My favorite job was when I was under the age of 12. I was really good at selling Christmas trees. Living in a rapidly gentrifying area in the middle of a city full of people who didn't want to drive out to the burbs to buy trees can be a goldmine. That, plus Christmas trees are a little hard to price. I think as long as you know the name of the tree and tell someone it will hold water well through Christmas, you could charge an arm and a leg and no one would be any the wiser (this may be the closest I ever got to sympathizing with Kenneth Lay). I worked for a farmer who would bring the trees in from West Virginia and people often thought I was his 12 year old son (in reality my mom had finagled the job probably in violation of a million child labor laws). It was, in my life, the best sales job I had ever held (though honestly the only other sales job was hawking tomatoes, apples and apple cider from same farmer in the non-Christmas months).
I got to do all that because my parents had been smart enough to buy a house near the Eastern Market, a farmer's market stuck in the middle of Capitol Hill.
My two younger sisters ended up working there as well on the weekends, working for one of three farmers who brought their fresh produce for sale (at a hefty markup, Christmas trees not being the only thing you can overcharge city folk for).
There was the old Greek family who had a produce stand where my mom swears that the wife of the team would peel grapes for me (I don't doubt that I would make such a ridiculous request as a kid, just that it is really possible to peel grapes).
There was also the guy who every Thanksgiving would sell my mom a turkey that weighed far more than the eating ability of the assembled.
It's a wonderful place and hopefully this well be a brief hiccup in an otherwise great history.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
Job Conditions, Pt. 2
I recently helped gut a house that hadn't been touched since the storm. That's not that unusual. What was unusual was how pungent the house was.
In the days and weeks after Katrina, the city smelled. Bad. It was like something rotten and stagnant and unclean. (Could have been me. I didn't shower for days on end and it was 1,000 degrees.) But that smell gradually went away and the flowers came out again and New Orleans was returned to a normal city smell, except at night Uptown, when the flowers always smell deliciously sweet. (Bourbon Street never smells good, even though it is only blocks from beignet-making heaven. The overpowering smell most mornings is pee and cleaning fluid. Delicious.)
Some houses I work in, everything's OK -- just generally moldy smelling -- until you pull out a hollow closet rod that's still filled with water and it spills on you. You're grossed out for a while, but you move on. (And smugly congratulate yourself for your thrift store shopping prowess.) You're wearing a mask, which helps, and you breathe through your mouth until the odor dies. (I also employ this technique around the seafood part of the Italian Market. Or I hold my breath. I'm like Houdini in my breath-holding abilities.)
But this one house overpowered the second you stepped inside. You wouldn't think that, after 20 months, rotten food would smell anymore. Wrong. Or that flood water, still sitting in bowls and cups, would still prove gaggable. It does. Or that there would even BE flood water after so long. There is. In the bedroom, the mattresses were still dripping wet and bags and bags of adult diapers proved their absorbency, expanding to triple their size. (God, they were heavy and rancid.) The living room had a wet couch and a china cabinet filled with water-bearing objects, all smelly.
The kitchen was particularly heinous, with black slime covering the floor, but for some reason, I made it my pet project. I attacked the cabinets, still filled with food, and the dozens of scattered cans, bottles and jars on the floor. When you're gutting, you're supposed to separate out the food from other items and the food pile for this house was one of the largest I've ever seen-- huge jars of salsa with floating mold and rotted and rusted canned vegetables and tons and tons of spices. It was ... gross. Just gross.
There were moments in the Kitchen of Rankness that I asked myself why I was in there. Usually, I avoid kitchens, partly for this very reason. (And there's usually tile there, which you already know I hate, and cabinets can be a pain.) And on later reflection, I realized it's because of how much I liked the daughter of the woman who had owned the home.
Her name was Gloria. Her mom -- who had one of those great old time names, like Odette or Odile. I found a paper napkin that had been saved from her 80th birthday party -- had lived here but had died right around the time of the storm. Gloria hadn't been able to go into the house since her mother's death so it had sat and ripened.
Gloria was tough and funny and positive when she was talking to us -- "The water washed away everything but the chance to rebuild," she said at one point. She was upbeat when she talked about her mother, a diabetic who had lost both her legs years ago and used a wheelchair to get around. Her mother had insisted on her independence and on living alone and taking care of herself. She had been a native New Orleanian and she loved the city and its festivals and that showed in her house, where windows had been covered with strands of Mardi Gras beads and her glassware collection included glasses from Jax Brewery and the racetrack. When she finally go so sick that she had to go to the hospital, she brought some of her beads with her.
While hospitalized, Gloria's mother began hoarding the free booties/slippers the hospital gave to patients. Gloria said she couldn't understand it: Her mother didn't have legs. But as the end grew closer, and her mother seemed content and accepting of her death, she finally got it: Her mother was going to Heaven, where Jesus would make her whole again, and she wanted to have something to wear on her new feet. (This comment led to a later discussion with Jordan about God's apparent inability to provide footwear. I mean, he can give you legs and feet but he can't throw in a pair of Aerosoles? We're not asking for Jimmy Choo's here, Lord.)
Gloria just charmed me. She was so thankful to us volunteers for being there, asking us for our addresses so she could write thank you cards and promising us a big BBQ if we ever came back to New Orleans. One of the volunteers said, "Can I give you a hug?" and she said, "Can you give me a hug? Hugs for everyone!" and she hugged all 20 of us in turn, never losing her smile.
I asked Gloria if there was anything special we should look for in the house, anything she wanted us to save. It was the only time her face crumpled. A catch in her voice, she said, "Anything, anything of my mother's you can find." She left in tears.
That's why I do this, even when I can't breathe.
In the days and weeks after Katrina, the city smelled. Bad. It was like something rotten and stagnant and unclean. (Could have been me. I didn't shower for days on end and it was 1,000 degrees.) But that smell gradually went away and the flowers came out again and New Orleans was returned to a normal city smell, except at night Uptown, when the flowers always smell deliciously sweet. (Bourbon Street never smells good, even though it is only blocks from beignet-making heaven. The overpowering smell most mornings is pee and cleaning fluid. Delicious.)
Some houses I work in, everything's OK -- just generally moldy smelling -- until you pull out a hollow closet rod that's still filled with water and it spills on you. You're grossed out for a while, but you move on. (And smugly congratulate yourself for your thrift store shopping prowess.) You're wearing a mask, which helps, and you breathe through your mouth until the odor dies. (I also employ this technique around the seafood part of the Italian Market. Or I hold my breath. I'm like Houdini in my breath-holding abilities.)
But this one house overpowered the second you stepped inside. You wouldn't think that, after 20 months, rotten food would smell anymore. Wrong. Or that flood water, still sitting in bowls and cups, would still prove gaggable. It does. Or that there would even BE flood water after so long. There is. In the bedroom, the mattresses were still dripping wet and bags and bags of adult diapers proved their absorbency, expanding to triple their size. (God, they were heavy and rancid.) The living room had a wet couch and a china cabinet filled with water-bearing objects, all smelly.
The kitchen was particularly heinous, with black slime covering the floor, but for some reason, I made it my pet project. I attacked the cabinets, still filled with food, and the dozens of scattered cans, bottles and jars on the floor. When you're gutting, you're supposed to separate out the food from other items and the food pile for this house was one of the largest I've ever seen-- huge jars of salsa with floating mold and rotted and rusted canned vegetables and tons and tons of spices. It was ... gross. Just gross.
There were moments in the Kitchen of Rankness that I asked myself why I was in there. Usually, I avoid kitchens, partly for this very reason. (And there's usually tile there, which you already know I hate, and cabinets can be a pain.) And on later reflection, I realized it's because of how much I liked the daughter of the woman who had owned the home.
Her name was Gloria. Her mom -- who had one of those great old time names, like Odette or Odile. I found a paper napkin that had been saved from her 80th birthday party -- had lived here but had died right around the time of the storm. Gloria hadn't been able to go into the house since her mother's death so it had sat and ripened.
Gloria was tough and funny and positive when she was talking to us -- "The water washed away everything but the chance to rebuild," she said at one point. She was upbeat when she talked about her mother, a diabetic who had lost both her legs years ago and used a wheelchair to get around. Her mother had insisted on her independence and on living alone and taking care of herself. She had been a native New Orleanian and she loved the city and its festivals and that showed in her house, where windows had been covered with strands of Mardi Gras beads and her glassware collection included glasses from Jax Brewery and the racetrack. When she finally go so sick that she had to go to the hospital, she brought some of her beads with her.
While hospitalized, Gloria's mother began hoarding the free booties/slippers the hospital gave to patients. Gloria said she couldn't understand it: Her mother didn't have legs. But as the end grew closer, and her mother seemed content and accepting of her death, she finally got it: Her mother was going to Heaven, where Jesus would make her whole again, and she wanted to have something to wear on her new feet. (This comment led to a later discussion with Jordan about God's apparent inability to provide footwear. I mean, he can give you legs and feet but he can't throw in a pair of Aerosoles? We're not asking for Jimmy Choo's here, Lord.)
Gloria just charmed me. She was so thankful to us volunteers for being there, asking us for our addresses so she could write thank you cards and promising us a big BBQ if we ever came back to New Orleans. One of the volunteers said, "Can I give you a hug?" and she said, "Can you give me a hug? Hugs for everyone!" and she hugged all 20 of us in turn, never losing her smile.
I asked Gloria if there was anything special we should look for in the house, anything she wanted us to save. It was the only time her face crumpled. A catch in her voice, she said, "Anything, anything of my mother's you can find." She left in tears.
That's why I do this, even when I can't breathe.
In Dreams
Remember my comment a while back, how Jordan doesn't feel he should be responsible in his waking state for crimes he commits in my dreams?
So last night, I had a dream that he was a two-timing jerk. I told him of his shocking misbehavior this morning.
Well, he said, I had a dream last night, too. Do you want to hear it?
No, I said.
I'm going to tell you anyway, he said. In my dream, you were selling nuclear weapons to Kim Jong Il, to fund the genocide in Darfur, which you were aiding with your boyfriend, country music star Toby Keith.
(He did not add his standard, "And you loved Toby Keith so much you were going to marry him and rename yourself Natalie Toby Keith." He pulls that one out anytime I say I hate someone (male).)
Really? I said. I don't believe you.
And really, dear readers, do you believe that dream?
At least my dreams are real.
So last night, I had a dream that he was a two-timing jerk. I told him of his shocking misbehavior this morning.
Well, he said, I had a dream last night, too. Do you want to hear it?
No, I said.
I'm going to tell you anyway, he said. In my dream, you were selling nuclear weapons to Kim Jong Il, to fund the genocide in Darfur, which you were aiding with your boyfriend, country music star Toby Keith.
(He did not add his standard, "And you loved Toby Keith so much you were going to marry him and rename yourself Natalie Toby Keith." He pulls that one out anytime I say I hate someone (male).)
Really? I said. I don't believe you.
And really, dear readers, do you believe that dream?
At least my dreams are real.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Job Conditions, Pt. 1
I hate roaches, especially NOLA roaches. They're big and they fly and if you smoosh them, they crunch. (Tell me, what is the evolutionary benefit of putting wings on these things?) On "Fear Factor," they had a stunt where contestants had to lie in a clear box for a minute while hissing cockroaches swarmed their bodies. And let me say this, no way. Not for $1 million. Not for $2 million. I just couldn't do it. No other non-stinging insect has such an effect on me. (But I am a hater of the stingers, too. I once spent four hours at the gym. Not because of any love of fitness, but because I had woken up at my parents' house to find dozens of wasps flying in the air above me. They had built a nest into the wall of the house and into my room. Instead of dealing with the wasps, I screamed repeatedly, grabbed a gym bag, and took aerobic class after aerobic class to avoid going home again.) (Maybe someone needs to unleash some wasps in my bedroom now. Or maybe they can be trained to swarm around my fridge.)
Let me tell you my most terrifying personal roach experience: It was 1998. My notably unreliable boyfriend at the time had failed to fully close a box of -- I think it was pasta or cereal -- before he put it in the cabinet. I came home from work and was on the phone with my friend Sue. I decided to take out said box and pour it into a bowl or pot or whatever it was. I can't remember, because all I can remember were the roaches that came tumbling out of the box. I threw the box on the ground, screaming for all I'm worth, then I grabbed the can of Raid and sprayed, sprayed, sprayed at each and every roach as it scurried out of that box. There were complete roach families in there. They kept coming, I kept spraying and screaming. I sprayed until the can was empty and I screamed myself hoarse. I sprayed so much that I couldn't stay in the house. I screamed so much that I was surprised my neighbor didn't call the police. (I asked him if he'd heard me and he said no. That didn't make me feel safe.) (Sue, by the way, escaped unharmed save for ear pain and some emotional scars.)
To this day, my first reaction is to put everything that's opened - cereal, baking products, chips, bread, etc - into the fridge. My sister mocks me for this. We'll see who is laughing when she is attacked.
But I knew, coming here, that I would have to face my roach fear. Before I arrived, one friend told me a gutting story that went like this, "Blah blah blah, blab blab blab, and then I pulled down the ceiling tile and DOZENS of roaches fell on top of me. Blah blah blah." He could have added, "And one of the roaches had the face of my wife and it opened its mouth and told me to pick up milk on the way home," and I wouldn't have heard it. I was lost in the horror of that moment, being showered in roaches.What if one of them got in my pocket, liked it, decided to make it his home? (True story: Friend of mine goes and buys a few pounds of crawfish. His wife, a great hater of seafood like myself, kindly allows him to bring it into their home ... where the paper bag promptly breaks, sending cooked crawfish all over the room. OK, that's gross enough. Now fast forward a few weeks. My crawfish-loving friend is at work. He reaches into his jacket pocket, at random, and what does he find? A shriveled up crawfish. "It didn't even smell that badly," he said.)
There are days when I'll kill more than a dozen cockroaches. I've forced myself to get above my crunching horror and just kill them: With my feet, a crowbar, a hammer, whatever is handy at the time. Infant in arms at time of cockroach onslaught? Doesn't matter. The roaches must die. One recent day, for example, I was so proud of myself because I didn't flinch -much - when we were pulling down sheetrock and I kept uncovering hoardes of roaches that would then scurry off and hide before I could slay them. It made me nervous, knowing they were in there, watching, but I kept going.
So roaches are one less-than-ideal aspect of what I do. Another? The smells. I'll get into that on another post
Let me tell you my most terrifying personal roach experience: It was 1998. My notably unreliable boyfriend at the time had failed to fully close a box of -- I think it was pasta or cereal -- before he put it in the cabinet. I came home from work and was on the phone with my friend Sue. I decided to take out said box and pour it into a bowl or pot or whatever it was. I can't remember, because all I can remember were the roaches that came tumbling out of the box. I threw the box on the ground, screaming for all I'm worth, then I grabbed the can of Raid and sprayed, sprayed, sprayed at each and every roach as it scurried out of that box. There were complete roach families in there. They kept coming, I kept spraying and screaming. I sprayed until the can was empty and I screamed myself hoarse. I sprayed so much that I couldn't stay in the house. I screamed so much that I was surprised my neighbor didn't call the police. (I asked him if he'd heard me and he said no. That didn't make me feel safe.) (Sue, by the way, escaped unharmed save for ear pain and some emotional scars.)
To this day, my first reaction is to put everything that's opened - cereal, baking products, chips, bread, etc - into the fridge. My sister mocks me for this. We'll see who is laughing when she is attacked.
But I knew, coming here, that I would have to face my roach fear. Before I arrived, one friend told me a gutting story that went like this, "Blah blah blah, blab blab blab, and then I pulled down the ceiling tile and DOZENS of roaches fell on top of me. Blah blah blah." He could have added, "And one of the roaches had the face of my wife and it opened its mouth and told me to pick up milk on the way home," and I wouldn't have heard it. I was lost in the horror of that moment, being showered in roaches.What if one of them got in my pocket, liked it, decided to make it his home? (True story: Friend of mine goes and buys a few pounds of crawfish. His wife, a great hater of seafood like myself, kindly allows him to bring it into their home ... where the paper bag promptly breaks, sending cooked crawfish all over the room. OK, that's gross enough. Now fast forward a few weeks. My crawfish-loving friend is at work. He reaches into his jacket pocket, at random, and what does he find? A shriveled up crawfish. "It didn't even smell that badly," he said.)
There are days when I'll kill more than a dozen cockroaches. I've forced myself to get above my crunching horror and just kill them: With my feet, a crowbar, a hammer, whatever is handy at the time. Infant in arms at time of cockroach onslaught? Doesn't matter. The roaches must die. One recent day, for example, I was so proud of myself because I didn't flinch -much - when we were pulling down sheetrock and I kept uncovering hoardes of roaches that would then scurry off and hide before I could slay them. It made me nervous, knowing they were in there, watching, but I kept going.
So roaches are one less-than-ideal aspect of what I do. Another? The smells. I'll get into that on another post
Crazy, but not that Crazy
Defendant was in court the other, not my client but was there for an evaluation to see if he was competent enough to stand trial. After hearing from the doctors who evaluated him, the judge made a clear finding that client was unable to understand what was happening to him, that he was unable to assist his attorney and that he had a best a tenuous grip on reality. Given that, the judge ordered client held until they could place him in a mental institution.
Client erupted, screaming that he was being railroaded, that this was unfair and he didn't know why this happening?
Judge: "If you can't control yourself I am going to find you in contempt and give you six months in jail."
Client: "Well didn't you just have a hearing where you said I didn't know what I was doing."
Judge: "Sir we determined you were incompetent."
Client: "So I can't go to trial because I'm crazy, but I am not crazy enough to avoid getting in more trouble."
Well, yeah, I guess.
Client erupted, screaming that he was being railroaded, that this was unfair and he didn't know why this happening?
Judge: "If you can't control yourself I am going to find you in contempt and give you six months in jail."
Client: "Well didn't you just have a hearing where you said I didn't know what I was doing."
Judge: "Sir we determined you were incompetent."
Client: "So I can't go to trial because I'm crazy, but I am not crazy enough to avoid getting in more trouble."
Well, yeah, I guess.
God
Of all of the difficulties in doing criminal defense work, I am becoming more and more convinced that God may be one of the more infuriating ones. I don't mean the actual being (whether they are out there or not) but rather the faith most clients place in God sorting out what is actually a horrible situation.
I had a client a few weeks back who was arrested for a string of violent crimes and in addition to being caught with four or five items corroborating his involvement and five civilians (they don't know the defendant) identifying him, he also gave a videotaped statement confessing to the crime. The judge has already said he would at the very least double the clients time if this case went to trial rather than plead guilty, which would definitely mean that after a trial client would be lucky to get out of jail before he was 75 (if he lived that long).
Horrible situation, and while we certainly could have a trial, it wasn't a case where we were likely going to win an acquittal, and gambling thirty years of a clients life on a case like this wasn't something that I would advise.
Client's response, "I am not worried, God will get me out of this . . . ."
Hmm, so God is going to come down and suppress all of the evidence, get the witnesses not to show up and cause the videotaped confession to disappear? God somehow is going to come down and fix the mess that you are in?
Client: "I am just going to trial and put my faith in god, he will vindicate me at trial"
Two weeks later, same response. "God will provide, I just have to put my faith in him."
This is not an uncommon occurrence, where clients, feeling lost and in a horrible situation, step back from trying to figure out how to get through a horrible situation and instead jump into a wonderful world where nothing can be proved or disproved (maybe god will save them, but who knows). I guess this could be seen as an expression of faith and belief in a world and life greater than that of this mortal earth. I guess that having a belief system in times of stress may allow someone to get through a horrible situation with a sense of dignity and belief in something larger than their current predicament.
But maybe, just maybe, turning to God is a way of avoiding having to make a remarkably difficult decision and pawn it off on God.
I had a client a few weeks back who was arrested for a string of violent crimes and in addition to being caught with four or five items corroborating his involvement and five civilians (they don't know the defendant) identifying him, he also gave a videotaped statement confessing to the crime. The judge has already said he would at the very least double the clients time if this case went to trial rather than plead guilty, which would definitely mean that after a trial client would be lucky to get out of jail before he was 75 (if he lived that long).
Horrible situation, and while we certainly could have a trial, it wasn't a case where we were likely going to win an acquittal, and gambling thirty years of a clients life on a case like this wasn't something that I would advise.
Client's response, "I am not worried, God will get me out of this . . . ."
Hmm, so God is going to come down and suppress all of the evidence, get the witnesses not to show up and cause the videotaped confession to disappear? God somehow is going to come down and fix the mess that you are in?
Client: "I am just going to trial and put my faith in god, he will vindicate me at trial"
Two weeks later, same response. "God will provide, I just have to put my faith in him."
This is not an uncommon occurrence, where clients, feeling lost and in a horrible situation, step back from trying to figure out how to get through a horrible situation and instead jump into a wonderful world where nothing can be proved or disproved (maybe god will save them, but who knows). I guess this could be seen as an expression of faith and belief in a world and life greater than that of this mortal earth. I guess that having a belief system in times of stress may allow someone to get through a horrible situation with a sense of dignity and belief in something larger than their current predicament.
But maybe, just maybe, turning to God is a way of avoiding having to make a remarkably difficult decision and pawn it off on God.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
The Evil Men Do
Not Jordo. Please. (Although I did have a dream recently and he was a real jerk in it but he seems to think that he shouldn't be responsible for the things he does in my dreams. What kind of logic is that?)
I'm talking about the men (and women) who take advantage of people while they're down. The people who flocked to New Orleans in the aftermath of the storm with the soul purpose of benefitting from the misery of others.
People from outside the city will ask me, "What's wrong with the people down there? Why don't they have their lives together yet?" And there are a million answers I can give: federal aid that isn't yet; insurance money that may never be; the incredible, often paralyzing, stress of losing everything, possibly including your job or a loved one; the shortage of construction workers and contractors in the city.
Or, at the least, reliable contractors. The group leader of the organization I was working with this week told me there are hundreds, if not thousands, of homeowners who have found themselves robbed by the people who were being paid to help them.
Now meet Miss Dorothy, the reason for this post.
I helped gut Miss Dorothy's Gentilly home this week. No big. I gut houses all the time. Miss Dorothy's story was sad, but at this point, sad is almost standard. She's in her 80s, born and raised in New Orleans, a mother and grandmother with one true apple of her eye, grandson Paul, in his 30s, who lived on the other side of the shotgun double she bought about a dozen years ago. Before the storm, Miss D was active and mostly healthy and worked at a local nursing home as a "senior helping seniors." She evacuated with them. For a few days, they bounced around Louisiana, at one point staying in a school that partially collapsed during the storm. She didn't have a cell phone and she didn't have all of her children's cell phone numbers. In fact, she was so busy taking care of others that she didn't even realize what had happened in New Orleans until someone told her about it at one of the shelters.
"I said, 'You lying! New Orleans?' and he said, 'You're never going home again," Miss Dorothy told me and the other volunteers as we stood on the street outside her home this week. She was neatly dressed in black pants and a black and white button-down shirt, with silver earrings. gold rings and a gold and silver watch. She leaned on a cane while she spoke until Paul, her grandson, found her a battered lawn chair. "I went to watch the television and I couldn't believe what I was seeing."
She got choked up while she was talking, especially when she described how, for days, she didn't know if her children and grandchildren were alive and dead. It was more than a month before she was finally able to speak to Paul on the phone. She bounched around the country, spending months with nieces in California, before returning to her son's home in Louisiana. She was weaker, sicker than she'd been before the storm and unable to be a "senior helping seniors" any longer, but she was determined to be home again. She had flood insurance. She thought she could rebuild.
She hired a contractor her son had met. He was licensed AND he was a minister in his chuch back in Alabama. He seemed godly and kind.
So she paid him more than $44,000.
It was only later -- after he'd left town, the job about 3/4 of the way done -- that she realized she'd been taken. The work was beyond shoddy: It would have been dangerous for her to live in that house. As we ripped down the sheetrock, we found another layer of mold-covered plaster attached to slats of mold- and sometimes termit-shredded wood.
Miss Dorothy went to Alabama, to the contractor's church, to ask for her money back. She met his wife, his children, and he looked her in the eyes and told her he was sorry if she was unsatisfied but he had no money to refund her and he had filed for bankruptcy. She described sitting in the church, watching this man at the front, with everyone looking at him with respect. And she knew what he really was.
Paul stood next to his grandmother's chair while she spoke. He smiled at her, filled in some details, brought her some water. But Paul, so amiable with us and gentle with his grandmother, got more serious when he and I spoke privately during lunch. I told him I'd had problems with an unscrupulous contractor, too. (Not you, Mike Armstrong, but if you are reading this, that means you are not at my house fixing my moldy ceiling/roof, which could mean a future hostile post about you. You have been warned.) The loss of money was upsetting, I told him, but what was worse was how stupid I felt, gullible, used.
Paul said he understood. His face darkened and grew more tense as he spoke, "I don't know what we're going to do if we can't get that money back. This is going to kill her. The storm was bad but this is going to kill her. And if something happens to my grandma ... she's my heart. I don't know what I'm going to do without her. But I know I'll do something. Nobody's going to get away with this."
I said, "No jury would convict you. Call me if you get in trouble. I know some defense attorneys."
I'm talking about the men (and women) who take advantage of people while they're down. The people who flocked to New Orleans in the aftermath of the storm with the soul purpose of benefitting from the misery of others.
People from outside the city will ask me, "What's wrong with the people down there? Why don't they have their lives together yet?" And there are a million answers I can give: federal aid that isn't yet; insurance money that may never be; the incredible, often paralyzing, stress of losing everything, possibly including your job or a loved one; the shortage of construction workers and contractors in the city.
Or, at the least, reliable contractors. The group leader of the organization I was working with this week told me there are hundreds, if not thousands, of homeowners who have found themselves robbed by the people who were being paid to help them.
Now meet Miss Dorothy, the reason for this post.
I helped gut Miss Dorothy's Gentilly home this week. No big. I gut houses all the time. Miss Dorothy's story was sad, but at this point, sad is almost standard. She's in her 80s, born and raised in New Orleans, a mother and grandmother with one true apple of her eye, grandson Paul, in his 30s, who lived on the other side of the shotgun double she bought about a dozen years ago. Before the storm, Miss D was active and mostly healthy and worked at a local nursing home as a "senior helping seniors." She evacuated with them. For a few days, they bounced around Louisiana, at one point staying in a school that partially collapsed during the storm. She didn't have a cell phone and she didn't have all of her children's cell phone numbers. In fact, she was so busy taking care of others that she didn't even realize what had happened in New Orleans until someone told her about it at one of the shelters.
"I said, 'You lying! New Orleans?' and he said, 'You're never going home again," Miss Dorothy told me and the other volunteers as we stood on the street outside her home this week. She was neatly dressed in black pants and a black and white button-down shirt, with silver earrings. gold rings and a gold and silver watch. She leaned on a cane while she spoke until Paul, her grandson, found her a battered lawn chair. "I went to watch the television and I couldn't believe what I was seeing."
She got choked up while she was talking, especially when she described how, for days, she didn't know if her children and grandchildren were alive and dead. It was more than a month before she was finally able to speak to Paul on the phone. She bounched around the country, spending months with nieces in California, before returning to her son's home in Louisiana. She was weaker, sicker than she'd been before the storm and unable to be a "senior helping seniors" any longer, but she was determined to be home again. She had flood insurance. She thought she could rebuild.
She hired a contractor her son had met. He was licensed AND he was a minister in his chuch back in Alabama. He seemed godly and kind.
So she paid him more than $44,000.
It was only later -- after he'd left town, the job about 3/4 of the way done -- that she realized she'd been taken. The work was beyond shoddy: It would have been dangerous for her to live in that house. As we ripped down the sheetrock, we found another layer of mold-covered plaster attached to slats of mold- and sometimes termit-shredded wood.
Miss Dorothy went to Alabama, to the contractor's church, to ask for her money back. She met his wife, his children, and he looked her in the eyes and told her he was sorry if she was unsatisfied but he had no money to refund her and he had filed for bankruptcy. She described sitting in the church, watching this man at the front, with everyone looking at him with respect. And she knew what he really was.
Paul stood next to his grandmother's chair while she spoke. He smiled at her, filled in some details, brought her some water. But Paul, so amiable with us and gentle with his grandmother, got more serious when he and I spoke privately during lunch. I told him I'd had problems with an unscrupulous contractor, too. (Not you, Mike Armstrong, but if you are reading this, that means you are not at my house fixing my moldy ceiling/roof, which could mean a future hostile post about you. You have been warned.) The loss of money was upsetting, I told him, but what was worse was how stupid I felt, gullible, used.
Paul said he understood. His face darkened and grew more tense as he spoke, "I don't know what we're going to do if we can't get that money back. This is going to kill her. The storm was bad but this is going to kill her. And if something happens to my grandma ... she's my heart. I don't know what I'm going to do without her. But I know I'll do something. Nobody's going to get away with this."
I said, "No jury would convict you. Call me if you get in trouble. I know some defense attorneys."
Thursday, April 12, 2007
I GOT NO PATIENCE, AND I HATE WAITING
If I ever take over the world, one of the first things I am going to do is introduce the “Correctional Officers Get Off Your Ass and Do Some Work Act (of 2007, 2008 or whatever year I seize control)”
For some reason that may be my lack of charm or lack of grit, whenever I go to jail to see a client there must be some special signal that makes the officers delay bringing my client down to see me. It could be 8:00 am on a Sunday, no one else there and my client in the next booth, but for some reason it takes 2 hours for the guard to walk 5 feet over to let him in to talk to me.
Today I went to the jail at about 1:00 pm, ready with a crossword puzzle and a sudoku from the paper. One hour goes by, nothing. Then two other attorneys show up, have their clients brought in within 5 minutes. Two more attorneys show up and their clients are immediately brought down. I am beginning to feel more and more like the last kid to get picked at kickball, watching all the better athletes pass me by.
After about two hours, I have finished the crossword and the sudoku and find myself reading the bridge hand section. (I haven’t played bridge since college and can barely remember how it works. Back in 1995 the main goal of bridge was to get Anne Halsey to go on a date with me, so you can imagine how much I remember about the actual game). I finally go back down to the desk officer and it goes something like this:
Me: “Do you know when my client will be down”
Officer (playing computer pool and totally lining up the shot wrong): “I called, so shortly”
Me: “You called two hours ago, what’s shortly”
Officer (missing the shot on computer pool): “Well shortly”
Me: “Is there anyone who can help get him down here?”
Officer: “You wanna talk to a supervisor?”
Ahh the supervisor, now my heart leaps at the idea of someone in charge getting down here to help me out. Unfortunately, apparently the only difference between the supervising officer and the desk officer is that the supervisor says my client will be down “soon” rather than “shortly.” Such are the perks of authority.
After about 3 hours, having exhausted the paper, contemplated the meaning of life, wondering whether the officer was contemplating the meaning of life, trying to calculate pi to a ridiculous decimal and deciding that maybe Starbuck was really the 5th Cylon, they bring in my client.
After about ten minutes he decided that he didn’t want to talk about the case anymore because it was getting close to food time and told me to come see him tomorrow. I said I wasn’t going to do that given my schedule, so I agreed to meet him over the weekend.
On the way out, the desk officer said “Are you done already? That was a long wait to talk to him (client) that little?”
Indeed.
For some reason that may be my lack of charm or lack of grit, whenever I go to jail to see a client there must be some special signal that makes the officers delay bringing my client down to see me. It could be 8:00 am on a Sunday, no one else there and my client in the next booth, but for some reason it takes 2 hours for the guard to walk 5 feet over to let him in to talk to me.
Today I went to the jail at about 1:00 pm, ready with a crossword puzzle and a sudoku from the paper. One hour goes by, nothing. Then two other attorneys show up, have their clients brought in within 5 minutes. Two more attorneys show up and their clients are immediately brought down. I am beginning to feel more and more like the last kid to get picked at kickball, watching all the better athletes pass me by.
After about two hours, I have finished the crossword and the sudoku and find myself reading the bridge hand section. (I haven’t played bridge since college and can barely remember how it works. Back in 1995 the main goal of bridge was to get Anne Halsey to go on a date with me, so you can imagine how much I remember about the actual game). I finally go back down to the desk officer and it goes something like this:
Me: “Do you know when my client will be down”
Officer (playing computer pool and totally lining up the shot wrong): “I called, so shortly”
Me: “You called two hours ago, what’s shortly”
Officer (missing the shot on computer pool): “Well shortly”
Me: “Is there anyone who can help get him down here?”
Officer: “You wanna talk to a supervisor?”
Ahh the supervisor, now my heart leaps at the idea of someone in charge getting down here to help me out. Unfortunately, apparently the only difference between the supervising officer and the desk officer is that the supervisor says my client will be down “soon” rather than “shortly.” Such are the perks of authority.
After about 3 hours, having exhausted the paper, contemplated the meaning of life, wondering whether the officer was contemplating the meaning of life, trying to calculate pi to a ridiculous decimal and deciding that maybe Starbuck was really the 5th Cylon, they bring in my client.
After about ten minutes he decided that he didn’t want to talk about the case anymore because it was getting close to food time and told me to come see him tomorrow. I said I wasn’t going to do that given my schedule, so I agreed to meet him over the weekend.
On the way out, the desk officer said “Are you done already? That was a long wait to talk to him (client) that little?”
Indeed.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
On Being Nancy Drew as I've Always Dreamed
Back to my strongpoint this week -- destruction.
Most of the time, when you're gutting a house, you don't know that much about the people who used to live there. You might have a name and some details as to where they are now, but you don't know the names and ages of all of the occupants, or if their house was once the gathering point for holidays, or if the home had been newly constructed or a family legacy. You don't know if it was a happy home or a hellhole.
So you play detective, at least in your head, as you work. Or, at least, I do.
We were working at a house in Gentilly today, one of many now-empty homes on a once-busy street. It hadn't been occupied since before the storm. The homeowner had left a note asking us volunteers to try to preserve any molding or door frames that could be reused it in the rebuilding, but the house was way beyond that. About five feet of water had sat in here for weeks, and then the building had sat for more than a year. The only things the family could gain from the gutting was the recovery of some family treasures, and even those turned out to be few and far between.
But I needed a goal and decided it was to figure out the family. The game was afoot, as Sherlock said.
(But first, an aside into my love of Nancy Drew. When I was little, I wanted to be Nancy Drew. I wanted my dad to be a lawyer named Carson and my maid/surrogate mom to be Hannah Gruen and although I found my boyfriend Ned a little dull (even as a elementary schooler, I thought I could do better), I liked my friends George and Bess, but George more because Bess was a bit of a baby (even as an elementary schooler, I blamed that on the fact that she was blond). My mother will tell you I tried to solve mysteries in our house even when there were none. I tried to fingerprint family members with flour, ink, and tape even though I had no idea 1) how to do it, 2) how to read it if I could, 3) how to lift prints off of other objects. My mother will also tell you about "The Case of the Missing Cookies," in which 5 or 6-year-old me tried to determine which family member had absconded with most of a plate of Christmas desserts. Was it Mom? Dad? Gram? Pop? Could Pepe, our toy poodle, or Big Buy, our Great Dane, have been part of the crumb conspiracy? (Clearly, my sister had not been born, or she would have naturally become Suspect #1 even if she couldn't swallow solids.) My mother will say I went to everyone in the house, trying to get fingerprints and questioning them and making a mess and carrying on while wearing a baseball cap and squinting as if through a magnifying glass although I had none ---- and in the end, the culprit was me. I think she's insane and that this is one of her revisionist memories altered for comic effect at my expense, but I do remember the family-wide fingerprinting attempts.) (Or, to put a positive spin on my possible guilt/cover up, I'm like Kaiser Soze before my time.)
The house had four beds: One in what was clearly the master (adult) bedroom, two twins in one room and another full with a canopy in another. A few photos remained: a smiling couple, looking very 1980s; a teenage boy in a Sean John shirt; a boy of about 4; two teenage girls with their faces pressed together. Among the few legible documents I found was a reminder postcard from a dentist.
The master bedroom, where I found some of the pictures, had an ornate, wooden headboard that fell apart as we pulled it out. It was a bed built for two, but other things in the room made me think it was a female-only dwelling: The small closet seemed to only contain women's clothes and TONS of women's shoes. The dresser, which also fell apart in our hands, had lots of lace, no boxers. Lots of make-up and creams and perfumes. A single woman had occupied that bedroom, I concluded. (Of course, I could be wrong. Come to our house in Philly and you might conclude the same as I have the entire third floor closet and some of Jordo's undergarments are just as delicately made and ornate as mi--- never mind.)
One bedroom was movie set teeny-bopper, but teeny bopper from Summer 2005. (Actually, it may have been more 2000. Backstreet Boys, N'Sync AND Britney, still on the walls?) But there was also a "Class of 2005" poster on one wall and a few paintings that looked more elementary school than high school. There were high school yearbooks and cheerleading costume complete with poms, but also a stuffed Elmo and a big collection of stuffed animals, including a teddy bear head. Girls' clothes in the drawers, including one white bra with green mold that had totally over-sculpted cups that would turn an A-cup into Carmen Electra. So daughters, I concluded. Two of them. One in her late teens, done with high school. The other about 11. The stuffed animals belonged to her, remnants of her childhood. The teenybopper posters did, too: After all, she was the little sister and would adopt the likes of her older sister, at least at first, meaning she may still have been clinging to the Boy Band glory days while her sister had moved on. (Did I not turn my sister into the world's youngest Duran Duran fan? Child thought she was actually going to marry Simon LeBon and she was 7.)
The final bedroom had the two twins. The walls were bare except for one alphabet poster. In one corner, we found a bunch of sports trophies and a plaque from a car show at the Superdome. There was a box of those monster cards -- Yu Gi Oh or Pokemon or whatever it is the kids play with today. (I used to play Pokemon with a kid I knew all the time but I could never understand the cards so I'd try to hide that fact with a dramatic presentation each hand. I always lost.) There were boys clothes, lots of little shoes. Brothers, I decided. One teen, based on the photo I'd found in the other room. The other elementary school aged.
So my final deductions: One parent (female), four children - two girls, two boys. When the storm hit, the oldest had just gotten out of the high school, the youngest was just learning to read.
Of course, I'll never really know who lived there. Or where they are now. Unlike the Nancy Drew books, things don't always tie up neatly in the end here. I just hope they were happy.
Most of the time, when you're gutting a house, you don't know that much about the people who used to live there. You might have a name and some details as to where they are now, but you don't know the names and ages of all of the occupants, or if their house was once the gathering point for holidays, or if the home had been newly constructed or a family legacy. You don't know if it was a happy home or a hellhole.
So you play detective, at least in your head, as you work. Or, at least, I do.
We were working at a house in Gentilly today, one of many now-empty homes on a once-busy street. It hadn't been occupied since before the storm. The homeowner had left a note asking us volunteers to try to preserve any molding or door frames that could be reused it in the rebuilding, but the house was way beyond that. About five feet of water had sat in here for weeks, and then the building had sat for more than a year. The only things the family could gain from the gutting was the recovery of some family treasures, and even those turned out to be few and far between.
But I needed a goal and decided it was to figure out the family. The game was afoot, as Sherlock said.
(But first, an aside into my love of Nancy Drew. When I was little, I wanted to be Nancy Drew. I wanted my dad to be a lawyer named Carson and my maid/surrogate mom to be Hannah Gruen and although I found my boyfriend Ned a little dull (even as a elementary schooler, I thought I could do better), I liked my friends George and Bess, but George more because Bess was a bit of a baby (even as an elementary schooler, I blamed that on the fact that she was blond). My mother will tell you I tried to solve mysteries in our house even when there were none. I tried to fingerprint family members with flour, ink, and tape even though I had no idea 1) how to do it, 2) how to read it if I could, 3) how to lift prints off of other objects. My mother will also tell you about "The Case of the Missing Cookies," in which 5 or 6-year-old me tried to determine which family member had absconded with most of a plate of Christmas desserts. Was it Mom? Dad? Gram? Pop? Could Pepe, our toy poodle, or Big Buy, our Great Dane, have been part of the crumb conspiracy? (Clearly, my sister had not been born, or she would have naturally become Suspect #1 even if she couldn't swallow solids.) My mother will say I went to everyone in the house, trying to get fingerprints and questioning them and making a mess and carrying on while wearing a baseball cap and squinting as if through a magnifying glass although I had none ---- and in the end, the culprit was me. I think she's insane and that this is one of her revisionist memories altered for comic effect at my expense, but I do remember the family-wide fingerprinting attempts.) (Or, to put a positive spin on my possible guilt/cover up, I'm like Kaiser Soze before my time.)
The house had four beds: One in what was clearly the master (adult) bedroom, two twins in one room and another full with a canopy in another. A few photos remained: a smiling couple, looking very 1980s; a teenage boy in a Sean John shirt; a boy of about 4; two teenage girls with their faces pressed together. Among the few legible documents I found was a reminder postcard from a dentist.
The master bedroom, where I found some of the pictures, had an ornate, wooden headboard that fell apart as we pulled it out. It was a bed built for two, but other things in the room made me think it was a female-only dwelling: The small closet seemed to only contain women's clothes and TONS of women's shoes. The dresser, which also fell apart in our hands, had lots of lace, no boxers. Lots of make-up and creams and perfumes. A single woman had occupied that bedroom, I concluded. (Of course, I could be wrong. Come to our house in Philly and you might conclude the same as I have the entire third floor closet and some of Jordo's undergarments are just as delicately made and ornate as mi--- never mind.)
One bedroom was movie set teeny-bopper, but teeny bopper from Summer 2005. (Actually, it may have been more 2000. Backstreet Boys, N'Sync AND Britney, still on the walls?) But there was also a "Class of 2005" poster on one wall and a few paintings that looked more elementary school than high school. There were high school yearbooks and cheerleading costume complete with poms, but also a stuffed Elmo and a big collection of stuffed animals, including a teddy bear head. Girls' clothes in the drawers, including one white bra with green mold that had totally over-sculpted cups that would turn an A-cup into Carmen Electra. So daughters, I concluded. Two of them. One in her late teens, done with high school. The other about 11. The stuffed animals belonged to her, remnants of her childhood. The teenybopper posters did, too: After all, she was the little sister and would adopt the likes of her older sister, at least at first, meaning she may still have been clinging to the Boy Band glory days while her sister had moved on. (Did I not turn my sister into the world's youngest Duran Duran fan? Child thought she was actually going to marry Simon LeBon and she was 7.)
The final bedroom had the two twins. The walls were bare except for one alphabet poster. In one corner, we found a bunch of sports trophies and a plaque from a car show at the Superdome. There was a box of those monster cards -- Yu Gi Oh or Pokemon or whatever it is the kids play with today. (I used to play Pokemon with a kid I knew all the time but I could never understand the cards so I'd try to hide that fact with a dramatic presentation each hand. I always lost.) There were boys clothes, lots of little shoes. Brothers, I decided. One teen, based on the photo I'd found in the other room. The other elementary school aged.
So my final deductions: One parent (female), four children - two girls, two boys. When the storm hit, the oldest had just gotten out of the high school, the youngest was just learning to read.
Of course, I'll never really know who lived there. Or where they are now. Unlike the Nancy Drew books, things don't always tie up neatly in the end here. I just hope they were happy.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Friday, April 6, 2007
"God May Not Come When You Want Him But He Is Always on Time."
An unusual week for me, because instead of destroying houses, I joined a group that was rebuilding one. And the people we were working for were there the whole time, living in a trailer in front of their home-in-progress, walking through the house each day and marveling at the work and thanking us over and over again.
Charles and Winnie were the homeowners. Charles is about 70, Winnie about 63. They'd moved out of the 9th Ward and into this blond brick ranch-style house in eastern New Orleans just a few weeks before the storm. (Both their houses -- old and new -- were flooded.In fact, the one in the 9th Ward was knocked right off its foundation.) A group of volunteers had come and gutted the house more than a year ago, but the couple had been unable to rebuild. Instead, they were living in a trailer in the front yard. I've seen a lot of FEMA trailers, but somehow, theirs seemed even smaller than usual: You couldn't stand side-by-side inside the width of it and the bedroom was basically a bed with no room to move on either side of it. But they'd decorated with prayer cards all around the door and in the bathroom so small that it seemed you'd be unable to lift your arms to wash while in the shower, they had a peach shower curtain and a peach scrubber that matched it.
They could live in the cramped quarters, but they really wanted the house to be complete: Winnie's mother is 97 and needed to come live with them.
The rebuilding crew was a good bunch of folks, about 25 strong, mostly from Pittsburgh. Most were teenagers, but there were couples and even entire families there. (Which led me to imagine what it would be like if the Pompilios went on a similar trip: Lou, out buying everyone food, which would be the best thing as his gifts in the home/gardening realm are limited as evidenced by the time he decided to trim the trees in front of our house and managed to kill them. Trimming. And they were evergreens. Those things never die; Mom, with cigarette. In wheelchair. "Supervising." Loudly. As she does now when we help her prepare a holiday meal; Tricia, single-handedly constructing most of the house, her only challenge being if asked to light a fire as the last time she tried to ignite one in her own fireplace she was puzzled that tossing matches on full logs didn't work; me, well-meaning, but really quite clumsy, living up to the "bull in a china shop" description my mother pressed on me years ago. This lack of grace was evident during this adventure, when, while helping install insulation in the attic, I put my foot through the ceiling. It's hard to look/feel cool when your leg is dangling in the hallway and the rest of you is among the rafters.)(Ironically, I was born on a Tuesday and according to the old rhyme, Tuesday's child is "full of grace." Full of something, friends, but it ain't grace.)
Besides the Pitt crew, there were a few strays like myself, including Mark and Tamara from Washington (Hi, guys!) and Beth from San Francisco, one of Jordo's oldest friends -- and our guest blogger, see above or below or wherever it is if she actually follows through and writes us something -- who made a point of noting that she wanted inclusion in any blog entry about this week. (Does this count? Because really, if I have to start talking about you, Beth, that just takes the focus off of me.) (And by the way, I think I'm done mentioning you now, unless I decide to detail your harrowing day dealing with fractions and mismeasured trim or your age-inappropriate crushes on other members of the work crew.)
(Just kidding, reading public. Don't call the police.)
Now back to me.
I missed the first day of work at the house but I caught up with everyone on the second. It was a painting day. I met Charles right out front. "I have no teeth and a Southern accent so I can be hard to understand," he said. He immediately gave me a tour. He was so proud of everything that had been done, and it was far from done. He also insisted on showing me his back yard. A few weeks earlier, another volunteer group had come through and created a little seating area there for him and his wife. They'd used bricks to make side tables for metal furniture that was mostly missing cushions. They'd brought in some potted plants that already looked like they'd seen better days. "This is our salvation," Charles told me. "After being in that trailer all day, this is just so nice." He kept pointing out the tables made of bricks, and the way the volunteers had used some of the other bricks to line part of the yard. "That just makes it so cozy," he said.
Charles was just so friendly, so willing to talk about anything. (And so loving to talk. He later blamed that on being raised Baptist. Kids today, he said, complain about going to church but they don't know what it was like when he was coming up and church was all day and "you'd fall asleep and they'd wake you up and you'd be hungry and then you'd take a break in the afternoon and go back again at night. Lord...") One morning, he was going on about tv programs and "American Idol," one of his favorites, and how Sanjaya should not still be among the contestants. He said that when the show was on, if the phone would ring, Winnie would say, "Who could be calling us NOW?" He liked Simon, he said, because Simon made the show. Just like JR once made "Dallas" and Alexis made "Dynasty" and had we watched those shows too? "Those were some soap operas," Charles said, shaking his head.
I've worked with religiously-affiliated groups since coming here but this week was the first time we started each day with a prayer circle. (We had another one before lunch, which can be annoying when you're hungry and want to eat but you can't get everyone into a circle. One day, Beth and I were about to start gnawing off our own arms because everyone was so slow.) (Second mention, Beth!) I didn't mind it. It was a good way to start off, all joined together. Roger, who usually led the group, was just so up-beat, even when he was giving out work assignments. "Have you walked through there today?" he'd say, referring to the house. "It looks AMAZING in there and that's all thanks to you and your hard work. I can't believe how far we've come in just a few days. But we've also got a ways to go, so let's see who is going to do what this morning..." (Roger was very nice. When my leg busted through the ceiling, he kinda shrugged and said, "To paraphrase a saying, stuff happens." I felt better.) A morning prayer circle was also the sight of one of the cutest things I've seen in a while: There was this crazy little brown terrier-type dog, Angel, that came running over from across the street when the vans pulled up each day. All of the kids loved Angel, as did we, even when Angel's dirty paws marred our freshly painted doors one day. During one morning prayer, one of the girls was holding Angel in one arm, meaning she couldn't join hands with the 14-year-old boy on one side. So he was holding the dog's paw without even thinking about it, just standing there. (I only wish Beth could have gotten a photo.) (Third.)
Charles led us in the prayer on a few of the days. His sentences were often punctuated by the words, "Oh Heavenly Father" and "Thank you." He always remembered to give thanks for the U.S. troops overseas and the fathers and mothers who let their children go so he could have his life in New Orleans. In part, it would go something like this, "Thank you, oh Heavenly Father, for another day you have given us, oh Heavenly Father and for bringing these wonderful people here from far and near here to help us, oh Heavenly Father, because you are so good and loving, oh Heavenly Father. And thank you for your sons and daughters overseas, oh Heavenly Father, who are risking their lives so that we may live these blessed lives, oh Heavenly Father. Keep them safe, oh Heavenly Father, and give them shelter, oh Heavenly Father, so that they can come home again, oh Heavenly Father Father. And thank you for their parents, oh Heavenly Father, because they have let them go so we can be free, oh Heavenly Father." Despite his lack of teeth and his Southern accent, Charles wasn't hard to understand when he prayed aloud.
So the work we did: Painting and windows and doors and trim and closets and floors and sanding and spackling and plumbing and insulating. We were volunteers, working for free, but you never got that idea. It was a professional work site, and everyone was trying to do the best job they could. (Thank God we had some professionals among us.) It wasn't just, "These people are lucky to get help at all. Let's just slap something together." It was careful, detailed. Beth (And here's number four.) and I devoted ourselves to caulking one afternoon and we took our job very seriously. There was something so satisfying about going into a room and making it look right and neat, and then having Charles come in behind us and say, "Oh, beautiful, just beautiful. Oh, Lord, thank you."
Charles and Winnie were often asked what they wanted and their wishes were granted, even the ones that seemed, well, odd, like her request for bright yellow pillars and front door with dark gray trim. (Basically, Saints colors, but I don't think that was intentional.) Charles wasn't shy about saying he wanted the original lanterns that had hung from the porch redone and replaced, so he joined a group sanding them for painting. (It was great to see this 70-year-old man surrounded by teenagers, all intent on the same task, chatting away.) Winnie wanted the group to pick a name for the house and they chose "Amazing Grace," inspired by an earlier evening when one of the church members had led them in the song, with some modified lyrics. One of the volunteers, an artist, painted the name in yellow on the gray trim around the front door, surrounded it with yellow flowers and vines. She painted a small gray cross in the middle of the yellow door.
On Good Friday, we gathered in the front room for a sort of dedication - almost all of the major work was done and the group would be returning to their homes in the next few days. We were joined by others who had been volunteering but working on another home. People sat on benches made from planks of wood and oversized plastic containers or on the floor or they leaned against the walls. One of the Pittsburgh pastors led the services, strumming a guitar and leading the group in song. Winnie and Charles sat next to him, with Winnie singing harmony each time, her voice always distinct from the others.
The pastor pointed out how appropriate it was we were gathering that day. Like so many New Orleanians after the storm, Jesus had felt forgotten and forsaken when he died. It was a dark day, he said, but the best part about that was knowing that things were going to get better: New Orleans, like Jesus, would rise again.
He asked the question, "When have you felt that God has forsaken you?" And Winnie, through tears, began telling their tale: How'd they just moved into the house when the storm hit, and they'd moved so they could have a place to bring her parents. The 11-hours they spent on a bus to Baker, La. The realization that they'd lost everything "and it's not the material things but why did this have to happen?" She talked about losing her father after the storm and how it had felt to be homeless, crammed into a shelter with dozens of others -- "I know what it's like to be hungry. I know what it's like to go to bed at night listening to the crying and moaning of the people around you. I know what it's like to be in pain and to think God has abandoned you."
Her soft sobs sparked tears around the room. Both men and women dabbed their eyes with coarse paper towels. I saw one woman lean into her husband, and it struck me because I hadn't even known they were married before, they'd seemed to disconnected.
Charles, who rubbed his wife's neck with one hand, while she spoke, took over for his wife at some point. He said he knew they suffered some, but he considered them blessed. He may have had arthritis pain in his shoulder but at least he could lift it and there were so many people who were unable to walk when "Uncle Arthur" visited. So many people had lost loved ones in the storm but he hadn't had to bury any of his children or grandchildren. He may have lost everything, but people came forward to give. "Everything I've got on, someone gave me," he said, tugging at his baseball cap and looking over his pants and shirt. (He actually made the comparison that if he were a man without shoes, at least he wasn't a man without feet. This is also one of my dad's favorite expressions. Like when I complained about losing my job, he said, "Remember, 'I felt bad because I had no shoes and then I saw a man with no feet.'" I replied, "Are there a lot of people with no feet around? Because I haven't seen any.")
God was good, God was good, Charles said repeatedly. He knew this because God had sent so many wonderful strangers to New Orleans to help his family get their lives back together.
"God may not come when you want him," Charles said, "but he is always on time."
Charles and Winnie were the homeowners. Charles is about 70, Winnie about 63. They'd moved out of the 9th Ward and into this blond brick ranch-style house in eastern New Orleans just a few weeks before the storm. (Both their houses -- old and new -- were flooded.In fact, the one in the 9th Ward was knocked right off its foundation.) A group of volunteers had come and gutted the house more than a year ago, but the couple had been unable to rebuild. Instead, they were living in a trailer in the front yard. I've seen a lot of FEMA trailers, but somehow, theirs seemed even smaller than usual: You couldn't stand side-by-side inside the width of it and the bedroom was basically a bed with no room to move on either side of it. But they'd decorated with prayer cards all around the door and in the bathroom so small that it seemed you'd be unable to lift your arms to wash while in the shower, they had a peach shower curtain and a peach scrubber that matched it.
They could live in the cramped quarters, but they really wanted the house to be complete: Winnie's mother is 97 and needed to come live with them.
The rebuilding crew was a good bunch of folks, about 25 strong, mostly from Pittsburgh. Most were teenagers, but there were couples and even entire families there. (Which led me to imagine what it would be like if the Pompilios went on a similar trip: Lou, out buying everyone food, which would be the best thing as his gifts in the home/gardening realm are limited as evidenced by the time he decided to trim the trees in front of our house and managed to kill them. Trimming. And they were evergreens. Those things never die; Mom, with cigarette. In wheelchair. "Supervising." Loudly. As she does now when we help her prepare a holiday meal; Tricia, single-handedly constructing most of the house, her only challenge being if asked to light a fire as the last time she tried to ignite one in her own fireplace she was puzzled that tossing matches on full logs didn't work; me, well-meaning, but really quite clumsy, living up to the "bull in a china shop" description my mother pressed on me years ago. This lack of grace was evident during this adventure, when, while helping install insulation in the attic, I put my foot through the ceiling. It's hard to look/feel cool when your leg is dangling in the hallway and the rest of you is among the rafters.)(Ironically, I was born on a Tuesday and according to the old rhyme, Tuesday's child is "full of grace." Full of something, friends, but it ain't grace.)
Besides the Pitt crew, there were a few strays like myself, including Mark and Tamara from Washington (Hi, guys!) and Beth from San Francisco, one of Jordo's oldest friends -- and our guest blogger, see above or below or wherever it is if she actually follows through and writes us something -- who made a point of noting that she wanted inclusion in any blog entry about this week. (Does this count? Because really, if I have to start talking about you, Beth, that just takes the focus off of me.) (And by the way, I think I'm done mentioning you now, unless I decide to detail your harrowing day dealing with fractions and mismeasured trim or your age-inappropriate crushes on other members of the work crew.)
(Just kidding, reading public. Don't call the police.)
Now back to me.
I missed the first day of work at the house but I caught up with everyone on the second. It was a painting day. I met Charles right out front. "I have no teeth and a Southern accent so I can be hard to understand," he said. He immediately gave me a tour. He was so proud of everything that had been done, and it was far from done. He also insisted on showing me his back yard. A few weeks earlier, another volunteer group had come through and created a little seating area there for him and his wife. They'd used bricks to make side tables for metal furniture that was mostly missing cushions. They'd brought in some potted plants that already looked like they'd seen better days. "This is our salvation," Charles told me. "After being in that trailer all day, this is just so nice." He kept pointing out the tables made of bricks, and the way the volunteers had used some of the other bricks to line part of the yard. "That just makes it so cozy," he said.
Charles was just so friendly, so willing to talk about anything. (And so loving to talk. He later blamed that on being raised Baptist. Kids today, he said, complain about going to church but they don't know what it was like when he was coming up and church was all day and "you'd fall asleep and they'd wake you up and you'd be hungry and then you'd take a break in the afternoon and go back again at night. Lord...") One morning, he was going on about tv programs and "American Idol," one of his favorites, and how Sanjaya should not still be among the contestants. He said that when the show was on, if the phone would ring, Winnie would say, "Who could be calling us NOW?" He liked Simon, he said, because Simon made the show. Just like JR once made "Dallas" and Alexis made "Dynasty" and had we watched those shows too? "Those were some soap operas," Charles said, shaking his head.
I've worked with religiously-affiliated groups since coming here but this week was the first time we started each day with a prayer circle. (We had another one before lunch, which can be annoying when you're hungry and want to eat but you can't get everyone into a circle. One day, Beth and I were about to start gnawing off our own arms because everyone was so slow.) (Second mention, Beth!) I didn't mind it. It was a good way to start off, all joined together. Roger, who usually led the group, was just so up-beat, even when he was giving out work assignments. "Have you walked through there today?" he'd say, referring to the house. "It looks AMAZING in there and that's all thanks to you and your hard work. I can't believe how far we've come in just a few days. But we've also got a ways to go, so let's see who is going to do what this morning..." (Roger was very nice. When my leg busted through the ceiling, he kinda shrugged and said, "To paraphrase a saying, stuff happens." I felt better.) A morning prayer circle was also the sight of one of the cutest things I've seen in a while: There was this crazy little brown terrier-type dog, Angel, that came running over from across the street when the vans pulled up each day. All of the kids loved Angel, as did we, even when Angel's dirty paws marred our freshly painted doors one day. During one morning prayer, one of the girls was holding Angel in one arm, meaning she couldn't join hands with the 14-year-old boy on one side. So he was holding the dog's paw without even thinking about it, just standing there. (I only wish Beth could have gotten a photo.) (Third.)
Charles led us in the prayer on a few of the days. His sentences were often punctuated by the words, "Oh Heavenly Father" and "Thank you." He always remembered to give thanks for the U.S. troops overseas and the fathers and mothers who let their children go so he could have his life in New Orleans. In part, it would go something like this, "Thank you, oh Heavenly Father, for another day you have given us, oh Heavenly Father and for bringing these wonderful people here from far and near here to help us, oh Heavenly Father, because you are so good and loving, oh Heavenly Father. And thank you for your sons and daughters overseas, oh Heavenly Father, who are risking their lives so that we may live these blessed lives, oh Heavenly Father. Keep them safe, oh Heavenly Father, and give them shelter, oh Heavenly Father, so that they can come home again, oh Heavenly Father Father. And thank you for their parents, oh Heavenly Father, because they have let them go so we can be free, oh Heavenly Father." Despite his lack of teeth and his Southern accent, Charles wasn't hard to understand when he prayed aloud.
So the work we did: Painting and windows and doors and trim and closets and floors and sanding and spackling and plumbing and insulating. We were volunteers, working for free, but you never got that idea. It was a professional work site, and everyone was trying to do the best job they could. (Thank God we had some professionals among us.) It wasn't just, "These people are lucky to get help at all. Let's just slap something together." It was careful, detailed. Beth (And here's number four.) and I devoted ourselves to caulking one afternoon and we took our job very seriously. There was something so satisfying about going into a room and making it look right and neat, and then having Charles come in behind us and say, "Oh, beautiful, just beautiful. Oh, Lord, thank you."
Charles and Winnie were often asked what they wanted and their wishes were granted, even the ones that seemed, well, odd, like her request for bright yellow pillars and front door with dark gray trim. (Basically, Saints colors, but I don't think that was intentional.) Charles wasn't shy about saying he wanted the original lanterns that had hung from the porch redone and replaced, so he joined a group sanding them for painting. (It was great to see this 70-year-old man surrounded by teenagers, all intent on the same task, chatting away.) Winnie wanted the group to pick a name for the house and they chose "Amazing Grace," inspired by an earlier evening when one of the church members had led them in the song, with some modified lyrics. One of the volunteers, an artist, painted the name in yellow on the gray trim around the front door, surrounded it with yellow flowers and vines. She painted a small gray cross in the middle of the yellow door.
On Good Friday, we gathered in the front room for a sort of dedication - almost all of the major work was done and the group would be returning to their homes in the next few days. We were joined by others who had been volunteering but working on another home. People sat on benches made from planks of wood and oversized plastic containers or on the floor or they leaned against the walls. One of the Pittsburgh pastors led the services, strumming a guitar and leading the group in song. Winnie and Charles sat next to him, with Winnie singing harmony each time, her voice always distinct from the others.
The pastor pointed out how appropriate it was we were gathering that day. Like so many New Orleanians after the storm, Jesus had felt forgotten and forsaken when he died. It was a dark day, he said, but the best part about that was knowing that things were going to get better: New Orleans, like Jesus, would rise again.
He asked the question, "When have you felt that God has forsaken you?" And Winnie, through tears, began telling their tale: How'd they just moved into the house when the storm hit, and they'd moved so they could have a place to bring her parents. The 11-hours they spent on a bus to Baker, La. The realization that they'd lost everything "and it's not the material things but why did this have to happen?" She talked about losing her father after the storm and how it had felt to be homeless, crammed into a shelter with dozens of others -- "I know what it's like to be hungry. I know what it's like to go to bed at night listening to the crying and moaning of the people around you. I know what it's like to be in pain and to think God has abandoned you."
Her soft sobs sparked tears around the room. Both men and women dabbed their eyes with coarse paper towels. I saw one woman lean into her husband, and it struck me because I hadn't even known they were married before, they'd seemed to disconnected.
Charles, who rubbed his wife's neck with one hand, while she spoke, took over for his wife at some point. He said he knew they suffered some, but he considered them blessed. He may have had arthritis pain in his shoulder but at least he could lift it and there were so many people who were unable to walk when "Uncle Arthur" visited. So many people had lost loved ones in the storm but he hadn't had to bury any of his children or grandchildren. He may have lost everything, but people came forward to give. "Everything I've got on, someone gave me," he said, tugging at his baseball cap and looking over his pants and shirt. (He actually made the comparison that if he were a man without shoes, at least he wasn't a man without feet. This is also one of my dad's favorite expressions. Like when I complained about losing my job, he said, "Remember, 'I felt bad because I had no shoes and then I saw a man with no feet.'" I replied, "Are there a lot of people with no feet around? Because I haven't seen any.")
God was good, God was good, Charles said repeatedly. He knew this because God had sent so many wonderful strangers to New Orleans to help his family get their lives back together.
"God may not come when you want him," Charles said, "but he is always on time."
Cheesesteak 2.0
For those who aren't aware, one of Philadelphia's greatest culinary acheivements is the cheesesteak, a relatively simple combination of meat, onions and cheeze whiz on bread that is sooo much more than the sum of its parts. As a sandwich that is already a heart attack waiting to happen, I always wondered if someday someone would find a way to make it worse for you. Leave it to my temporary city to find that way.
Last night we went to a restaraunt up the street named Jacques-imos. They had the genius idea of taking a whole roast beef po-boy and frying the whole thing. This may be the greatest change to the sandwich since, well, I don't know when. Philadelphians, take note, if someone can figure out how to fry a cheesesteak they may very well destroy Pat's and Geno's over the next few years.
Last night we went to a restaraunt up the street named Jacques-imos. They had the genius idea of taking a whole roast beef po-boy and frying the whole thing. This may be the greatest change to the sandwich since, well, I don't know when. Philadelphians, take note, if someone can figure out how to fry a cheesesteak they may very well destroy Pat's and Geno's over the next few years.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Let Lying Dogs Sleep
Interviewing clients right after their arrest can sometimes be a tricky proposition. Some clients clam up, not knowing their new attorney and not necessarily trusting them. Others, overcome with emotion, can't stop crying, and any attempt to get even the slightest bit of information will lead to an outpouring of tears that nothing can get through. Some of course, are all to willing to share their side of the story, which often boils down to "everyone's lying on me."
Tell a client they were arrested for a burglary and they will say they weren't there. Tell them there is a videotape of them inside the house burglarized and they will say the tape was doctored. Tell them that they gave a statement confessing to the crime and they will say they never said anything. Tell them and show them the statement recorded on videotape and they will say that they didn't really mean it. Everyone and everything is lying on them.
I thought had heard some of the most ridiculous versions of the "everything's a lie" interview until today. A colleague of mine just got a new client who is charged with assaulting a police officer and assaulting a police officer's dog. In the course of explaining the charges to him, said colleague explained that he was being charged with assaulting a police officer.
Client response: "Those cops are lying, I never touched them."
Okay, fair enough, on to the next charge. Colleague explains that client is charged with assaulting a police dog.
Client response: "That dog is lying, I never touched that dog."
Colleague: "The dog is lying?"
Client: "Yeah, that dog is lying if he told the cops I hurt him."
I must admit, I have absolutely now idea what to say to a client who believes in talking (and lying) dogs. If anyone has ideas, let me know.
Tell a client they were arrested for a burglary and they will say they weren't there. Tell them there is a videotape of them inside the house burglarized and they will say the tape was doctored. Tell them that they gave a statement confessing to the crime and they will say they never said anything. Tell them and show them the statement recorded on videotape and they will say that they didn't really mean it. Everyone and everything is lying on them.
I thought had heard some of the most ridiculous versions of the "everything's a lie" interview until today. A colleague of mine just got a new client who is charged with assaulting a police officer and assaulting a police officer's dog. In the course of explaining the charges to him, said colleague explained that he was being charged with assaulting a police officer.
Client response: "Those cops are lying, I never touched them."
Okay, fair enough, on to the next charge. Colleague explains that client is charged with assaulting a police dog.
Client response: "That dog is lying, I never touched that dog."
Colleague: "The dog is lying?"
Client: "Yeah, that dog is lying if he told the cops I hurt him."
I must admit, I have absolutely now idea what to say to a client who believes in talking (and lying) dogs. If anyone has ideas, let me know.
Monday, April 2, 2007
It's All in the Way You Tell the Story
Someone I'd just met told me her storm story this weekend. She and her roommate/aka gay husband (Patrick) didn't evacuate because they each had a dog, so they watched, and photographed, the rising water that eventually engulfed their one-story home, forcing them to seek refuge on the second floor of a neighbor's home. They were rescued by boat. They spent nights sleeping outside in the sweltering heat before being evacuated across the state to Cajun Country, where they landed with some clothes, a few key documents, and little else. Their New Orleans house is now a shell as they keep waiting to find out how much money they'll get to rebuild. Despite the fact that much of the city is a disaster zone, city officials had given the woman a formal warning about cleaning up the jungle that her yard had become. (Which is how I met her. I was there to pull weeds and clean up her yard, armed with -- God help us all -- a machete.)
Yet despite her sad and sometimes horrifying tale and the general feeling that life and insurance companies and government officialas aren't fair, I can honestly say I don't think I've laughed so hard in a long time.
It was how she told the story.
Let me put it this way: When the most important bit of storm advice you get is, "Make sure you're wearing a bra," you know you're talking to someone special. As in, "And they're pulling these 70-, 80- year old women in their nightgowns off the roofs of their houses and putting them in the boot with us and I was like, 'Good Lord, gravity is not kind!' And I know we all have to deal with it some day but hadn't we been through enough at that point? I was like, 'Patrick! Take off one of your six shirts and give it to that woman right now because I can not look at that!" (Later, we discussed the bra rule: Does that mean that, if you think a natural disaster is coming, you have to wear one to bed? Or is having one handy good enough? Does a bra join your wedding ring and insurance papers and photos in the "Bag of Things That Must Be Saved"?)
I know I can't do this woman's story justice. The funny just won't translate. You just had to see her, sitting on the floor of her gutteed house, showing photos of the flood and its aftermatch on computer. You had to listen to her incredibly self-deprecating way of describing things, and get excited and sad as she did as she yelled and laughed and pulled us along through late August and early September, 2005.
Some bits and pieces:
Her tale began the day before the storm. She lived in Lakeview, a part of the city that had never flooded before and two nervous friends were coming to ride out the storm with her and Patrick. So when the water started filling the streets, her house was clean. As it kept rising, she still insisted her friends go outside to smoke so the cigarette smell wouldn't infuse her belongings. "We kept going outside! And I'd cleaned all day the day before! And what did that matter?" she laughed. "We lost everything anyway." (Her friends had brought a bunch of their stuff over as well. As it turned out, their home didn't flood. More bitter irony.)
(Pictures: the two women smiling, one wearing a headlamp; smoking outside; water in the street; the pecan tree that toppled and destroyed the back deck.)
She described how the water took its time reaching her first floor, but once it was there, it seemed to pick up speed. It didn't come gushing through cracks in windows and doors. It seemed to come from below, gaining inches rapidly , covering their feet then their ankles. She said she could understand why so many people drowned in their homes. There just wasn't time to get out.
But she and her roommate and friends did manage to get out. They had a key to the neighbor's two story home. There, they watched the water rise, "She had a floating floor and it really was floating! Then we're on the second floor worried the dogs are going to pee in the house, the same house that was taking on 6 feet of water. We were so worried, my roommate went on the balcony and peed in certain places hoping the dogs would follow the scent."
(Pictures: Smiling on the balcony after marking one's territory; the floating floor and floating furniture; her house, below them, which water high on the first floor.)
So they're trapped on the balcony of the neighbor's house and firefighters come by with a boat. They're at least five feet from the boat and are told to jump in. "And I'm like, 'Oh no. I can see the headline now, "Fat Woman Kills Firefighters While Jumping into Boat.' It'll be on the front page of the Times Picayune with a big picture of my fat ass." I was a mess. I was like, 'Please, Jesus, don't like me tip this boat over.' And the firefighters are telling me to jump, jump. So I wrap my hands around this board and lower myself as much as possible and then plink! Barely a ripple. They were very impressed. Then Patrick was about to hand me my dog and the firefighter put his arms up like, 'I'll take him.' And I said, "No! No! He's such a jerk!" and just then the dog went crazy in Patrick's arms, biting and barking and the firefighter was like, 'Whoa. OK.'"
(Pictures: Sadly, none of cute firefighters, but one of the group after they'd been rescued and were standing together on the bridge. Evil little dog was hiding his face in the shot, though.)
The firefighters ferried them to a bridge near City Park where about 90 other people were huddled after being rescued. There was no food or water or any kind of comforts. As the hours passed, the water surrounding them got deeper and deeper. Three times, a Coast Guard helicopter flew overhead and seemed to assess the situation before flying away. The third time, they dropped down a harness and tried to put an elderly woman in it. But she'd had some hip surgery and they couldn't get her in, so they just pulled up the harness and flew away. "I don't agree with those people who opened fire on the Coast Guard at the Superdome, but if I'd had a gun, I would have let loose that third time they circled overhead and didn't do anything. It would have just been like, 'Everyone out of my way' and I would have fired."
They all spent the night on the bridge and it was dark and eery and hot. (But in a tribute to American decorum, the group decided that one side of the bridge was the men's bathroom and the other side was the ladies'. They sang songs and tried to be sleep but the helicopters (see above) kept waking them up.
(Pictures: Some lovely ones of City Park under water, with the trees climbing out of the water; others of the group against the bridge and, amazingly, still smiling; the two restroom facilties.)
The next morning, Patrick swam back to the house and got some food and water to share with everyone on the bridge. Everyone, that is, except the man who was tooling around in a boat and who had refused to let Patrick use it to get food.
(Pictures: One of Patrick, looking tough, which she joked was going to be used for his next personal ad.)
They decided to try to walk out of the city. They were along the railroad tracks when they looked back and saw somone had started rescuing people by helicopter. Patrick yelled at her, "We could have had a helicopter rescue!" Instead, they kept walking, eventually ending up on another overpass in Jefferson Parish, from which they were rescued.
When they got on the bus, they weren't given food or water. They were given Old Spice deoderant sticks. "We smelled so bad! We're just rubbing those sticks up and down our arms and all over our bodies and we didn't care."
They could have been placed in "gen pop" at Thibodaux, a big room with crying babies and musty air. But because they had their animals, they had to be separated and, as it ended up, they got the much better end of the deal."That's another trick to evacuating: have your animals. We ended up at the Taj Mahal comparatively."
(Pictures: General shots of the gen pop area and the Taj, as well shots of individuals they'd met: the woman from Minnesota who said, "I don't know what I'm going to do about a job. I don't think Pet Smart is going to be open again." Which prompted them to say, "It's a national company. Go home to Minnesota and work there;" the elderly man, about 80, who had his back to the camera. His wife had evacuated without him, leaving him home with his dog and cat. When he got to the shelter and called him, she told him she wanted a divorce. He spent a lot of time crying.)
After a few days, they made it to one of her cousin's houses.
(Picture: Patrick in two layers of boxers borrowed from a teenage boy, smiling but looking ridiculous. "The first pair he put on, you could see right through it and I said, "No way are you going to have dinner with the family wearing those.' So then he put this other pair on top of it and it had these little snowmen on them and he would kill me if he knew I was showing you this picture.")
Eventually, they made it back to New Orleans.
(Pictures: Her parents' house, destroyed; her cousin's house, destroyed; her house, destroyed; some random pictures of some local libraries, taken because she'd used her city worker i.d. to get back in the city early and wanted to have some sort of proof she was there working if she was stopped. (She wasn't really working.))
It was a horrible story. It was a hysterical story. She made us cringe when she told us how she and her family had lost everything, then made us laugh as she described her big subterfuge, sneaking into the city weeks before normal folk were allowed in. She made us feel the heat and misery of sleeping on the bridge while making us roar as we imagined her poised to jump into the rescue boat.
it's all in how you tell the story.
Yet despite her sad and sometimes horrifying tale and the general feeling that life and insurance companies and government officialas aren't fair, I can honestly say I don't think I've laughed so hard in a long time.
It was how she told the story.
Let me put it this way: When the most important bit of storm advice you get is, "Make sure you're wearing a bra," you know you're talking to someone special. As in, "And they're pulling these 70-, 80- year old women in their nightgowns off the roofs of their houses and putting them in the boot with us and I was like, 'Good Lord, gravity is not kind!' And I know we all have to deal with it some day but hadn't we been through enough at that point? I was like, 'Patrick! Take off one of your six shirts and give it to that woman right now because I can not look at that!" (Later, we discussed the bra rule: Does that mean that, if you think a natural disaster is coming, you have to wear one to bed? Or is having one handy good enough? Does a bra join your wedding ring and insurance papers and photos in the "Bag of Things That Must Be Saved"?)
I know I can't do this woman's story justice. The funny just won't translate. You just had to see her, sitting on the floor of her gutteed house, showing photos of the flood and its aftermatch on computer. You had to listen to her incredibly self-deprecating way of describing things, and get excited and sad as she did as she yelled and laughed and pulled us along through late August and early September, 2005.
Some bits and pieces:
Her tale began the day before the storm. She lived in Lakeview, a part of the city that had never flooded before and two nervous friends were coming to ride out the storm with her and Patrick. So when the water started filling the streets, her house was clean. As it kept rising, she still insisted her friends go outside to smoke so the cigarette smell wouldn't infuse her belongings. "We kept going outside! And I'd cleaned all day the day before! And what did that matter?" she laughed. "We lost everything anyway." (Her friends had brought a bunch of their stuff over as well. As it turned out, their home didn't flood. More bitter irony.)
(Pictures: the two women smiling, one wearing a headlamp; smoking outside; water in the street; the pecan tree that toppled and destroyed the back deck.)
She described how the water took its time reaching her first floor, but once it was there, it seemed to pick up speed. It didn't come gushing through cracks in windows and doors. It seemed to come from below, gaining inches rapidly , covering their feet then their ankles. She said she could understand why so many people drowned in their homes. There just wasn't time to get out.
But she and her roommate and friends did manage to get out. They had a key to the neighbor's two story home. There, they watched the water rise, "She had a floating floor and it really was floating! Then we're on the second floor worried the dogs are going to pee in the house, the same house that was taking on 6 feet of water. We were so worried, my roommate went on the balcony and peed in certain places hoping the dogs would follow the scent."
(Pictures: Smiling on the balcony after marking one's territory; the floating floor and floating furniture; her house, below them, which water high on the first floor.)
So they're trapped on the balcony of the neighbor's house and firefighters come by with a boat. They're at least five feet from the boat and are told to jump in. "And I'm like, 'Oh no. I can see the headline now, "Fat Woman Kills Firefighters While Jumping into Boat.' It'll be on the front page of the Times Picayune with a big picture of my fat ass." I was a mess. I was like, 'Please, Jesus, don't like me tip this boat over.' And the firefighters are telling me to jump, jump. So I wrap my hands around this board and lower myself as much as possible and then plink! Barely a ripple. They were very impressed. Then Patrick was about to hand me my dog and the firefighter put his arms up like, 'I'll take him.' And I said, "No! No! He's such a jerk!" and just then the dog went crazy in Patrick's arms, biting and barking and the firefighter was like, 'Whoa. OK.'"
(Pictures: Sadly, none of cute firefighters, but one of the group after they'd been rescued and were standing together on the bridge. Evil little dog was hiding his face in the shot, though.)
The firefighters ferried them to a bridge near City Park where about 90 other people were huddled after being rescued. There was no food or water or any kind of comforts. As the hours passed, the water surrounding them got deeper and deeper. Three times, a Coast Guard helicopter flew overhead and seemed to assess the situation before flying away. The third time, they dropped down a harness and tried to put an elderly woman in it. But she'd had some hip surgery and they couldn't get her in, so they just pulled up the harness and flew away. "I don't agree with those people who opened fire on the Coast Guard at the Superdome, but if I'd had a gun, I would have let loose that third time they circled overhead and didn't do anything. It would have just been like, 'Everyone out of my way' and I would have fired."
They all spent the night on the bridge and it was dark and eery and hot. (But in a tribute to American decorum, the group decided that one side of the bridge was the men's bathroom and the other side was the ladies'. They sang songs and tried to be sleep but the helicopters (see above) kept waking them up.
(Pictures: Some lovely ones of City Park under water, with the trees climbing out of the water; others of the group against the bridge and, amazingly, still smiling; the two restroom facilties.)
The next morning, Patrick swam back to the house and got some food and water to share with everyone on the bridge. Everyone, that is, except the man who was tooling around in a boat and who had refused to let Patrick use it to get food.
(Pictures: One of Patrick, looking tough, which she joked was going to be used for his next personal ad.)
They decided to try to walk out of the city. They were along the railroad tracks when they looked back and saw somone had started rescuing people by helicopter. Patrick yelled at her, "We could have had a helicopter rescue!" Instead, they kept walking, eventually ending up on another overpass in Jefferson Parish, from which they were rescued.
When they got on the bus, they weren't given food or water. They were given Old Spice deoderant sticks. "We smelled so bad! We're just rubbing those sticks up and down our arms and all over our bodies and we didn't care."
They could have been placed in "gen pop" at Thibodaux, a big room with crying babies and musty air. But because they had their animals, they had to be separated and, as it ended up, they got the much better end of the deal."That's another trick to evacuating: have your animals. We ended up at the Taj Mahal comparatively."
(Pictures: General shots of the gen pop area and the Taj, as well shots of individuals they'd met: the woman from Minnesota who said, "I don't know what I'm going to do about a job. I don't think Pet Smart is going to be open again." Which prompted them to say, "It's a national company. Go home to Minnesota and work there;" the elderly man, about 80, who had his back to the camera. His wife had evacuated without him, leaving him home with his dog and cat. When he got to the shelter and called him, she told him she wanted a divorce. He spent a lot of time crying.)
After a few days, they made it to one of her cousin's houses.
(Picture: Patrick in two layers of boxers borrowed from a teenage boy, smiling but looking ridiculous. "The first pair he put on, you could see right through it and I said, "No way are you going to have dinner with the family wearing those.' So then he put this other pair on top of it and it had these little snowmen on them and he would kill me if he knew I was showing you this picture.")
Eventually, they made it back to New Orleans.
(Pictures: Her parents' house, destroyed; her cousin's house, destroyed; her house, destroyed; some random pictures of some local libraries, taken because she'd used her city worker i.d. to get back in the city early and wanted to have some sort of proof she was there working if she was stopped. (She wasn't really working.))
It was a horrible story. It was a hysterical story. She made us cringe when she told us how she and her family had lost everything, then made us laugh as she described her big subterfuge, sneaking into the city weeks before normal folk were allowed in. She made us feel the heat and misery of sleeping on the bridge while making us roar as we imagined her poised to jump into the rescue boat.
it's all in how you tell the story.
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