I don’t understand it, I set the damn thing for 8am. I double check the battery run contraption that I’ve had for ages, and yes, it says 8am. So what the heck?
It’s at this point that I hear what I must’ve subconsciously heard for the past half an hour, a loud thundering of rain, or what I would later find out is hail. It sounds almost comforting and starts to lull me back to sleep. The lightening is so white that it seems like a cavalcade of cars driving past my window, almost every second. I grab my flannel encased pillow and cuddle it, about to drift back into slumber when the explosions begin. Loud pops that crash through my head like a mallet. Has a transformer exploded? I peer through the blinds, rain is coming down hard enough that it’s blinding my view. I think things are strewn about, but I can’t quite tell.
The power goes out outside, quickly comes back on. I sigh, then hold my breath. Maybe what I feared the last time (when the power went off in my office) is what will happen; maybe it won’t stay on. As quickly as the thought flashed through my head the lights were out. And they were staying out. Silence, except for the rain. The booms have ceased.
I’m alone. Rob is in Massachusettes. I’m alone with the sound of the rain, and the sudden scratching and scampering within the walls. Damn rats.
I peer out my blinds and turn on my phone for light. I rush to find the one candle on the coffee table. I light it. Wait. Listen.
I’ll be honest. I’m scared. This is not the city I want to be in when a black-out happens.
I go back to the window. Peer out. Checking on my Foxy Jilopi.
A man approaches from the right side of the frame, seems to see the light in my apartment. Stops. I close the phone, hold my breath, let the blind gently slip shut. He seems to be trying to look into my window. Damn it, I forgot it was pulled up at the bottom, above the air conditioner. As he’s about to walk away, the candle flickers (stupid, I should’ve blown it out) and he pauses again. Perhaps he too is spooked, maybe by the light, because he then quickly heads out into the street. I hear another man join him. The lightening seems to be moving further away, behind us toward the i10, up toward Lake Pontchatrain. The light casting his shadow across the street, he disappears into the haze of the black and greys of the night which camouflage him. I can’t see him any longer, although I know he’s out there. He was standing still looking down the street, but now my eyes have blended him into the background, are playing tricks on me. Maybe he has moved on. I don’t know.
My phone rings, shattering the silence.
More voices. They join the man that was outside. Yes he’s still there. I see their heads turn toward the other window, which is open 4 inches. I drop the blinds, and answer the call. (As my friend Jason always quipped: “You could be getting mugged and would still answer your phone” I curse the fact that he’s right as I press the Send button)
The voice on the other end urgently says:
“Are you alright?!”
asks Brent Joseph, from editing.. It’s about 3:15am, I think, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at the clock in awhile.
I lie down in my bed. I think I hear a siren far away.
“Are you alright? Did the tornado hit you too? I figure you’re three blocks away, and…”
“What? Tornado?” I wasn’t expecting to hear that.
“I woke to my windows blowing out around me, glass everywhere. My car. My car has no windows.” He says in a rush.
I seem to make him repeat this. Much to his exasperation he does, a few times, with more detail each time.
‘As far as I know I’m just without power.” I finally mutter, meakly. I suddenly feel guilty.
“It’s like Katrina all over again here. If you want to see what it was like, just walk down Carollton Naomi. It looks just like Katrina again. I can’t believe this.” There’s a momentary pause and then quickly, “I’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta take care of stuff.”
And he hangs up abruptly. I look at the alarm clock that wanted me so desperately to wake up earlier, ringing before its time. It tells me it’s 4am.
Wow, time flies when the world is coming to an end. How was it 2:30am only minutes ago?
Tornado?
I lie back down, wonder what I’m going to do.
That’s it. I’m having a cigarette. This town is driving me nuts. I scramble around the apartment, finding one and venture to the door, and like in a scary movie, pause, my hand held out towards it. Do I dare?
The men that were outside have been gone for about 20 minutes, but what if they return? And just as I think that and peer out the adjoining window, he rounds the bend and walks down the alley by my door. He’s my neighbor. Definitely. I’m definitely staying inside.
I had a no smoking rule in the home that I enforced upon Rob and now me, I, I’m about to break it! But I’m crumbling and I don’t give a shit and I don’t dare go out. I take the cigarette and stand in the kitchen, inhaling and regretting simultaneously. The candle is apple cinnamon. It should be rotted refrigerator, from what I’ve heard. Post Katrina that was the eux de cologne of N’awlins.
Great, now the apartment smells like crap and I feel worse.
I hear a woman’s voice or two outside. I look out, again as before, again for the first reason: to check on Foxy. A large tree branch seems to be in front of him. A couple with a flashlight and what looks like a long-haired golden lab, can’t tell its still too dark, heave it out of the way and onto the other side of the sidewalk. In so doing, I see that it missed Foxy by about 3 inches to a foot.
That’s it I have to go out and get the flashlight. I wait until the voices dissipate. The only ones that remain, that I can tell, are on the balcony of the house to my right. I venture into the muggy air, drops still coming down but with infrequency, and venture to the car to retrieve the only thing I have of any use right now: My flashlight.
I get back inside. Who is out there that I’m not checking on? I don’t wish to relive my 9/11 mistakes where I neglect someone and find out the horror a fortnight later.
Brent called Tyler, said they had nothing but a little rain up in the Marigny and French Quarter and all my co-workers live in that direction or out of New Orleans proper, so they’re fine. Who’s here? Oh, good Christ.
I text Logan. I figure, just in case, if everything is fine I won’t disturb him. You can ignore a text.
R U Ok? Did Tornado hit U?
As soon as I’ve hit send it seems the phone rings.
“Hey, Naomi”
It’s Logan.
“Uh, yeeah, I have no house. The roof is gawn and all the windows are blown out. Woke to glass shattern and then the house started swayn back and forth”
His Baton Rouge accent somehow brings me comfort; I doubt I’m doing the same for him.
“Everyones alright tho’” he continues.
I sigh., relieved and also because, sadly, I have nothing to say and don’t know what else to do. A noise seems necessary, so a sigh instead. What do you say? “I’m sorry”? You can’t, it’s not your fault. Awkward silences.
“Rob’s not here, there’s plenty of room if you guys need someplace to crash” I venture.
“Thanks, but, naw its okay, my families on their way down from Baton Rouge, I have family in the area. I don’t know.” The silence again. I can’t find words.
He continues, ”Nothing really to do, you know, but stand here and wait for em” He pauses again, clearing his throat as if he’s at a loss of what to say also. His pause seeming to linger with the words not spoken: “I mean, she’s fine, what can I say to her?”
Then: “Naomi. It looks like Katrina. You’re welcome to come join us up here on St. Charles if you’re alone, witness the madness.”
The sirens come now. It’s 4:50am What took them so damn long? It’s been over and an hour and a half. It’s all I keep thinking. Why is everything in New Orleans inept?!
“Ah, thanks, but I think I’m going to sit tight for now. Call me if you need anything though, if there’s anything I can do.”
“Yeah, alright. Bye.” His voice, always a bit forlorn sounds even further away, and the far off sound is only highlighted by his southern gentleman’s twang. I feel I haven’t done enough, but I don’t know what to do.
I peer out the blinds, contemplating going to see if they’re truly ok. He did sound like he was in shock. Before I do though, I check the outside world again, peering through the blinds. As I do I see a tall black man, walking in jeans and a white t-shirt down the middle of Maple St., a woman’s white clutch purse in his hand. It looks like Night of The Living Dead outside, full of sporadic moments filled with aimless wanderers.
I think better of it.
There’s nothing I can do now, nothing, but sleep.
I lie down and wait to assess everything in the light of day.
It’s 6am when I think I finally start to doze off and disappear.
The phone rings at 7:30am, my mother asking if I’m alright, she just heard on NPR about a Tornado. I’m overtired and snap at her that yes, I’m fine, but I haven’t had much sleep and am “explitive” expected into the office come hell or high water. That phrase, that cliché, has never meant more to me than here and now.
Come hell or high water. Should be the other way around, at least here in New Orleans.
The daylight brings images of neighbors garbage cans and deck chairs at my window and blocking in my neighbors cars; trees downed, one on Rob’s Alpha Romeo behind The Uptown Cajun which luckily still stands, unlike the Starbucks hit beside it; neighbors and workers standing outside looking at the downed and entangled power-lines, the fire trucks and utility workers and the shattered windows and missing roof of my Laundromat three doors down; the new Mardis Gras parade on Maple has begun, but its in the form of the treo of National Guard vehicles and soldiers that slowly creep past the front of my house, blue lights flashing; the helicopters flying low overhead, first the Guard only 20 feet above the top of the roof and then Fox News and Channel 4 a bit more at a distance. Ray Nagin must be somewhere around. I sneer. This town needs a Guiliani and then a Bloomberg, or both. Simultaneously.
From one disaster city to the next, Naomi. You sure know how to pick ‘em. Who was that genius who came up with the blessing:
“May you live in uninteresting times.”
I don’t know, I haven’t experienced it yet, but Amen to that one (although what would one write about then?)
I get into my car and travel towards work, knowing I’ll pass Logans’ home, or what was. It’s a mess, but not as bad as I thought. The windows are all shattered, but some semblance of a roof still exists, at least on part of it, unlike his neighbor to the right where the whole front end seems to have caved. The neighboring house to the left, however, is perfectly fine and intact. Travel only a house further down St. Charles towards downtown, or Audubon Park and you’re in a land of purity and calm. You would never know a Tornado had ever been in the city. I saw Logan and his family outside and pulled over to give my condolences and reiterate my offer. We parted with us agreeing to see each other soon, hopefully for Mardis Gras this weekend, although his red beans & rice “pre-parade” party would no longer be.
I drove away, my mouth agape at the absurdity, watching the cars traveling in the opposite direction, going to from whence I came. Better them than me.
I wondered if they would have the opposite reaction. And would they or one of them at least, have the same realization I just had… but in reverse.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF BRENT JOSEPH OF AUSTIN, TX VIA NEW ORLEANS, LA
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