delay the decision of what path to pursue.”

Wyant explained that his family was supportive when he joined the Navy, despite that he did not come from a military upbringing.  In fact, he said his maternal grandfather led a pacifist organization and his father was not drafted into the Vietnam War because he was in seminary to become a United Church of Christ minister.

He said his friends and family thoroughly backed his decision, but he recalled being frequently questioned about what he would do if there were a war. He responded confidently, “There’s not going to be a war for at least 10 years.”

Wyant joined the military in August 2001.

“I was in boot camp when 9/11 happened … I woke up to tanks in the streets, civilian lockdown, and anti-raiding jacks … like you see on the beaches of Normandy in ‘Saving Private Ryan,’ ” he said.  “It was so surreal that we thought it had to be a training exercise.”

Wyant explained that nearly 300 recruits were corralled into a room to watch about one hour of pre-recorded CNN footage.

He was certain the Navy would buy him some time, but Wyant said he never imagined that he would serve six years in the military during wartime.

During the following years at sea, Wyant served on a submarine and received several medals for his service in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom.

Wyant, a Los Angeles native, explained that the Navy allowed him to travel.

He said he lived in eight states, and joked that he also resided under water.

“I could never compile a complete list of the admirable people I served with,” Wyant said.  “My most enjoyable moment though, would be riding on the surface [of the ocean] at top speed at dawn without any land in sight.”

While Wyant said he feels his military experience was a positive one, he warns that the military is not for everyone.

“I would recommend the military to very few people. … I think it would be damaging to most people,” Wyant said. “I have seen people literally driven insane.”

Aside from the risks of pirates and battle, he said the day-to-day life in a submarine was unsettling.  He said there was no privacy in the cramped quarters of the submarine.  He also discussed how laborious it could be to do dirty jobs deep underwater.

One particular incident haunts him: A mechanical error shot sewage into the ship instead of the ocean. The crew was not allowed to surface for five days – after everything was cleaned.

“There was a geyser in the kitchen [ruining food],” he said, laughing, finding humor in a gruesome incident.  “It looked like three inch fudge mix.”

Situations like these caused the crew to call the vessel the “U.S.S. Green Evil” instead of its proper name, the Greenville.

Upon coming home from Iraq, Wyant was not only happy to be on dry land but also about how gracious most people were.  He said he surprised by the support for the troops, no matter the political party or opinion on the war.

“I feel like the veterans have gotten unprecedented support from the public, regardless of political belief,” Wyant said.

By Land

“I didn’t value college … I felt really bad for [letting down] my parents,” Pruitt said.

Pruitt explained that he joined the military in 2003 after a failed attempt at McNeese State University in his hometown of Lake Charles, La.

He said he didn’t research the military before joining; his decision to enlist was based on an article in the local newspaper about a friend who served in the initial invasion of Iraq.  He was intrigued by how the story featured his friend as a hero.

Pruitt decided to test the waters.

He told his friends and family he was considering joining the military to gauge their reactions.

“They said, ‘Oh, cool.’  I wanted to hear ‘no, no, don’t do it’  … I felt obligated [to join],” he joked.

With the support of his family and the advice of his military grandfather, Pruitt joined the Marines.

When Pruitt enlisted, he said he felt passionate about the cause he was defending in a post-9/11 world.

He spoke a lot about the camaraderie he felt with his fellow marines.  Pruitt explained that trust was key when it came to ground work in Iraq.

“Knowing that other people suffered through the same things as you really helps forge a relationship,” he said.

He described how interactions with civilians affected his view on the war. He said he was rarely scared on the ground in Iraq, but he warned in some cases he should have been.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays [insurgents] shot at us ,” Pruitt said, laughing at terrorist groups’ failed attempts to invoke fear in American soldiers.  “No one was ever injured … When they got off work, [they would] come shoot [rockets at] us.  They were terrible shots.”

He said Iraq was not how people would picture it.  There were rocky deserts, and he compared the dress of people in rural areas to the garb of “biblical times,” except they carried guns.  He also described the daunting scenery of rusted rockets and vacated buildings from the Persian Gulf War.

He described the Iraqi shepherd families that lived in tents, with only a few pots and pans and how his unit did what they could to help them.  Pruitt said he gave children toys and school supplies, families water and provided whatever other services he could.

Pruitt, like Wyant, discussed how sewage proved to be a problem while in the desert.  He said while protecting a highway in a rural area of Iraq, he and a handful of other men lived in a small, deserted, two-room building without indoor – or outdoor – plumbing.

He said the men had to dig holes to urinate in and other waste had to be put in a bag and burned.  When he finally got to a base with portable toilets he said he remembered feeling like it was “heaven.”

However, there were greater concerns while protecting the highway.  Pruitt said people would come to their fort and threaten them.  No attack ever actually occurred.

While Pruitt feels the Iraqi people are in great need of American assistance, he said they are not always accepting of help.  He added that he felt conflicted about everything he saw in Iraq.

“I didn’t necessarily agree with everything we did … but who am I to question?” he said.  “You want to see it work out for those people.  But at the same time they aren’t helping themselves.”

From Soldiers to Students

While their time in service was always stressful and sometimes scary, both Pruitt and Wyant agree it made them the men they are today.

During his time overseas, Pruitt said he realized how much “better” his life was than those of the Iraqi people.

“I was lucky enough [that] my parents could help me go to school.  It was a maturing process,” he said about how his military experience made him thankful for all of the privileges he had at home.  “I wanted nothing more than to go to school.”

Pruitt decided to go to LSU and worked hard to accomplish his goal.  He first attended Baton Rouge Community College to pull up his G.P.A. in order to enroll in the University.

Pruitt took a summer class at the University in 2008 and received an “A,” proving to himself and his family he could succeed at LSU.

“I want to design, something and see it come to life,” he said proudly, smiling through his 5 o’clock shadow.

While the Montgomery GI Bill helps Wyant with the financial aspects of student life, he also feels his personal growth spurred by his time in the military caused him to be the student he is today.

Currently in his fourth semester at LSU, Wyant has maintained a 3.8 G.P.A. and hopes to become a doctor.

“I know I’ll be in my 30s when I’m done with med school,” he said, laughing.  “In 10 years, I’ll be 10 years older no matter what I do, so I might as well pursue what I want. ”Wyant said that the age difference between he and his peers is not an issue.

“My friends may make fun of me, or call me an old man,” he said with a smirk. “But it’s no worse than what I call them.”

All jokes aside, Wyant said the LSU community is very accepting.

“I am glad to finally be [in college]. I feel that the label of ‘student’ and the label of ‘veteran’ seem to be different in society, but they aren’t,” he said.  “A student is someone who is working hard … and wants to accomplish something for the good of mankind. I would like to think that is the mission of the U.S. military.”

Webb was in high school, thinking about what he might name his next rock band before becoming a paramedic. DesOrmeaux went from singing and studying opera at the University to working at his father’s business firm before becoming a paramedic. Jones managed a struggling coffeehouse before becoming an EMT-Basic.

Their lives were full of false starts until they became immersed in the medical field; they haven’t looked back since. They’re still in school, studying for careers beyond paramedicine, but when it comes to balancing scholastic obligations and saving lives, the scale often tips in favor of the latter.

“It’s nothing like television.”

The helicopter ride was a stuffy one.

Aaron Webb, kinesiology junior, and a pilot are taking the 15-minute trip from Hammond to Our Lady of the Lake Hospital in Baton Rouge. Their patient is a two-year-old baby girl who just stopped breathing.

The propellers hum, whirling while they cruise at 120 mph, 1,000 feet above the capital city.

Nothing frightens Webb, the 30-year-old Acadian Ambulance helicopter paramedic from Baton Rouge. But he has always had a soft spot for transporting children.

“I’ve never lost sleep over anything, but most people would agree, in my field, dealing with kids is the more difficult situation. Everybody feels for the kids,” he said.

The scene seems ripped from hospital television dramas, but the experience is nothing like the small screen portrays.

“It’s nothing like television where you see everybody running,” he said. “If everybody ran with the stretchers with people on them, people would be tripping and falling. It doesn’t happen like that. Family members would probably like to see that because that’s what they see on TV.… but we have to look out for ourselves and the patients.”

Around the station, Webb is calm and collected. He fills the breaks during his 24-hour shifts by plucking his acoustic guitar. He watches a movie here and there on one of the several televisions at the station. He might even read a couple chapters of Tom Robbins’ “Still Life with Woodpecker.”

Webb took a break this semester to work and obtain sufficient funds needed to finish up his tenure at the University. Not having to worry about schoolwork has lifted a large burden off Webb’s shoulders.

“School is 10 times more stressful than my job,” he said.

Unlike the majority of other students on campus, Webb didn’t go straight from high school to college. But, he never foresaw becoming a paramedic.

“[This job was] never something I thought about doing in high school,” he said. “Somebody was talking about it in the last few months of my senior year, and there I was.”

Webb worked 12-hour shifts when he attended school, and now he’s working 24-hour shifts since he doesn’t have to accommodate his class schedule.

“On the helicopter, we have less calls than [most ambulances] do in that time-frame,” he said. “We average five to six calls in a 24-hour period, almost half are cancellations.”

Webb doesn’t mind cancellations. They give him a chance to enjoy the sights the ride back to the station has to offer.

Webb started before Hurricane Katrina and had the chance to fly over Tiger Stadium when the Saints hosted one of their four games in Death Valley. He remembers seeing the end zones stripped of their traditional purple and gold and repainted black and gold.

“You don’t see that sort of thing everyday,” he said.

The job does have many cons: the seemingly never-ending shifts; the money going toward education rather than a new guitar.

But even after working for almost a decade, Webb said it’s still worth it.

“Some things become so routine,” he said. “But there are situations when you … know you’ve been a really big part of saving a life, making sure they have the best care possible. That’s one of the most gratifying parts of the job.”

“I got tired of being a jerk.”

Floyd DesOrmeaux, anthropology junior, was tired of the consumer finance business.

“I had to repossess a sofa loveseat and a chair for nonpayment,” DesOrmeaux said. “Then I had to watch this 50-year-old lady lie down on the floor to watch ‘Oprah.’”

Instances like this caused DesOrmeaux to quit his job at an $8 million firm at the age of 29. He changed his lifestyle and became a paramedic for Acadian Ambulance.

“I got tired of being a jerk,” he said. “When I started doing [this job], I found out how naïve I was. It was an eye-opener. I was dealing with a part of society that was something you read about in the newspaper. I went from being micro-managed in every little task to doing what is expected of you on your own.”

DesOrmeaux is studying at the University to become a nurse while taking care of his wife, Jennifer.

His wife, a one-time college athlete, suffers from “serious back issues” after being a paramedic for around 14 years. Her discomfort is caused by degenerative discs and fibromyalgia, a chronic condition characterized by widespread pain in the muscles.

On campus, he’s a 45-year-old part-time student that sports his uniform or “street clothes,” depending on whether he has to work after class. Between making time for forensic anthropology, folklore and foreign language, he takes online classes at Excelsior University.

In his 17th year on the job, he has more than enough on his plate.

“I just [keep going]. That’s the only easy way to explain way it,” he said. “I don’t want sound pompous and say it’s because of my self-determination. I just know it’s what I have to do.”

DesOrmeaux originally planned to get his physician’s assistant degree, but taking care of his wife and family became top priority earlier this year. With so much going on outside the walls of campus, schoolwork doesn’t easily fit into his schedule.

“It’s hard as hell,” he said. “I could probably have a 3.5 [grade point average], but I have to make sacrifices for the sake of my family. My wife is slowly getting better. I’m very fortunate, and I’ve had wonderful teachers who are very understanding.”

On the ambulance, he rarely gets an adrenaline rush anymore.

“All we can do [for these patients] is keep them around until we get to the hospital where the doctors can take over,” he said.

Physically, he admits the job is a “young man’s game,” but emotionally, he still responds to each case.

“When it stops bothering you emotionally, that’s when it’s time to get out,” he said. “When you become numb to someone else’s pain and suffering, it’s time move on.”

With numerous hours under his belt, the thought of quitting his job to focus on family and his job has crossed his mind.

“I’ve come too far to quit,” he said, sharing his new goal of going into hospice nursing.

It will be yet another change, but his years of experience in the medical field will make the transition to a hospice nurse less jarring.

“Whenever I go to a house, my own personal philosophy is that I have to treat that patient, and then, if they’re there, the patient’s family,” he said. “I have to treat the family psychologically. I have two minutes to become their best friend and to have their total confidence. If I can make the patient’s last days more comfortable, then I can make the family’s last days more comfortable, and I feel like I’ve done my job.”

In the meantime, he appreciates the little free time he does have.

“I make myself have free time,” he said, mentioning how he and his wife are making landscaping changes to his house and getting into pottery. “But I know when I’ve done too much. I’ll feel it, and say to myself, ‘Here comes the Aleve.’”

The man who once studied to be an opera singer at the University in the early ’80s, who once worked as a ruthless businessman, who lives for the rush of keeping a gunshot wound from leaking too much blood in the back of the ambulance, has now become a man of few needs.

DesOrmeaux’s only wants are a hospice job, a little free time to spend with his wife and a bottle of Aleve to take off the edge.

It’s not a glamorous wish list, but it’s enough for him.

“I love blood. I love guts. I love it.”

Lately, Audra Jones, who is in the first year of a two-year master’s degree program, has a new outlook on life — love it or leave it.

“Why do something if you don’t love it?” she asks. “Either learn to love it or get the hell out.”

The outspoken 21-year-old speaks from experience. Before taking on fewer shifts as an EMT-Basic for Acadian Ambulance, she “practically ran a Charlie’s Coffee location.” After quitting that job, she found an ad in the paper and began her training in the medical field.

With school and her new job, she was working nearly 80 hours a week.

“I used to sleep maybe two hours,” she said. “I was miserable, working shifts with nothing to enjoy.”

Lately, she’s calmed down, pursuing a master’s degree in forensic anthropology while working 24 hours a week as an EMT.

She’s no longer in it for the money. She works for the thrill, preferring paramedic routes in Prairieville to the transport jobs in Baton Rouge.

“If I work outside of Baton Rouge, I’m going to get emergencies,” she said. “There are the cardiac arrests, the car wrecks where you can do something to really help, gun shot wounds [and] stabbings. That’s what I live for.”

She lives for the sight of blood. In fact she said she only feels the adrenaline when she gets a signal 99 — the call where the patient is dead on sight.

“I might get to see decomposition. It’s like, ‘Oh my God, I did something that applies to what I want to do with my life,’” she said.

For the most part, Jones is a calm EMT; her M.O. is helping the patient. Nothing else.

“I don’t think of patients as people, because it’s a job,” she said. “If you’re a patient, you’re no longer a person to me. You’re an object, and it’s my job to do this to make you better. I’m not going to get emotionally attached to you.”

The only thing that tries her patience is the “B.S. calls.”

“It’s not my time you’re wasting. You called 911 and our ambulance has been assigned and has to transport you,” she said. “A mile down the road, a real emergency could happen, and we can’t respond to that because we have you in the back, and you have a headache.”

Contrary to popular belief, not all of the calls emergency medical professionals receive are plots for future episodes for “C.S.I.” Most of Jones’ shift is spent at the station, writing research papers and waiting for the next call. The hours aren’t ideal either — 6 p.m. to 6 a.m.

But the nightlife is just another aspect that she loves about the job.

“I love the night. You’re sharing it with so few people,” she said. “During the day, everyone’s here. At night, it’s you, your partner, all the crazy people up at night with you, all of the emergency personnel at the hospital, the police, the fire department, it eliminates so much of the population that it feels like a smaller world.”

In a year’s time, she has transformed. She’s one of the few people who have experienced first-hand how short life can be.

She now applies those experiences to her life. So much so that she created a bucket list. She wants to play tennis again. She wants to start a softball league. She wants to skydive.

Why? The reason is simple:

“Life is fleeting,” she said. “Be happy with every moment you have, you could die at any second.”

See more photos from this story.

Tonight marks the opening of Hufft’s second late-night food joint, Borracho’s. The small dive rests outside the doors of Fred’s and serves up tortillas to college students released from the bars in Tiger Land. Behind the counter are two first-time employees — Bryce Novotny, the reserved 18-year-old, and Mario Giorlando, the cook with his hair pinned back like a Samurai.

Hufft rushes in and out of his red-and-white Winnebago-like trailer, checking the contents of each food pan. He weaves between his employees and checks the slow-cooked ingredients for mere seconds before putting the tops back on the small pots.

“I’m paying attention, just keep shooting questions,” the 24-year-old says, wandering over to the web of extension cords underneath his trailer. He follows them to the nearby generator to make certain they are securely plugged in.

It could be a slight touch of obsessive compulsive disorder or that newly-lit nighttime excitement that comes with the job.

While Hufft is busy tending to Borracho’s grand opening, the bass of Drake’s “Best I Ever Had” bumps from the speakers in Bogie’s Bar on East Boyd Drive. The disc jockey for the night occasionally stops the music and demands everyone toast to the bartenders frantically working behind the bar. Girls and guys alike scurry in and out the double-doors, all with their own stories of the night’s conquests.

However, 20 feet outside the bar there’s a different story. Two men, dressed in khaki shorts and reliable white tees work quietly in a fire-engine red trailer. The sound of waffle fries soaking in hot grease fills the trailer as they prepare burgers for the mass of college students leaving the bar.

This is Hufft’s first business – this is Moochie’s.

Inside, Beau Roberts and Brenton Jenkins wipe sweat from their brow as they grill, fry and prepare the ingredients for the food they will serve to those who walk up to their small window ready to order.

“At the beginning [of the shift], it’s really slow,” Jenkins says, peering out the window of the trailer to make sure no customers are standing impatiently. “You sit [inside the trailer] from 10 p.m. to 12:30 a.m., and you’re prepping all the food. Then, after 12:30 [a.m.], business starts picking up. You stop looking at your clock, and the rush doesn’t stop until 2:45 a.m.”

Roberts and Jenkins are a rag-tag fast-food duo. Roberts, wrangles customers over while Jenkins, waits to flip burgers and unleash fries from their greasy bath.

And what infamous fries they have. Moochie’s specializes in waffle cheese fries, topped with mounds of grated American and cheddar cheese and finished with a touch of Tony Chachere’s Original Creole Seasoning.

Jake Goldenburg, a 25-year-old Marine Corps veteran and returning University student, said the food reminds him of Christmas morning.

“It is homemade hotness,” Goldenburg said.

Of all the menu items, Goldenburg loves the brisket.

“It’s an absolute home run from outer space. It’s sweet, savory and spicy,” he said with a mouthful of food. “They’ve got it going on, and I’m not ashamed to say I eat there several times a week when I’m in Baton Rouge.”

Danny Dehon, a 24-year-old biological engineering major, said he also suffers from this habit.

“I would eat at Moochie’s every day except Sunday,” he said.

Those comments fuel what Sneakysunday.com named one of Baton Rouge’s “Best Late Night Food Places.” Though the reception to the food and service offered by Moochie’s hasn’t always been great, Hufft thinks customers enjoy what he’s providing.

“Some people treat you bad, of course,” he said. “They’re all drunk, most of the time. I wouldn’t expect everybody to have a smiling face.”

Drunk or sober, drivers can blink and miss Moochie’s prime location. The trailer is no bigger than the kitchen in a one-bedroom apartment. Inside, a grill and two mini-fryers line one wall with the vegetable and toppings counter on the other side. If you stare closely at the register, you’ll see a green-lettered tagline run across its two-inch screen.

“A little taste of heaven without the price of dying,” it reads. The idea for that holy combination of fresh hamburgers and waffle fries in the early morning came from Hufft’s New Orleans’ state of mind.

“In New Orleans, the routine is to go out, get drunk and then you want a late-night snack,” Hufft said. “You can go anywhere and get late night food. While I was in school at LSU, the only option was McDonald’s.”

Hufft saw a niche and carved his late-night food business with minimal expenses.

Two years ago — when he was still in college — he didn’t have the finances to run a large restaurant. The only way he thought he could mix the restaurant business and being his own boss was by opening up his own trailer.

Though happy to become an entrepreneur, Hufft does feel the wear of the late-night job. The feelings are mutual for Novotny, who said the hardest part of working a night job is the next day.

“Tonight will be rough,” he said. “I have a math class at 7:30 a.m.”

Jenkins echoed those sleepy feelings.

“It gets rough trying to pull school and then work until three in the morning.” The fourth-year, environmental engineering major who said at first he had trouble getting in the swing of the schedule. “Pretty soon, after being on the job a couple of weeks and coming home early in the morning, after a shift, I end up ditching homework for some rest.”

While Hufft’s employees feel the fatigue that accompanies lack of sleep and working nights, Hufft rides the adrenaline rush at Borracho’s as he waits for customers to knock the window.

“I can’t see this not doing well,” he says, with his arms crossed, the cigarette still unlit. “There are four bars in the vicinity [of Borracho’s] as opposed to one with Moochie’s.”

But by 10:30 p.m., Hufft’s confidence may be rattled by the lack of business. Only a doorman from Fred’s has come up to the window to ask if Borracho’s is open. Behind the trailer, Hufft has a taste-tester — Danny Dehon — to make sure everything tastes accordingly.

Dehon shoves a beef-filled tortilla in his mouth with his hand cupped underneath to catch any crumbs. Giorlando, the cook, stands in the doorway — spatchula in hand — waiting for Dehon’s response.

“It’s good,” Dehon moans with a mouthful of Mexican food. “As always.”

Photographs by Maggie Bowles

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the first in a series of stories that takes a look at night jobs around the University. If you have an idea or work a night job you would like the Legacy to write about, send your suggestion to editor@lsulegacymag.com.