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Hardhead Without A Hardhat
I was this morning on a ladder tweaking the front of the Dumaine house while the roofers stripped off the hard asbestos shingles, discarding into the side yard of Esnard Villa. It is debatable whether or not working on the outside of a house while it is being de-shingled is good practice. I would generally speaking, advise against it.
An errant broken shingle, and thus jagged of edge, and apparently with my name on it, came flying over the front side and onto the top of my head. Ouch, I said.
I wasn't even going to say anything but a two count after the impact and blood is poring down the front of my face. I did not first pause and consider, oh my dear God, I must look like Carrie at the prom. I yelled out, Hey, Heads Up, which is supposed to be what THEY say, but it was errant, I think, an accident, I think, so they had no real reason to say--Heads Up. This is another crew of congenial, hard-working Mexicans doing another roof in New Orleans. I mean most of them seem congenial. You know, the lead guy is actually sort of a surly son-of-a-bitch. Naw, it was probably an accident.
The guys all stopped and apologized when, leaning over the front of the house, they saw my blood dripping down the front of my head and onto the sidewalk. I went inside to look at myself in a mirror, see what I could see, which was nothing, except blood running down over my eyelids, so I grabbed a t-shirt and draped it over the top of my head, bid my worker friends adieu, and headed over here to Rocheblave.
The Sculptor has gotten so disgusted by lack of local worker response on her house, that she has enlisted friends from New York to do some work for her. They drove down last week
and have been working every day since. When I drove up I saw the man getting tools out of his truck. He waved, apparently not one to judge by appearances (so what if that scruffy looking, long-haired bean pole across the street is wearing an irregularly red polka-dotted t-shirt on top of his head.) I'm pretty sure I don't have any hydrogen peroxide inside the house so I called out and asked him if he did.
When I got closer he said, oh, what happened, with appropriate but not exaggerated concern. Pretty obviously, he has seen Carrie too, and I wasn't really it.
His wife, who has experience doctoring skinny impoverished people in Africa, came out with a chair and made me sit my skinny ass down and asked me was I feeling dizzy or faint, and I said, not really. She poured a river of hydrogen peroxide onto my cut and dabbed at it with cotton balls and then squirted some Neosporin onto my head and put a gauze pad on it and then wrapped it with that really cool stuff you use to wrap horse ankles. What? Oh, purple of course.
I took two Tylenols, got some sushi delivered by my friend Laureen, and I feel well enough to go back to work, except that I'm afraid to because the Mexicans will laugh at me with my purple Aunt Jemima head. And they laugh in Spanish, which I don't fully understand.
Play In Reflection
As the sun sets on a New Orleans Sunday, I scrape windows and watch the Dumaine Street Play in reflecton, winding down on the Dumaine job.
Al gut/pilfers his former residence. Cadillac Shelton holds court with a busty woman while Fermin holds down one of the stoops across the street. Mario gets a ride to the gas station. Two teenage girl newcomers ask me what the deal is? Renting? How many rooms? Another teenage girl bums a cigarette, Bebe parks and crosses to Phillis' house.
Joe lays low.
Two young dudes work on a Mustang.
Al has moved on to recycle a severely rusted flood bike, on the sidewalk, in front of Esnard Villa.
Cars rapping stop, Cadillac Shelton offers a few what up brahs.
I'll holler at ya.
Glynn long ago disappeared in a shiny SUV, leaving his Grand Prix parked in the street front and center on the job site.
Roofers coming tomorrow.
House looks better.
I'm winding way down.