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Georges Cometh 9.27.98
And I admonish, "HP, don't make love to the women in the drive-thru."
Her and her posse laugh at the amorous old man driving around with the white boy, but the last laugh is on them as I point out the drops on the windshield, "look HP, Georges is here."
By the time we travel the five or six blocks back to Dumaine with the chicken sandwich and the cheesburger, Georges is making his introductory statement by soaking the area with brief but intense rain. Nettie flags us down in the street and makes HP give up his cheesburger, and comes down on him for the money he owes her. And this appears to be an eye in the mini-hurricane so I gently suggest that we get out of the car and find our shelters while we can. Goodbye HP, thank you for a lovely evening.
This is Saturday night I'm talking about and the "flee while you can, you're all gonna die" media blitz has everyone of us (underneath various facades) truly spooked. At least in part because all day Saturday has been idyllic, with gentle breezes and blue blue sky, and a destructive hurricane simply cannot be nearby.
But the Sunday paper this morning says N.O. PREPARES FOR DIRECT HIT. And then a bunch of storm model graphics showing how Georges appears to be on track to become the one this area has long feared, coming up the mouth of the Mississippi, pushing water from the marshes and the river, forming a fifteen foot tidal wave that will wash over the levies, and, combined with 10-20 inches of rain, force all of us who stayed behind to crawl into our attics and wait, along with the rats and giant cockroaches, for the water to recede. But then in the bottom left corner is a small headline--There Is Still Time To Prepare. Okay now, thank god for that, we may be saved yet. The glimmer of hope fades somewhat when I realize this isn't one of those feel good articles but rather a "this is no joke" list of recommendations for those of us who stayed. Number 1. Make sure you have a hatchett in the attic in case you need to break through your roof to escape rising water. No joke, that is number one on the list.
I think that one did it for me. My desire to experience the mighty force of a hurricane has diminished. The floor of this attic at 2646 is about fifteen feet above street level. The idea of water in my attic is causing some of my circuits to sizzle.
Returning from Evelyn's on Orleans, she had just called, three times, to ask would I come over and nail a piece of wood across her bay window, and bring her son Fermin if I can find him. When I step outside, BeBe, from over at Mama D's calls across to me that Fermin is inside and,"wait, 'cause he comin' with you." As Fermin and I walk up the sidewalk along Broad we see Evelyn up near the corner of Orleans, lurking. When we come closer she disappears into the alleyway between two buildings, both of which are the property of the Zulu Social Aid And Pleasure Club. "That's where the wood is," Fermin informs me (lost the last part of this one. jml)
We Three Men 9.15.98
Where'yat dudes, dudettes, citizens, felons, all you ne'er do wells, and you do-gooders.
"Everybody got a drink?" I say pulling up to the curb today. Van and Monk are taking charge of the shade at 2646.
"We all right," they say. Monk has gin and juice, Van has a Busch.
I go across the street, get myself a 16 ounce Bud and some peanuts, and a Busch for Van. I pay Freddy for the beer and then I look down at the cooler in front of me and say, "Oh the Bluebell came in, I must have some of that." Evelyn walks in and looks at my pints of White Chocolate Almond, and Butter Pecan sitting on the counter next to my two beers and, perhaps feeling a little guilty for my ability to afford luxuries, I blurt out, "I'm buying two pints of Bluebell ice cream, Evelyn," and she responds, "I can see that." I say, "I gave up cigarettes and I'm going to have ice cream whenever I want it," and I pound the counter for emphasis. Evelyn just stares at me, and covers the ten I left on the counter. "I don't wanna hafta kill you Evelyn," I say in the direction of her hand on my money. Jack sees me with the ice cream and says, "They didn't have Tin Roof, Tin Roof." Jack, like Freddy, has a Palestinian accent and he's not sure he's saying "Tin Roof" properly but I assure him everything is just fine because I am standing over a cooler looking at 50--75 pints of ice cream, and everything really seems fine to me right this minute.
I see some new flavors. "I'll just try all these new flavors in here, Jack, and we'll see how it goes." Tin Roof, Butter Pecan, Caramel Fudge, White Chocolate Almond, Mint Chocolate Chip, Strawberry, and Rocky Road are the
flavors I have tried recently. "This is Van's change from earlier," Jack says. I accept the change.
"You doing good Van, I buy you a beer and Jack gives me this money for you."
We three men sit and luxuriate in our grown up maleness, drinking beer and gin and talkin' sin, while children approach but do not tresspass on our company.