BACK HOME IN NEW ORLEANS
October 11, 2005
This last weekend we went to New Orleans. For the first time in six weeks. It was like a dream. Helicopters everywhere. Police from all fifty states. We had entered into the war zone. This last weekend, a sixty year old black man was beaten by four white cops on Bourbon Street. The man was a retired school teacher. The smell of rotting meat from refrigerators put out by the side of the road permeated the air.
I was so happy to be home.
I felt free.
I did not feel like I was in a prison.
The shop windows were closed on Royal Street. We walked passed a shoe store owned by Wally, my old boss. He is the costume designer at Rick’s Caberet. The window was busted. New shoes, high heels mostly- pink, green, black- lay on the floor or in their boxes. Shiney, leathery. Plastic clothes hangers on the floor along with moldy carpet, old tissues. A flood. A looting. A craziness preserved for a whole month. The military paces the town, like little boys playing with plastic guns, living out childhood fantasies. Nobody has touched the shoes in the open shop window since the day the looting took place, I would imagine. Wally’s boyfriend use to complain because Wally was never at home. He worked 16 hours a day, building his French Quarter empire- six stores, two restaurants, costume design at Rick’s, doing hair for famous people all over town. Where is he now? I don’t know.
There are so many, so many images in my mind, so many images of the last three days. We went home. It was different yet it was the same. I write them randomly here because they make no sense. They have no order.
We rode down Banks Street. I didn’t know where we were. I didn’t recognize it. The city was underwater, under a cloud of contamination. Cars had thick layers of scum to the top of the windows. An old guy stood in rubber boots on his front porch. A pile of junk was between him and the gritty street- all one color, a moldy dark grey. Chairs, books, tables, lamp shades. He stood shirtless talking to two other guys.
‘The worst one was the flood of 1917. That was before my time,” said the guy standing next to the cab.
“Are you sure that was before your time, Ron?” The old guy with the rubber boots asked. Chuckle, chuckle. Grin, grin.
How do I know that this town will survive? Because its a town of wise asses. This is a town of survivors. As long as we can make a joke out of it, we are going to be okay.
On Saturday night, we lay in our bed in our apartment, which is messy from frantic packing over one month ago. Other than that, and tree limbs in the patio, maggots in the refrigerator, no hot water- everything is okay at our place. We lay looking at the ceiling, hearing helicopters in the skies above the city. Our mouths hang open like baby birds waiting to be fed. We find it hard to believe that we are here, in this apartment, in this bed, under these sheets. Listening to the fountain in the pond outside, when the quiet of a deserted city settles in between the beatings of the chopper wings.
My God, it is good to be home.
October 11, 2005
This last weekend we went to New Orleans. For the first time in six weeks. It was like a dream. Helicopters everywhere. Police from all fifty states. We had entered into the war zone. This last weekend, a sixty year old black man was beaten by four white cops on Bourbon Street. The man was a retired school teacher. The smell of rotting meat from refrigerators put out by the side of the road permeated the air.
I was so happy to be home.
I felt free.
I did not feel like I was in a prison.
The shop windows were closed on Royal Street. We walked passed a shoe store owned by Wally, my old boss. He is the costume designer at Rick’s Caberet. The window was busted. New shoes, high heels mostly- pink, green, black- lay on the floor or in their boxes. Shiney, leathery. Plastic clothes hangers on the floor along with moldy carpet, old tissues. A flood. A looting. A craziness preserved for a whole month. The military paces the town, like little boys playing with plastic guns, living out childhood fantasies. Nobody has touched the shoes in the open shop window since the day the looting took place, I would imagine. Wally’s boyfriend use to complain because Wally was never at home. He worked 16 hours a day, building his French Quarter empire- six stores, two restaurants, costume design at Rick’s, doing hair for famous people all over town. Where is he now? I don’t know.
There are so many, so many images in my mind, so many images of the last three days. We went home. It was different yet it was the same. I write them randomly here because they make no sense. They have no order.
We rode down Banks Street. I didn’t know where we were. I didn’t recognize it. The city was underwater, under a cloud of contamination. Cars had thick layers of scum to the top of the windows. An old guy stood in rubber boots on his front porch. A pile of junk was between him and the gritty street- all one color, a moldy dark grey. Chairs, books, tables, lamp shades. He stood shirtless talking to two other guys.
‘The worst one was the flood of 1917. That was before my time,” said the guy standing next to the cab.
“Are you sure that was before your time, Ron?” The old guy with the rubber boots asked. Chuckle, chuckle. Grin, grin.
How do I know that this town will survive? Because its a town of wise asses. This is a town of survivors. As long as we can make a joke out of it, we are going to be okay.
On Saturday night, we lay in our bed in our apartment, which is messy from frantic packing over one month ago. Other than that, and tree limbs in the patio, maggots in the refrigerator, no hot water- everything is okay at our place. We lay looking at the ceiling, hearing helicopters in the skies above the city. Our mouths hang open like baby birds waiting to be fed. We find it hard to believe that we are here, in this apartment, in this bed, under these sheets. Listening to the fountain in the pond outside, when the quiet of a deserted city settles in between the beatings of the chopper wings.
My God, it is good to be home.
posted by Nikki Lyn Pugh | 8:00 PM
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