Email From NOLA IIc
The guy across the street is a chauffeur but one of his limousines floated when the levee broke and the other got looted and so he was off in Houston for awhile but he's back driving this new van now which he uses for his delivery business, delivering mostly advertising circulars for a national drugstore chain. He's also picking up the occasional rider to the airport, came over the other day and shaved with my cold water in my clean bathroom and came back out wearing a suit and looking like a chauffeur.
This morning he's parked over there on the street behind me. Today I'm parked forward in my driveway, facing my house, the sun off the white painted cypress siding blinding bright and if not for these tinted reading glasses protecting me I would be struck senseless with the impressive yet harsh reflection bouncing off the surface of my past accomplishments. The neighbor is giving his dog something to eat and drink. He is writing something on paper, using a ruler at times, and snacking from a bag of cheetoes, all on the hood of his van.
He drove us down to the town meeting last Wednesday at the Sheraton where the mayor and a few of his council awed us with their political acumen and afterwards I said if he found us a place to eat I'd cover it up to the 23 dollars I had on me. On St. Charles we passed Lucky's, which appeared to be open, and The St. Charles Tavern, which maybe was open and then he saw Igor's and said, I'gor's, and I said, fine. Igor's is a bar with bar food, which two months post-K is served on a paper plate with plastic utensils and includes a thick slab of pre-cooked hamburger, slightly heated, on room temperature bun, with cool baked beans, for six bucks. I wolfed it. It was most delicious.
Upon entering we had seen out front on the sidewalk, an animated, attractive young blond woman with ample vocal capacity and piercing blue eyes behind innocuous eye ware, and she was gesturing and I think having a brief conversation or confrontation with a passing motorist. What appeared to be a boyfriend was standing off a bit as if unsure of his desire or ability to lay singular claim on the young blond woman.
Somehow the ordering process had baffled me for a minute and I had roamed around the mostly deserted bar and looked out at the sidewalk as if I was considering sitting at one of the tables there. Then I came to my senses and went to the bar and asked the bartender if they were serving food and she said yeah and pointed to yet another young blond woman who frankly looked a bit too fresh faced for this particular establishment, but was eager to serve and that warmed my heart.
I don't know what the hell the chauffeur was doing, hey man, you ordering, or what? He was talking to the blond woman from the sidewalk and she was talking to him like they old friends, which is always possible with the chauffeur because he knows people almost everywhere we have ever been together. Previous to talking to the chauffeur the two blonds were talking to each other and the one was very animated about her chances for the right potato chip and the other seemed patient but not bored, she only had so many chips to offer. After I ordered my burger I ordered a budweiser and took to drinking it with urgency. The animated blond woman introduced herself to the chauffeur as Sarah, and he introduced himself as who he is and I ran off to the front and picked the table open to the sidewalk but not actually on it. Passing Sarah she pushed a small bag of Lay's potato chips at me and said--wan't 'em? I don't like 'em. I just said yes and took them and walked to the table, already suspicious of the overeager, animated blond woman and her standoffish boyfriend.
At the table with my chips and beer and a breeze blowing off St. Charles I was content.
The chauffeur came over and I said get a beer if you want but he wasn't interested. He said Sarah wanted to help him clean out his house (of his water damaged possessions--his living space was twice as close to the ground as mine, so he took a couple feet of water). I said how much and he said for free and I said, good luck, keep me out of it. He took no offense and said he would but dammit, why the chauffeur got to bring this whack job to our neighborhood? I mean, they come and they double the population of the neighborhood, which for no specific reason makes me uneasy. What about the boyfriend I wanted to know, what's up with him? The chauffeur offered knowledge from past experiences which caused me to reiterate the keep me out of it credo. I don't think he's as goofy as he appears man, I tell the chauffeur. I'll look out my window every once in awhile, see if they loading your cold dead body into the trunk of their stolen car before loading up your van with your stuff and hauling ass. He said he would appreciate that.
The chauffeur took them the most direct way, which was sort of through central city. It would have been kind of a scary route with people populating the streets and I found it too be not much less scary looking without people. The truth is there a large swaths of this city that looked bombed out before the hurricane. I wondered what the so-called good Samaritans following us were thinking. I was betting they were thinking twice about ripping off anyone who lived around the neighborhoods we were taking them through. I bet they were worried about getting ripped off themselves.
When we got here to Rocheblave I jumped out and said goodbye and when I looked out a few minutes later, I was frankly dumbfounded. That skinny, blond, blue-eyed, Alabama girl was working her ass off, hauling stuff out of my neighbor's back shed, and piling it on the growing refuse piles lining the street. Her and her boyfriend worked for about thirty minutes and when she was finished she hugged the chauffeur, twice, and kissed him, once. I was a little jealous and when I heard the vocally ample blond girl say to the chauffeur he should go get me so I could take a picture of the three of them I momentarily considered ignoring them. But I didn't and when he came knocking I went out and took the picture of the three of them sitting on his steps. When Sarah said she was taking a piece of the refuse for an art project I just nodded and then shook my head and said, goddamn, actual good Samaritans.
And speaking of good Samaritans or just good neighbors I give a hearty shout out to my Pentecostal brethren this morning, who as I speak have their hired help hauling that huge pile of insulation-laden trash bags out from the middle of their lot next to my house, to the street.
One of their spokesmen came over to talk to me and I gave him my brief bio and although he said he knew it wasn't my stuff I gave him a peek at my insides to prove the insulation wasn't mine and said how I'd only taken about an inch of water to half the house. He didn't respond to that right away, but later asked if I knew of anyone renting around here and I said no, not really. He said he lived in Violet, took twelve feet. Ouch, I said, St. Bernard, I'm sorry, man. Thank you, he said.
you were just being nice in the first place, I understand, treating your driver to lunch, but post-Nov. 15, do that business at Cassamento's. talked to the nephew of the deceased owner (said his uncle died the night of the storm while evacuating), who took my condolences and said now maybe he could actually keep the place open after 9 p.m. and make some festival/mardi gras/jazz fest dollars, but that he would open on Nov. 15 cuz that's when he could get oysters, but if he wanted he could open up then (that was back in early October) cuz he could get any other seafood he wanted. he didn't say he was cutting prices down from their high-dollar half-shell menu or oyster loaves, but still, man looked honest when he took my condolences. and the protection of that lawrence square police substation is nice, and the b-ball court seems always free now, and last I was there, ms. mae's on the corner sold dixie at a dollar a draft and heineken at $2.
at any rate, make room for a thanksgiving-ish lunch/drinks.
Not so sure about travel plans to NOLA. The old man's habit of consuming vast quantities of fine wine is catching up with him. Minor stroke yesterday. Can't walk. (They live in a two story, with all the bedrooms up a loooong stairway.) Bile in the urine indicates the liver not doing so good. With retirement looming ahead of him in a month or so, he has no real plans. The only hobby appears to be Chardonnay for breakfast, Pinot for lunch and Bordeaux for dinner. Chronic pain in his back and knees reduces his mobility in the best of times.
I may pop into Houston for a day or two, kinda blowing my vacation time for November. (Big deadlines at the end of the month.) His old man is dropping into Houston for a couple of days at the middle of November, so I may be able to take care of two obligations at once.
I'd rather not deal with those dysfunctional people, but probably ought to.
Sorry to hear this about your pops, although right this minute I'm a little envious of his wine diet. Take care of your family. I'll see you some other time.
Just spoke to my brother. He's always had a better relationship with the old man. He's pissed about the jaundice thing. Might finally read the old man the riot act about this long-term addiction. I'd be likely to say something like "go to detox you fucking alky", but then we've never been close.
D spoke with my Mom and helped her understand the various gradations of rehab that might be available. She's got more experience than most with those sorts of issues.
Hope you don't mind if I cybersquat a bit more on this topic, but perhaps some backstory could illuminate some of the invective.
As far back as I can remember, I feared the old man. His rage was epic, and was tinged with just enough violence to let me know not to fuck with this asshole. As I gradually became aware that his rage just wasn't right, I began to hate him. The fear subsided as I grew larger. About the time I was as tall as him, I realized that my younger brother and I might not be able to take him, but we could sure as hell fuck him up while trying. I continued to feign fear because it was just easier that way. The last time he spanked me, I got twenty lashes with the belt. I willed myself to be stoic. And he did not like that. Afterwards I stared him straight in the eye. I had one tear. This betrayal by my tear ducts royally pissed me off. But at dinner, that night or the next I said, "You didn't make me cry. Sure, I had a tear in my eye, but it was a physical reaction. (He smirked right about then.) Like getting some jalapeņo juice in my eye. That's tearing up, not crying. You'll never make me cry again, even when you die." (He quit smirking right about then.) I quickly turned the subject to something completely unrelated, and never mentioned it again. Sometime around the age of twenty, all pretense of fear was banished during the big annual New Year's Eve party at their house. Sometime I'll have to ask someone who was present what I said. For the longest time, I had no recollection of the event. I remember enough now to know that it was ugly, public and humiliating for them. We have never spoken of it. Since leaving Texas, the hatred softened to rage and then anger. I've worked to rid myself of that anger. But what's left behind is nothing. He's just the asshole who lives with my mother.
Ok, then.
that was the "greatest generation." ww2 guys, depression baby hardassses. "great santinis." i noticed that our generation didnt bring up our kids that way. its called breaking the cycle of madness. allot of us didnt have kids at all on purpose because of them. something had to be done. a generation gap.
Mine are post-Santini, Eisenhower or "silent generation" but still identified more with WW2, depression-era thinking and are pretty much defined in their politics by trusting the system and above all--even to the extent of embracing the gulag madness and rampant graft of the Cheney administration--hating hippies.
ive seen a few of those types soften with time. i got a korea era x-marine uncle who voted against bush 2004. pro carey only by default. calling them selves independents is less painful than the alternatives (D).
My folks are depression-era children and depression-era thinkers, especially Dad. FDR loving new-dealists - Bush and Cheney haters.
right. but was he in the military service?
Dad did a stint in the army in the early 60's. Born in 1934 so not of the generation you're talking about, my bad.
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The guy across the street is a chauffeur but one of his limousines floated when the levee broke and the other got looted and so he was off in Houston for awhile but he's back driving this new van now which he uses for his delivery business, delivering mostly advertising circulars for a national drugstore chain. He's also picking up the occasional rider to the airport, came over the other day and shaved with my cold water in my clean bathroom and came back out wearing a suit and looking like a chauffeur.
This morning he's parked over there on the street behind me. Today I'm parked forward in my driveway, facing my house, the sun off the white painted cypress siding blinding bright and if not for these tinted reading glasses protecting me I would be struck senseless with the impressive yet harsh reflection bouncing off the surface of my past accomplishments. The neighbor is giving his dog something to eat and drink. He is writing something on paper, using a ruler at times, and snacking from a bag of cheetoes, all on the hood of his van.
He drove us down to the town meeting last Wednesday at the Sheraton where the mayor and a few of his council awed us with their political acumen and afterwards I said if he found us a place to eat I'd cover it up to the 23 dollars I had on me. On St. Charles we passed Lucky's, which appeared to be open, and The St. Charles Tavern, which maybe was open and then he saw Igor's and said, I'gor's, and I said, fine. Igor's is a bar with bar food, which two months post-K is served on a paper plate with plastic utensils and includes a thick slab of pre-cooked hamburger, slightly heated, on room temperature bun, with cool baked beans, for six bucks. I wolfed it. It was most delicious.
Upon entering we had seen out front on the sidewalk, an animated, attractive young blond woman with ample vocal capacity and piercing blue eyes behind innocuous eye ware, and she was gesturing and I think having a brief conversation or confrontation with a passing motorist. What appeared to be a boyfriend was standing off a bit as if unsure of his desire or ability to lay singular claim on the young blond woman.
Somehow the ordering process had baffled me for a minute and I had roamed around the mostly deserted bar and looked out at the sidewalk as if I was considering sitting at one of the tables there. Then I came to my senses and went to the bar and asked the bartender if they were serving food and she said yeah and pointed to yet another young blond woman who frankly looked a bit too fresh faced for this particular establishment, but was eager to serve and that warmed my heart.
I don't know what the hell the chauffeur was doing, hey man, you ordering, or what? He was talking to the blond woman from the sidewalk and she was talking to him like they old friends, which is always possible with the chauffeur because he knows people almost everywhere we have ever been together. Previous to talking to the chauffeur the two blonds were talking to each other and the one was very animated about her chances for the right potato chip and the other seemed patient but not bored, she only had so many chips to offer. After I ordered my burger I ordered a budweiser and took to drinking it with urgency. The animated blond woman introduced herself to the chauffeur as Sarah, and he introduced himself as who he is and I ran off to the front and picked the table open to the sidewalk but not actually on it. Passing Sarah she pushed a small bag of Lay's potato chips at me and said--wan't 'em? I don't like 'em. I just said yes and took them and walked to the table, already suspicious of the overeager, animated blond woman and her standoffish boyfriend.
At the table with my chips and beer and a breeze blowing off St. Charles I was content.
The chauffeur came over and I said get a beer if you want but he wasn't interested. He said Sarah wanted to help him clean out his house (of his water damaged possessions--his living space was twice as close to the ground as mine, so he took a couple feet of water). I said how much and he said for free and I said, good luck, keep me out of it. He took no offense and said he would but dammit, why the chauffeur got to bring this whack job to our neighborhood? I mean, they come and they double the population of the neighborhood, which for no specific reason makes me uneasy. What about the boyfriend I wanted to know, what's up with him? The chauffeur offered knowledge from past experiences which caused me to reiterate the keep me out of it credo. I don't think he's as goofy as he appears man, I tell the chauffeur. I'll look out my window every once in awhile, see if they loading your cold dead body into the trunk of their stolen car before loading up your van with your stuff and hauling ass. He said he would appreciate that.
The chauffeur took them the most direct way, which was sort of through central city. It would have been kind of a scary route with people populating the streets and I found it too be not much less scary looking without people. The truth is there a large swaths of this city that looked bombed out before the hurricane. I wondered what the so-called good Samaritans following us were thinking. I was betting they were thinking twice about ripping off anyone who lived around the neighborhoods we were taking them through. I bet they were worried about getting ripped off themselves.
When we got here to Rocheblave I jumped out and said goodbye and when I looked out a few minutes later, I was frankly dumbfounded. That skinny, blond, blue-eyed, Alabama girl was working her ass off, hauling stuff out of my neighbor's back shed, and piling it on the growing refuse piles lining the street. Her and her boyfriend worked for about thirty minutes and when she was finished she hugged the chauffeur, twice, and kissed him, once. I was a little jealous and when I heard the vocally ample blond girl say to the chauffeur he should go get me so I could take a picture of the three of them I momentarily considered ignoring them. But I didn't and when he came knocking I went out and took the picture of the three of them sitting on his steps. When Sarah said she was taking a piece of the refuse for an art project I just nodded and then shook my head and said, goddamn, actual good Samaritans.
And speaking of good Samaritans or just good neighbors I give a hearty shout out to my Pentecostal brethren this morning, who as I speak have their hired help hauling that huge pile of insulation-laden trash bags out from the middle of their lot next to my house, to the street.
One of their spokesmen came over to talk to me and I gave him my brief bio and although he said he knew it wasn't my stuff I gave him a peek at my insides to prove the insulation wasn't mine and said how I'd only taken about an inch of water to half the house. He didn't respond to that right away, but later asked if I knew of anyone renting around here and I said no, not really. He said he lived in Violet, took twelve feet. Ouch, I said, St. Bernard, I'm sorry, man. Thank you, he said.
- jimlouis 10-31-2005 7:09 pm
you were just being nice in the first place, I understand, treating your driver to lunch, but post-Nov. 15, do that business at Cassamento's. talked to the nephew of the deceased owner (said his uncle died the night of the storm while evacuating), who took my condolences and said now maybe he could actually keep the place open after 9 p.m. and make some festival/mardi gras/jazz fest dollars, but that he would open on Nov. 15 cuz that's when he could get oysters, but if he wanted he could open up then (that was back in early October) cuz he could get any other seafood he wanted. he didn't say he was cutting prices down from their high-dollar half-shell menu or oyster loaves, but still, man looked honest when he took my condolences. and the protection of that lawrence square police substation is nice, and the b-ball court seems always free now, and last I was there, ms. mae's on the corner sold dixie at a dollar a draft and heineken at $2.
at any rate, make room for a thanksgiving-ish lunch/drinks.
- anonymous (guest) 10-31-2005 9:20 pm [add a comment]
Not so sure about travel plans to NOLA. The old man's habit of consuming vast quantities of fine wine is catching up with him. Minor stroke yesterday. Can't walk. (They live in a two story, with all the bedrooms up a loooong stairway.) Bile in the urine indicates the liver not doing so good. With retirement looming ahead of him in a month or so, he has no real plans. The only hobby appears to be Chardonnay for breakfast, Pinot for lunch and Bordeaux for dinner. Chronic pain in his back and knees reduces his mobility in the best of times.
I may pop into Houston for a day or two, kinda blowing my vacation time for November. (Big deadlines at the end of the month.) His old man is dropping into Houston for a couple of days at the middle of November, so I may be able to take care of two obligations at once.
I'd rather not deal with those dysfunctional people, but probably ought to.
- mark 11-02-2005 7:14 am [add a comment]
Sorry to hear this about your pops, although right this minute I'm a little envious of his wine diet. Take care of your family. I'll see you some other time.
- jimlouis 11-03-2005 3:07 am [add a comment]
Just spoke to my brother. He's always had a better relationship with the old man. He's pissed about the jaundice thing. Might finally read the old man the riot act about this long-term addiction. I'd be likely to say something like "go to detox you fucking alky", but then we've never been close.
D spoke with my Mom and helped her understand the various gradations of rehab that might be available. She's got more experience than most with those sorts of issues.
- mark 11-03-2005 6:49 am [add a comment]
Hope you don't mind if I cybersquat a bit more on this topic, but perhaps some backstory could illuminate some of the invective.
As far back as I can remember, I feared the old man. His rage was epic, and was tinged with just enough violence to let me know not to fuck with this asshole. As I gradually became aware that his rage just wasn't right, I began to hate him. The fear subsided as I grew larger. About the time I was as tall as him, I realized that my younger brother and I might not be able to take him, but we could sure as hell fuck him up while trying. I continued to feign fear because it was just easier that way. The last time he spanked me, I got twenty lashes with the belt. I willed myself to be stoic. And he did not like that. Afterwards I stared him straight in the eye. I had one tear. This betrayal by my tear ducts royally pissed me off. But at dinner, that night or the next I said, "You didn't make me cry. Sure, I had a tear in my eye, but it was a physical reaction. (He smirked right about then.) Like getting some jalapeņo juice in my eye. That's tearing up, not crying. You'll never make me cry again, even when you die." (He quit smirking right about then.) I quickly turned the subject to something completely unrelated, and never mentioned it again. Sometime around the age of twenty, all pretense of fear was banished during the big annual New Year's Eve party at their house. Sometime I'll have to ask someone who was present what I said. For the longest time, I had no recollection of the event. I remember enough now to know that it was ugly, public and humiliating for them. We have never spoken of it. Since leaving Texas, the hatred softened to rage and then anger. I've worked to rid myself of that anger. But what's left behind is nothing. He's just the asshole who lives with my mother.
Ok, then.
- mark 11-03-2005 10:12 am [add a comment]
that was the "greatest generation." ww2 guys, depression baby hardassses. "great santinis." i noticed that our generation didnt bring up our kids that way. its called breaking the cycle of madness. allot of us didnt have kids at all on purpose because of them. something had to be done. a generation gap.
- bill 11-03-2005 3:52 pm [add a comment]
Mine are post-Santini, Eisenhower or "silent generation" but still identified more with WW2, depression-era thinking and are pretty much defined in their politics by trusting the system and above all--even to the extent of embracing the gulag madness and rampant graft of the Cheney administration--hating hippies.
- tom moody 11-03-2005 5:01 pm [add a comment]
ive seen a few of those types soften with time. i got a korea era x-marine uncle who voted against bush 2004. pro carey only by default. calling them selves independents is less painful than the alternatives (D).
- bill 11-03-2005 5:54 pm [add a comment]
My folks are depression-era children and depression-era thinkers, especially Dad. FDR loving new-dealists - Bush and Cheney haters.
- steve 11-18-2005 6:46 pm [add a comment]
right. but was he in the military service?
- bill 11-18-2005 6:51 pm [add a comment]
Dad did a stint in the army in the early 60's. Born in 1934 so not of the generation you're talking about, my bad.
- steve 12-15-2005 6:41 am [add a comment]