1 Dead in Attic (17 page)

The Big One's coming and it's going to wash us all away and I don't know what you're doing to prepare for it, people, but I've got my own plan: I'm building an ark.

The way I see it, some pissant Category 2 storm is going to drown this whole place this summer and New Orleans as we know it will cease to exist.

So I'm going to load up an ark and sail to an alien, distant shore with a pair of everything that makes New Orleans what it is—so unique, charming, and eccentric—and we're going to start all over again, two by two.

We'll go wherever the fates and currents take us—the Caribbean, the Indian Ocean, Toledo Bend Reservoir; I don't know. I just know we're going to load the ark and sail away, and—when the deluge is over—we're going to start from scratch, just like that Noah guy did.

Just call us Nola's Ark.

We're going to need a king and queen wherever we go, so I'm bringing Ella Brennan and Norman Francis. I'm bringing Leah Chase and Paul Prudhomme to run the ship's galley.

Al Copeland and Chris Owens will board the ship together in the hope that their union will produce a legion of offspring who inhabit their quintessentially New Orleans spirit—that certain
je ne croissant pas.

We're going to bring Bob Breck and Margaret Orr for our AccuWeather needs, because Lord knows we need AccuWeather. Our new false idol in this strange new land will be a Super Doppler.

I'm going to pair up Becky Allen and Ricky Graham to promulgate a new generation of New Orleans theater. We'll bring John Scott and Mignon Faget because we need pretty things—very thoughtful pretty things.

Dr. John and Irma Thomas will board this ship to create a new legacy of New Orleans musicians and we're bringing along Theresa Andersson also but she can't bring anyone with her because, well . . . because I said so.

I'm going to bring Blaine Kern and Quint Davis to rebuild the city's two most cherished public celebrations. And because I can't think of any suitable female companions for this pair, I guess we're going to allow gay marriage in this new New Orleans so their progeny will bring us JazzFest and Mardi Gras in perpetuity.

I guess that means David Vitter's not coming with us. And that's just as well. There will be tolerance and science where we're going. I realize those are outrageous notions, but keep in mind, this is just a fantasy.

We'll bring the Neville Brothers if they will join us.

But in this strange, new land where we are going there will be no Corps of Engineers, insurance adjusters, meter maids, assessors, or people who park their SUVs in two spaces at the Ochsner parking garage.

It will be paradise.

We're going to bring Bill Jefferson and Cleo Fields because we're going to need a lot of disposable cash on hand and—as far as I can tell—they've got more disposable cash on hand than anyone else around here.

I'm going to load up seedlings of celery, onions, and bell peppers to plant in this new Utopia. I'm going to bring two old guys who look like serial killers dressed in soda fountain vests to sell Lucky Dogs and I guess we'll need to bring some cows and pigs to make those hot dogs.

Lucky Dogs are made of cows and pigs, aren't they?

Whatever. I'm going to load up two mosquitoes, two mimes, two indifferent waiters from Napoleon House, two strippers, and two United Cab drivers. It will be New Orleans again!

Two by two, New Orleans will survive. Deuce and Reggie. Garland and Angela. Frankie and Johnny. Crawfish and Monica.

We're going to need a pharmacist, I guess. Definitely need a pharmacist. And that guy who runs Creole Creamery because we're going to need ice cream.

Before we leave, we'll swing by Lee Circle and pick up two guys hanging out by the Shell station in case we need any roofing work done on our voyage.

I thought about bringing Frank Davis and Jackie Clarkson, but I'm afraid they'd just chat and natter on the whole darn voyage and we wouldn't get any peace at all. Besides, I want fish and music in the streets where we're going, and with them around I don't think either would last very long.

I'll bring Ron Forman, but he's not allowed to run for office; we just need someone to keep the animals in line. We're going to bring lots of animals but no animal rescue people because they'll end up spray-painting the whole damn ark.

And no blue dogs.

That blue dog drives me bonkers.

Where we're going will have neatly trimmed grass in public places and no dog poop on the sidewalk and nice playgrounds and regular garbage pickup and everyone's weight will be proportional to their height.

Then again, that doesn't sound much like New Orleans, so scratch that.

So I guess we're ready to go. Onward to Utopia. Oh, wait . . . I see through my field glasses that there's one more pair standing in the rain waiting to board.

Why, it's Ray and Kathleen!

Sorry, guys. This boat's full. You can wait for one of the buses.

They'll be here any minute. You just wait and see.

I've always thought a bicycle was the best way to get around, especially in New Orleans, where there are no hills to affront the ab-challenged.

I favor big, fat-tire, one-speed models for their comfort and ability to negotiate curbs, exposed streetcar tracks, potholes, drunks on the sidewalk, and the general curbside debris of New Orleans.

This is no town for thin tires.

Also, with a big, fat bike, I've never felt the pressure that many men my age suddenly feel to wear spray-on black shorts and bright yellow shirts with Italian logos on them.

But somehow I can still manage to feel nearly naked and overexposed. This happened to me last week when I was tooling around the Upper 9th Ward, where my presence on a bicycle prompted three people to ask me if I was from Common Ground, the hippieish volunteer organization set up over there, because who the hell else would be riding a bicycle around what used to be one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in town?

So there I was in the 9th, riding around and taking notes, when a speeding car broke the peace of the moment on a street whose only sounds were those of industry: hammers, nail guns, Skil saws.

As the car—a white sedan—whipped past me, two guys hanging out on the corner up ahead yelled out the driver's name and the car screeched to a halt. I was over by my side of the road, next to the curb, when the sedan driver threw the car into reverse and then plowed into me.

As I said, my bike is big and heavy. Real heavy, with tires like a Hummer.

The car hit my back tire and sent me shooting forward like a cowboy on a crazed rodeo bronc. Amazingly, I stayed on the thing. I ended up about ten yards from where I had been a second before, but I appeared to be upright and unharmed. Shaken, not stirred.

The driver looked at me and said, “My bad,” and then hauled off up to the corner where his friends were waiting. Just like that.

You just hit me and all I get is “My bad”?

“Yeah, I guess so!” I yelled as he drove away, but I felt my response was lacking the fortitude the situation called for. Then again, big red bikes don't really pulse with auras of fortitude. In fact, they veritably shout: Poet aboard!

So. What to do? I have just been hit by a car and the driver drove away. He is up the block with friends. I don't appear to be suffering any injuries, and my bike seems fine. I am in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I conclude: Don't get involved.

Philosophically, this aggrieves me. But I am alone and unarmed, because the fact is: the pen may be mightier than the sword, but it's no match for a Glock.

So I am about to ride away in a cloud of angst when a very large man steps up from behind me. Turns out he is a cop. A very large cop, or did I already say that?

He saw the whole thing. He asks if I am all right. I tell him yes and then he strides up to the three guys standing on the corner. They all jawbone for a while and then the cop waves me to join them and I curse under my breath and now I am, indeed, involved.

Funny, at this point, the two guys from the corner fall all over themselves asking if I'm okay. I tell them yes and thank them for their sincere concern for my health—now that the heat has arrived.

The driver, though, he yells in my face, “You called the police? You want to call the po-lice?”

“How could I have called the police?” I said. “You hit me ninety seconds ago.”

Everybody starts yelling. “You want to call the po-lice!” the driver keeps yelling. It's stupid. I am a guy on a bicycle in a place I shouldn't be, and this is what happens. But then I'm thinking: No, this is my city, I can be here. Dammit.

But why is the guy who just hit me copping attitude like I'm the bad guy? Where does this come from?

I keep marveling at how huge the cop is. I take comfort from this. He asks me if I want to press charges, I tell him no; in fact, it was a minor traffic infraction in and of itself. It was the aftermath of swagger and stupidity that, to me, constitute the bigger crime, but what are you going to do? It's not against the law to be an ass.

And what if it was? Man, you think our jails are crowded now?

The driver holds firm on his infallible alpha-male stance, but the other two guys do that thing that is probably one of the male species' most annoying traits. They keep shaking my hand. Over and over.

“We're cool, right?” they say and then the handshake. They won't stop shaking my hand. And when they stop, they say something else and reach for my hand again.

I tell the cop thank you and withdraw my hand from further assault. And I ride away, feeling somehow humiliated by the experience, though I'm not sure what I did to feel that way.

On my big red bike in this big mean world, sometimes I feel like Pee-Wee Herman.

But I'm not going to stop riding around town. Not gonna let the fools get me down. This is our town. These are our streets. I'm allowed to be here.

From now on, though, I'm gonna watch my back.

I see that Car 54's schedule this weekend included a town hall–style meeting Saturday with residents of City Council District B.

And here's the kicker: The residents of District B didn't have to go to New York or L.A. or Houston to meet with Car 54. He was actually coming to them.

Here! In New Orleans!

What a refreshing notion. I guess there's nothing else going on in any other American city this weekend or Car 54 wouldn't be slumming with locals in New Orleans.

Last weekend, while in New York, Car 54 explained that there was hardly any reason for him to be back here at home because “It's Labor Day weekend. There's not a lot going on in New Orleans.”

Funny how it's interpreted, though. To you and me, “not a lot going on” generally refers to things such as garbage pickup, trailer delivery, insurance settlements, getting phone service, and street repair. I think “leadership” might fit under the “not a lot going on” banner also.

To Car 54, “not a lot going on” seems to imply that there were no good national R&B acts playing in town and no large gathering of the national press corps and, hell, even Al Sharpton was going to be somewhere else that weekend, so what's the point?

So while there was nothing going on here in New Orleans last weekend, Car 54 hosted an art opening of photographs of himself in New York City and I wish I had one of those photos because sometimes I don't remember what he looks like.

But the photos are a little outdated, because they all seem to have been taken in New Orleans.

They must be old pictures.

And while in New York, Car 54 nabbed ten primo tickets for himself and his fleet of lemons to see sexy crooner Usher perform in a sold-out performance of
Chicago,
and that's exactly what I would have done last weekend. If I could have gotten the tickets. And if I'd been in New York. And if I didn't have any other pressing business at home.

And if I weren't mayor of New Orleans.

But there was nothing going on here, really.

And that's true for anyone who wasn't gutting their house or reseeding their lawn or looking for a job or moving into their FEMA trailer or trying to get a FEMA trailer or filling out SBA loan forms that are more daunting than Fortune 500 corporate tax returns.

There was nothing going on if you weren't tallying gunshot victims or praying for customers to come shop at your small business or if you were struggling with child care issues because it turns out the school where your child was supposed to start classes on Tuesday wasn't going to open because it wasn't ready.

And supposing that none of your friends or relatives needed help with any of these problems, then, in fact, there wasn't a damn thing going on around here.

Unless, of course: There's that pesky new city ordinance, which mandates that you toil with all the life and blood you've got to get your house and yard up to the new aesthetic specifications the city demands lest it find you a blight upon the landscape, whereupon the city will gut or tear down your property with or without your permission and slap a lien on you for the expenses.

Never mind that scores of city-owned properties stretching from Hollygrove to Almonaster fail to satisfy the code. Never mind that just about every playground and school lot owned by the city has overgrowth that violates the code.

Never mind that the pothole at the corner of Tchoupitoulas and Calhoun—a pothole!—has been there so long and grown so deep that the shrubbery growing out of it is of the length that the new city code deems a nuisance and is in violation of the law.

Of course, someone as glib as Car 54 might dismiss this pothole as “just some hole in the ground,” but to some folks, holes in the ground matter.

They matter very much.