The Music Man

Before I begin, let me just note that not every homeowner I work for is an adorable elderly man who you just want to put in your pocket and take home with you.

There have been two homeowners among the many I've now met who were demanding/bossy/unhelpful. One, I think, was mentally handicapped. The other was just bitchy. She basically watched us work -- for free, I might add -- and looked grouchy while doing so. At first, I was miffed. Then I realized she'd pretty much lost everything she owned and, if I were in her shoes, I'd look more than grouchy. "Grouchy" would be a good mood for me under those circumstances.

But there is a high percentage of adorable old men.

I've been working with RHINO recently (Rebuilding Hope In New Orleans). Excellent organization, very together, good works. I'm a big fan. Each week, I've joined groups of college students and one or two locals in our gutting/tear down missions. On the most recent gutting, I met the Music Man.

He must have been in his late 70s at least, appearing healthy at first glance, with a young face and full head of gray hair, but if you looked more carefully, you could see one side of his body was slumped and he sometimes shook uncontrollably. He had not entered his home since the storm. This, despite the fact that he has been living in a trailer right outside his own front door. He couldn't bear it, he said

We all gathered on the street to meet and talk to the homeowner. He immediately started crying. He said he couldn't thank us enough.

We hadn't even gone into the house yet.

As we stood there around him, I asked about the license plate on his car. It said something like, "MUZIKMAN" or "MUZIKMN." Whatever the letters, it was clear what it stood for. So I asked him, "Why are you The Music Man?"

And he was off. He'd been a producer and promoter, he said, and began listing name after name of musicians he'd worked with. I didn't recognize one -- not a jazz fan here -- but it was clear he was proud. (And if I didn't know these names, the rest of the group definitely didn't. Honest to God: One girl, about 17, came out of the house, carrying a stack of records, and said, "I've never even seen one of these before. What do you play them on?" I thought about beheading her with a well thrown album.) He just went on and on, a little less than 10 minutes, I'd say, but it felt like longer as the group was kinda awkward and itchy to get to work and this conversation hadn't been planned.

It just made me so incredibly sad. Even writing about it almost makes me cry. He just wanted to talk to someone.

Then we started emptying the house. As I'm an old hand at this now, our group leader put me in charge of a group working in the back rooms. (Never give me power. I was all, "You! Blond Ponytail! Get over here and help me carry this dresser! Red Baseball Cap, you start emptying the closet." One group of my minions -- that's how I like to think of them -- were all hung up about how to get an air conditioner out of a window. "Where is it attached?" one girl said, looking at the house and the unit. I came over: "Just push it. Push it out of the window." They were like, "But we'll break it!" I said, "It's already broken. Push it." And they pushed it out the window and cheered when it hit the ground.) (You'd be amazed by what sheer force can accomplish. Sometimes, I'll be trying to take a door down by the hinges and they're rusted and I just get fed up and swing at the hinge with all my might and it breaks. V. satisfying.)

But even being an old hand doesn't make me immune to emotion when we do this. We had to throw away all of his jazz posters and music books and credentials from different music festivals. We pulled out hundreds of records, which we saved because someone thought they were still usable. Someone found the paperweight he specifically asked we look for, but pretty much every thing else was ruined. We basically dumped his memories on the curb, then went back and tore his house apart.

Throughout the day, The Music Man walked around outside, trying to smile as he examined the glassware we'd saved and the ever-growing pile of records. But it was a shaky smile.

A lot of people break Katrina down by color. Black and White. But it's the elderly, of any color, who suffered the most. At least that's what I think.

I've been worrying about The Music Man these last few days, as I worry about Mr. L living alone in Pontchartrain Park. I don't think I'll be able to leave New Orleans without a final check on them.