New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XII: Making It

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XII: Making It

Gone: water, electricity, gas, phone, ATM's, recharging, friends, showers, hot coffee, cold beer, TV. Gone: what we'd come to consider as the essentials of social living. It was down to jumping into swimming pools for baths. We knew that couldn't last as they turned soapy, full of leaves and organisms that didn't bear contemplation. We'd also explored the limits of our island, stood in front of a favorite building massively collapsed into the street. We'd walked through water that left our shoes splotched and discolored. We'd seen the elderly barricaded with shotguns, neighbors organizing trash collection, neighbors sharing water and food. We'd also seen signs pleading for help, mocking fate, counting losses. It was time to go.

I'd secured two vehicles - a modern 4-door jeep and a vintage red pickup. The first turned out to be irretrievable behind a twisted and downed gate of metal and heavy lumber, but with a full tank of gas. The second had very little gas and flat tires but was garaged, accessible and repairable - our Great Escape. And so began two incompetents' quest to transfer gasoline from one to the other, inflate tires and generally act a part we were not born to play.

2 days. Yes, readers, it took us 2 days to accomplish what others could undoubtedly do in 2 hours. We were at first blindly determined to free the Jeep. We attacked the downed gate with ruthless energy and what we thought was creativity. We hacked, sawed, chained and tried to tow the gate. We tried everything short of dynamiting the thing and it remained immovable. A glaring pile of metal and malevolence. Our wonderful new air conditioned and reliable Jeep would offer us only the contents of its tank. But that offering required almost 4 hours of perseverance to complete. We reached new levels of ineptitude. And to top this farce, we later found that the helicopter hovering above for hours on end was not FEMA, was not aid or assistance but CNN, televising for reality TV. Oof.

The simplest things are often the most difficult. I do believe I'm not the first to discover this. Tubes, containers, the accoutrement of withdrawing gasoline were surprisingly devious little devils. Instructions for the process were difficult to come by as well. Neither of us wanted to initiate the transfer - the taste and smell of gasoline is very, very low on the gastronomic scale. But finally, at the end of day 2, it was done. The red truck was running, the tires inflated.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XI: Dysfunctional Fun

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XI: Dysfunctional Fun

Celebrate. It's an art, a daily occurrence, an occasion, a life's work. We found cause for celebration in the least and the greatest of things. The passage of time, the passage of friends - intertwined threads of life.

We'll move backward in time from the Explosion. The stockpiles of ice had not all melted; a cold beer was still to be found. And though our reality was wavering, it hadn't yet gone into a fugue state. At least for most of us.

Walking down Esplanade near the River I heard my name called out. Sitting on the porch of a pleasant double was an old friend. There were also neighbors, casually cross-legged, sipping beers from bottles sweaty in the afternoon heat. Beers that surely looked cold and comforting. "Come join us, have a drink!" And so began my last somewhat normal New Orleans afternoon. If by normal I mean disassociated from the rest of the United States and skimming the surface of denial.

We were an attorney, a socialite, a party-planner and your faithful, tireless chronicler. We hadn't heard about the massive flooding, hadn't seen CNN or spoken to State or Federal workers. But rumors were running, craziness encroaching.

James was voicing concerns, "I'm really worried".

"As are we all, child, as are we all," offered Sheila.

"I've got a big wedding this weekend Uptown and I'm worried about the flowers."

"Ah, yes," egads, let me take a long swig before he sees my face, "the flowers."

"If we don't get the electric back they're just not going to last."

"Oof, no, no, you're quite right," was all I could think to say.

"But honey, don't you think they'll call the wedding off?"

"Call it off? We've been planning this thing for 6 months."

"But they've probably left town."

"No, not on their wedding weekend. How could they do that?"

"Well, puppy, it's something to consider. Have you talked to them, then?"

"How could I? No phones, no coolers, no deliveries - I'll be a nervous wreck."

"Baby boy, have another drink."

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode X: Sleepless Nights and Explosions

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode X: Sleepless Nights and Explosions

Time and memories following The Storm are disjointed and refuse, of their own, to follow chronologically. Thus we find ourselves entering the night before The Escape. Steamy, pitch black, mosquitoes and exhaustion. I'd paired with someone I barely knew, in the old pre-K days, to plan and execute the escape. He was tense, his senses chemically enhanced. He also had a gun.

He'd sit, all during the night, alone in the patio watching and waiting. We knew that many had armed themselves, and many more were desperate to leave. I'd come into possession of a vintage pickup truck, bright red, with a dubious engine and flat tires. But it was garaged and it was secret. We'd spent two entire days getting it ready to make a run out of the city (a further episode in itself) and it was finally gassed, inflated and we were counting the hours until dawn.

We'd very quietly loaded our belongings, what little we still had, into the truck. I was trying to get some last bit of sleep and had lit my remaining candles. The windows and doors were closed because of the insane and voracious insect life and I'd collapsed onto the couch wearing only boxers. I'd finally drifted off, wet with sweat, when a tremendous rattling and shaking of the rear doors jerked me awake. Dazed, my first thoughts were that intruders were trying to get into the house. I jumped up yelling, grabbed my clothes, tried to pull on pants as I ran out through the patio, down the black walkway and out onto the street, barefooted and stunned.

That's when I realized that it wasn't intruders but an explosion and fire. The sky was red and orange toward the River, bright across several blocks. The concussion had shaken the house. There'd be no more sleep, just the wait. In the dark.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August/September 2005, After. Episode IX: Makin' Groceries

New Orleans, August/September 2005, After. Episode IX: Makin' Groceries

New Orleans is a world unto itself. Insular, creative, dynamic yet static. The old ways not only remain, but are as solidified as the oak trees, the banquettes or jasmine. We don't just shop for groceries but we 'make groceries'. A mindset that's bewildering to foreigners - all those unfortunate enough to have been born outside of the Parish.

And so one afternoon I noticed a good many people bicycling, walking, pushing or pulling groceries. Mystified, and faced with various shortages myself, I stopped one to ask the source of these unforeseen provisions. Simple, I was told, the big new grocery next to the Municipal Auditorium had opened its doors in an act of generosity to the city. All within was free for the taking. A boon indeed, was it not?

And well worth checking out. So I hopped on my faithful and trusty bike and headed off on an exploratory mission. I thoughtfully brought along bags - just in case. Edging around a police station, gliding very slowly through standing water, I made it to the high ground surrounding this newest supermarket. Boats were pulled alongside the downtown side and many, many shoppers were moving quickly with bags full to bursting. All the doors to the store were open, the aisles a riot of cans and boxes, mud and liquids. I was assured by all that the management had decided the contents of the store were a loss and that the contents were a donation.

One enterprising gentleman was actually attempting to pull an entire shelf of goods with his bike, caught in the partly blocked doorway, the shelf tottering precariously. So I cautiously entered the fray to peruse the delicacies that remained. Luckily for me, many shoppers seemed unaware that microwavable products actually needed a working microwave, mixable products needed water and frozen items an oven. The shelf of chunky soups, stews and prepared meals was largely intact. Not only was I offered a bountiful selection, I was also tempted by another section of the store altogether. The bookshelves.

Hmm, entertainment venues were certain to be few for some time to come so I considered the book section a lending library and borrowed mysteries and thrillers to ease the days to come. Only one other library lover joined me and we exchanged sly and wise repartee. It was a new day, indeed.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 2005, After. Episode VIII

New Orleans, August 2005, After. Episode VIII

The Storm had moved north. Somewhere else. It was the Day After. Walking down Royal, Chartres, Bourbon - all looked the same, except for the plants torn, trees cracked and broken. Take away the plywood, clean the balconies, all good again. Or, if not good, the way things were. But it was a narrow sliver of deception. We were higher, built for the ages, dense and protective of each other. It was eerie, like a movie set was eerie when the crews had gone, the lights turned off. There was no flooding here, no fallen walls or breached levees. An island.

We'd had no news yet of the rest of the city. There were no police, no national guardsmen, no federales. Just us, the diehard locals. We exchanged tales, planned a meal, shared still cold beer. We planned on sitting on a balcony, or a banquette, or a stoop, glass in hand and ready to welcome everyone back. Meanwhile a good friend came through with an offer of housing in the Quarter. My old neighborhood, the quiet end of Bourbon. Secure, it seemed, behind a gate in a renovated Slave Quarter. Close, but not too close.

But now rumors were everywhere. Guns were appearing, as well as strangers. The night was intense, threatening, pitch black. Rifles and shotguns, pistols or knives, wary and protective. Events of the new few days run together. A suicide across the street, said to be a young man who may have drunk himself to death. The generous grocer at the corner who'd given away everything and was left eating crackers. Our island became an actual repair, rapidly encroached from the east and north. Water deep enough for boats came within 2 blocks of the Quarter itself. Then the gas was shut off and, finally, the water as well. No more showers, cooking, flushing toilets. No night time strolls or casual visits. Look both ways after dark, run stealthily, take turns at guard against looters. And more rumors.

Over the next 5 days we saw no New Orleans police, no National Guard, in the French Quarter, the Marigny or the Bywater. No bullhorns or water trucks. No FEMA personnel or explanations. Each story was more extreme, more irrational, than the one before. People trapped, looters with chainsaws, explosions and fires.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, Monday August 29, 2005, During. Episode VII

New Orleans, Monday August 29, 2005, During. Episode VII

The chunk of roof shattered the glass door and pieces fell everywhere. Only one significant piece, however, decided to share my body. And behind, in the entryway, another section of heavy, old plaster ceiling came down. Ah, the best laid plans.

What's a lad to do? If ever I needed a drink it was then. A restorative liquid, hearty and promising of lazy summer nights. Dry, carefree and convivial summer nights. I didn't hear the breaking levees, or the floodwaters, or the trees bending and splitting. I simply found the driest chair I could, poured a rather nice Sauvignon Blanc and collapsed. And, at some point, the winds slowed.

Electricity was out, of course, but I still had water and gas. I could still create a campsite meal of hot soup but I decided, instead, that a nice putanesca would better serve. A spot or two of limoncella would add a bit of zest for the chef. I also decided that an evacuation would be in order - sooner, rather than later. Those old, high ceilings were water-logged. I was very afraid indeed that the entryway failure would spread. There'd be no sleeping here under the threat of concussion, or worse.

My meal was simple but, under the circumstances, spectacular. Then, thanking the 341 gods that I had a gas water heater, a long, long hot shower. With candles, of course. My last hot shower, it turned out, for another week. Then it was out and about to survey. The local radio was starting to broadcast pleas for help, for information, for any human contact.

I walked down Esplanade, away from the River, toward Bourbon Street. Apart from heavy tree damage it seemed we'd been spared. These buildings had seen it all, over the years. One more storm, one more summer. Some were already out on their sidewalks sweeping, bagging, pushing trash and debris into piles. It was beyond us to clear the streets for vehicles, but we could open paths for bicycles and pedestrians. We nodded and smiled, amazed and pleased at how quickly the cleanup would go. Should go. Content with the anticipation of having coffee soon at CC's, trading stories, apartment hunting.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 2005, During. Episode VI, preparatory

New Orleans, August 2005, During. Episode VI, preparatory to K'ville

Anticipation. Of what, you ask? Of everything. Anticipation of wind and water, of flying debris, of food and drink. Of darkness, without electricity. Of toilets that don't flush. Anticipation of neighbors in need, of wading through muck that doesn't bear analysis. But anticipation is a pale and wan thing. Like a shadow in the forest that never materializes. But a hurricane . . .

Anticipation. You always forget something. No mental checklist includes every thing you'll need. You may have been through storms, through gales, through hurricanes or cyclones or tornadoes. But you never can be ready for everything. It's just the way of it, of life. Mother nature is, after all, a real mother.

A sealed apartment, as sealed as a New Orleans apartment from the 19th Century can be, during the month of August is a terrible thing indeed. So I kept a front and back door open as long as possible. And I stood on the balcony, waiting, as long as possible. We were under a mandatory curfew as of 6:00pm but I saw no police cruising the streets. I heard no warning announcements, saw no officials checking my neighborhood. It was curiously relaxed. Another Sunday evening waiting for another summer rain. It was a long, anti-climactic night. Friends calling until the a.m., scattered from Houston to Pensacola. From Detroit to San Francisco - some by plan, some by fate or fortune. Dawn came and I wondered, where are you?

Nope, you can't anticipate everything. I didn't anticipate that my landlord would fail to secure the windows in the attic. That for hours on end I would be under a sieve, looking for every available container to collect water. Every pot, pan, bucket and towel. Anything capable of storing, slowing or absorbing water. Of hours moving furniture, wiping furniture, listening to falling plaster, watching water drizzle down the chandeliers.

From my kitchen window I could see the tile start to loosen and lift from the slave quarter. Carelessly I decided to watch through my rear glass door as trees in the patio pried and wrenched at the roof until a large chunk flew through the air directly at me. It crashed into the door, shattering in a rain of glass.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 28, 2005, Before. K'ville, a few preparatory notes. Episode IV.

New Orleans, August 28, 2005, Before. K'ville, a few preparatory notes. Episode IV.

Sunday morning, coffee as usual. Some were leaving, but not all. I'd been through hurricanes my entire life and had never evacuated, nor had my parents. I had vivid memories of a storm while I was a boy, feeling the water rise inside our house past my knees. I stood in our Florida room, which was unshuttered, undraped, and watched a neighbor's roof as it was lifted into the air and carried hundreds of yards. My mother lit candles, set up her easel and calmly painted a plantation scene. Her only comment, "What else can I do?"

My Marigny apartment building was 19th century, with thick brick walls, and had stood through 150 years of storms. My apartment on the second floor was at least 18 feet above the street. It also had no television and I relied on a rather archaic means for information - a radio. Those of us who made the decision to ride it out actually believed we'd be meeting for coffee, usual spot, within 36 hours. And as the New York Times reported, we weren't alone:

Quote:
"We call it a vertical evacuation," said Joseph Fein, owner of the Court of Two Sisters, a French Quarter restaurant. He said the city, its residents and visitors, were responding much as they had to many previous hurricane threats, but that Katrina "is the most threatening we have seen."

Mr. Fein's said his restaurant, one of the largest in the French Quarter, served 250 diners on Saturday night, and he had planned to remain open today. But by 9 a.m., he said, it became clear that not enough of his employees would report to work. So, instead of preparing brunch, he said the employees who did show up set to the task of nailing plywood over the restaurant's windows, and bringing its outdoor furniture inside.

Several other restaurants were simply boarded up and vacant by midafternoon. "Due to Hurricane Katrina, we will be closed all day Sunday, Aug. 28, and for lunch on Monday, Aug 29." said the message on the answering machine at Emeril's, a restaurant in the Warehouse District. It said Emeril's would reopen for dinner on Monday night if conditions permitted, but it was "uncertain when the reservations department will reopen."

End Quote.

None of us, as well, had seen the 10:11 a.m. bulletin quoted in Episode III. Rather casually, during the afternoon, we wired our shutters closed, taped a few window panes that had cracked or seemed precarious and stocked up on canned foods. We gathered liquids, not forgetting wine of course, and filled bathtubs. Scrounged for extra candles, unboxed flashlights, did laundry. After all, the storm would be gone by Monday night, sweeping and tree trimming would be underway, all was in hand.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 2005. Before . .

Weather charts don't tell a story, they merely post markers. They're not sweaty, they're not sleepless, they're not exhausting. The temperatures of August 2005 were vampires, and circumscribed virtually everything that affected daily life in a city below sea level, surrounded by water, well along a road already filled with misery.

Guns, drugs, tourists, beer and go-cups. Drive through daiquiri stands, 24 hour street scenes and bad roads. Torn sidewalks, failing schools, deep potholes. Drive-by shootings, corner crack stores. Life in the Big Easy. But New Orleans was hardly Big, not any longer. A downwardly spiraling population, suburban flight and too many locals going through the revolving doors of the jails. And Easy? Easy, perhaps, for a privileged minority secure behind ornate gates, lush walls covered with confederate jasmine. An easy place to die, get high, drop out. An easy place to plan cocktails, or a tailgate party, or a funeral.

Yes, we know funerals in New Orleans. We have them down to a fine art. We march, play our instruments, wear our dirges. Life is easy but dying's even easier. And everywhere, the heat. My thermostat still read 94F at 11:00 pm on the nights in August. Lean times, too lean for $400 electric bills. Too lean for decrepit air conditioners to waste their watts. It took a lot less energy to chill a bottle of wine or a bottle of beer.

There was no gris-gris giving a premonition. There were no omens, unless the crime stats were omens. There were no nagging whispers that something bad was going down because those whispers were lost in the long days of summer. Sickly sweet night-blooming jasmine, night prowling cats, night prowling turistas. As we say: "same ole, same ole".

I had a second floor apartment almost on the river. High ceilings, wood floors, tiny balcony. Lots of mosquitoes and a favored destination for roaches. But only steps from the Quarter, from Frenchman Street in the Marigny, from all the small things that we considered the city's charm. I also had a tight circle of friends with a regular morning coffee klatch. A fluctuating group of 5 to 15, every morning. Artist, realtor, student, retiree, landscaper - an incredible range of age and accomplishment, of past and future.

More on the days Before to come.

there's a point to all this
forgiveness

drop a little remorse
dance a little dirge

you never seem to see the
day

sing a mourner's tune
disco never died

4 o'clock, wobbled in your
cha-cha shoes

left hand wannabe
sashay, sashay

there's a point to all this
dreaming

drop a line, dusty at the dawn
make some starlight
in the mirror

tap your toes
dry your nose

can you make it
go away

go all
away ?

white

silver bells, cockleshells, rhymes with
sunday, skittered next to saturday, whistling
down the pastor's lane, hiding neath
sweet summer's dress, cause white
will fool the neighbors, speaks of good
girls, speaks of love

may fool her daddy, sitting in the
kitchen, waiting for the oak to give
him shade, waiting for his tears to dry
may fool old cross-eyed henry, waiting
for his corn to grow, and the squirrels
to sing their songs, chat upon the weather

may fool the barber's wife, gone to dayton
once a month, looking for a lover, wishing
on a star, and she reads her glossy magazines
delivered once a week, while she dreams

may fool the sheriff's lad, running wild
but running free, soon to leave for parts
that keep on calling, full of promises for
boys who know a thing or two and are ready
for a dare

may fool the beggar man, asleep in carter's lane
smelling jasmine in the evening, mad dog
on the vine, counting stars into the thousands
drinking rain all through the spring

may fool the churchy lass, doing deeds
full of renown, headed for the deacon's door
when prayer's are finally done, and they
will celebrate, perhaps a kiss, perhaps
a few

hiding neath sweet summer's dress,
looking like her momma in the photo
on the wall, curiously smiling, all those
days ago, when winter came but once
a year, may fool the neighbors
when she speaks of love

children must learn how to listen, say
the corner men, snapping their sass
must learn how the square of life
makes random walls, tilted leans

do you tell them fairy tales, as you
chase with the dogs, run and howl
as you look for the nickels that some
how will rain, filling your pockets

they build castles, stronger than yours
taller and grander, not solitary
but if they learn how to listen, who
will be there, crissing and crossing

all whispers and lies, it's all gone
uneven, this life that you lead
rickety shadows that hide you away
say the corner men, whooping by day

and i think that i'm damaged, but i don't
know where, though i talk to the churchy
boys, forgiveness rolls on their tongues
raspy hymns go make their rounds

yes, i would teach the children, for
the world smells sweet,
there are dangers, which will take
them by the hand, as the day follows day

sugah and the old man

i feel it's comin'

the time i can begin
to unforget you

little dreams been chasin'
me
snip, snips of bits
slivers of pieces

some things,
most things
won't be fixed, put back
what's broke, sugah, what's
gone lost, moved away
from me

i can't go chasin', sugah
but may be, if i sit here
blow some dust from off that mirror
write your name
look deep into those old man eyes
what do they see
gone dry, gone dim

i'll go a rockin', tap a tappin'
put my ear against the wall
where i can nearly hear you singin'
sashay woman

i feel it's comin'
get these feet amovin'
is it time, sugah
to unforget
?