Hide from Wind, Run from Water
By Kevin Filan © 2006



Printer-friendly version

"No, that is not Saigon Drive." Charley says as he swerves around a fallen magnolia branch. "We passed Saigon Drive going in the opposite direction."

The limbless torso in the passenger seat beside him sneers. "Damiens read the sign. Eet say 'Saigon Drive.'"

The salt-and-oil scented gale throws magnolia leaves against the windshield. From the land of the living police sirens struggle to be heard against the oncoming storm.

"I'm tellin' ya, Stubby, it's some other Chink name what you misread is all. That ain't Saigon Drive"

"Then that church ees not Mary Queen of Vietnam."

Charley brings the 1963 Cadillac hearse to a sudden stop. Crustyfred the Gutterpunk stirs briefly, then falls back to sleep. Atop the rain-sodden garbage on the corner two seagulls fight for scraps.

"Damiens say we should go left. But nobody leestens to Damiens."

"If we went left we would have wound up back in the damn bayou." Charley pulls into the church parking lot. "There ain't nothing in this state but swamp and one-way roads. It's worse than goddamn New Jersey. Maybe some of the natives here can give me directions."

Crustyfred snorts loudly in his sleep.

"Wake up, you bum! You don't even breathe anymore, what the hell you snoring for?"

"Huh?? Whuzzat?" Crustyfred jumps up. "We there yet?"

"No, we are not there yet. Why don't you make yourself useful and hand me the map?"

Crustyfred looks through the stack of Afterlife Orientation Guides. "Whoa! I think we left the map at the diner in Birmingham."

"Great. I didn't just get agida, I got lost too." Charley notices the ghostly priest drifting through the rectory door. "Hey, maybe Father Chang will be able to help us out. Somebody roll down the window."

"Oh-ho-ho. You are funny man."

"Not you, Stubby!" He turns to Crustyfred. "Come on, you don't wanna leave him standing there in the rain, do you?"

"You don't have to be a fascist," Crustyfred mutters as he rolls down the passenger side window. Charley leans over to speak with the priest.

"Excuse, Padre-San. We lost. Need to get to New Orleans chop-chop. Big storm coming. You comprende-san, Honorable Ancestor?"

The priest rolls his eyes.

"You need to take a left onto Alcee Fortier Boulevard, then make a right on Chef Menteur. When you get to the I-10 Ramp take the Baton Rouge exit, then merge onto I-10 until you come to the St. Bernard exit. From there you can't miss Esplanade Boulevard: that will take you right into the city."

"Thanks. Say, you speak real good English for a Chinaman. Almost good as me, and I'm a nativist speaker."

"Yes, in every sense of the word." The priest clutches his umbrella against the wind. "By any chance are you working with the sailors and dockworkers division?"

"Father, I got no idea where they're sending us. They don't never tell us nothing before we get there."

"I see." The priest frowns. "Several members of my congregation have relatives staying out on their shrimp boats. I wanted to find who was in charge of their well-being."
"Out on their boats!? What the hell's wrong with 'em!?? Don't they know there's a hurricane on the way?"

"They're well aware of that, yes." The priest's voice is icy now. "Those boats are the only thing they have and they don't want to abandon them."

"Aw, geez, I didn't even think of that." Charley reddens. "Look, Father, I'll put in a word with my buddies. I'm sure I'll be able to talk to someone what knows somethin'."

"If you see anyone in a position to help, please give them my information." The priest pulls a crisp white business card from his coat pocket. "Tell them to ask for Fr. Francis Trieu."

"Sure thing, Fr. Trieu. Always glad to help a man of the cloth."

"Thank you for your support." He examines the hearse's New York license plates. "Did you do Intake Relief at Ground Zero?"

Charley flinches. "Yeah. We was there."

Fr. Trieu grimaces. "I saw the Towers fall on television. Terrible."

"It was fucking awesome!" Crustyfred brightens. "Like the time El Duce pissed on me at the Mentors show! OWWWW!!!!" Crustyfred rubs the needle which dangles from his trackmarked arm and looks accusingly at Charley. "You slapped my needle!"

"That's so you'll show some respect, you Bolshevik bastard." Charley turns back to the priest. "Sorry about that, Father. Anyway, we got to scoot. We got a hurricane to outrun."

"I understand. I suppose after September 11 this will be a vacation."

"Yeah." Charley looks away. "The Big Easy 's always a vacation, ain't it? Anyway, it's been good talking to you, Father. If I see anybody working the harbor I'll be in touch "

"Thank you, and God bless you."

"My arm hurts…" Crustyfred whines as he rubs his abscess. Damiens sneers.

"Ohh… hees arm hurts. The poor baby! It breengs tear to Damiens' eye. Damiens weeshes he could wipe eet."


Crustyfred pouts, exposing the mouldering safety pin in his lower lip. "This trip sucks. We should have taken the plane."

"Shut up already with that," Charley says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as they turn on Chef Menteur . "I already told you I ain't getting on no goddamn plane."

***

"I should have gone to Mississippi," St. Gerard Majella says as he stands between a blinking LIVE SEX ADULTS ONLY sign and a Daquiris-to-Go booth. The awning over his head rattles threateningly in the gale: an empty six-pack container floats past his feet as it spins toward the drain. "They need people in Mississippi."

"Kid, they need plenty of people right here. So why don't you relax?" Charley sips his drink. "There may be a hurricane coming, but till it shows up they got Hurricanes right here. And they got all kinds of old churches too. So if you don't feel like tossing a few back at a titty bar maybe you can go pray a couple rosaries. That always cheers you up."

"Thank you, Charley," St. Gerard says. "But I want to get ready for the Intake. And Fr. Trieu really wants to speak with me. He's left three messages on my cell phone."

"When you talk to him, tell him I said 'hi," Charley says. "Look, Katrina ain't showing up till tomorrow. Might as well enjoy the city while we can." Charley gulps down his drink. "What's it they say? Practice the power of positive drinking."

Gerard sighs. "A lot of other people are saying the same thing."

"Ain't all of us spend our time thinking about dying, Jerry. I know that's tough for you to understand, being as how you're a saint and all. But you might as well go out enjoying life while you're living." The ghost at the Daquiris-to-Go booth reaches through the iron latticework and hands Charley another Hurricane. "If ya gotta go, might as well go out with a smile."

"But you're not smiling, Charley."

Charley drains half his drink in a swallow. "A couple more of these and I'll be smiling just fine."

"Guy! El Duce is playing his last fucking New Orleans concert EVER!!!"

Crustyfred runs down the rain-slick street, his battered red Radio Flyer wagon bouncing behind him. As he hits a pothole Damiens falls from his perch between a soggy box of powdered donuts and a quart of Popov Vodka.

"Watch your mouth, Kid. We got a saint around here."

"No, really!" Crustyfred shows Charley and St. Gerard a rain-soaked flyer which proclaims EL DUCE PLAYS HIS LAST FUCKING NEW ORLEANS CONCERT EVER!!

"Bbbyouuu bbfuubbbck" Damiens burbles from a puddle.

"I didn't even know El Duce was over here! This is great." He pauses. "Can I borrow twenty bucks for a ticket?"

St. Gerard shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I took a vow of poverty."

"Don't even look at me," Charley says as he finishes his Hurricane. "My money is all going to a worthy cause. Getting me drunk."

"Bbbyouuu bbfuubbbck!!!" Damiens burbles, more loudly this time.

Crustyfred frowns. "I can't believe they've got a cover charge. If I knew El Duce was going to be here I wouldn't have spent all my money on drugs." He pauses. "Well, I probably would have. But he should think of the youth."

"BBBYOUUU BBFUUBBBCK!!!!"

A ghostly chariot pulls up beside Damiens. A spectral Creole woman in a long powdered wig looks out the window.

"The poor little man. He has no arms and no legs. And he is lying face down in the water."

Damiens looks up. "Ohh… madamoiselle ees so observant!"

"We must give him alms," she says as she throws a silver doubloon into the puddle.

"Whoa… I just had an idea."

"Damiens also has idea. He has idea you are stupeed fuck."

"No, you don't understand." Crustyfred puts Damiens back in his wagon. "Everybody is good at something. Charley's good at driving, and Jerry's good at praying and shit, and you're good at having no arms and no legs. And I'm the best spanger in the world."

"Damiens theenks 'spanger' ees another way to say eediot."

"No, guy, 'spanger' is another way to say 'spare-changer.' And New Orleans is Spanger's Paradise." He puts the silver coin beside Damiens. "With you here we got it made. For hardcore spanging a cripple is almost as good as a pregnant chick!"

"Damiens hears 'we' and thinks you have mouse een pocket."

"You don't understand. This is for maximum rock and roll." Crustyfred reaches into the tattered garbage bag which holds his belongings and pulls out his lucky Starbucks cup, then drags the wagon to the corner. "Spare a little change for the disabled?"

***

"This folder contains a complete list of incoming," Patrick the Deceased System Administrator explains as Charley examines his new Blackberry. "As you check them in, you can send an e-mail to headquarters so we can mark them up. The Intake folder updates wirelessly. Suresh wrote that program."

"It was quite simple, really," says the Indian infant from his stroller. "I knew that one day Java would be useful for something."

Charley tries to focus on the Blackberry as lightning flashes outside. "We got a copy of this list too, right?"

Patrick's faded Babylon 5 T-shirt ripples as he sighs. "Yes, you have a hard copy. But we're trying to encourage people to use the wireless network. It will save us a lot of processing time. Anything we don't do electronically now has to be input by hand later."

Suresh's Blackberry beeps. "Jesus says he is stuck at the O'Hare Airport. He hopes to be here on the next available flight but sends his regards in the meantime."

Patrick sighs again. "I hope he gets here soon. We're going to need a miracle to keep this network up and running."

Charley's Blackberry beeps. He fumbles with the keys.

"How the hell you operate this thing again?"

The Indian infant reaches out. "You push this button." A pause. "Jesus suggests moderating your consumption of alcohol until after the hurricane. He reminds you that hangovers and mass death make for a very bad day."

"I ain't gonna have nothin' what a little hair of the dog won't cure. And oh yeah, I almost forgot…"

The Blackberry beeps again. Suresh reads it. "Jesus says it is fine, he has already spoken with Fr. Trieu."

"Great." Charley fumes as he puts his Blackberry in his jacket pocket. "Glad everyone else has things under control here."

"Are you all right, Charley?" Patrick asks. "You seem really stressed out."

"I ain't stressed. I seen shit like this before, remember?" Charley pauses. "Oh, Jeez, I'm sorry. I know you two was there too."

"We weren't on the ground." Patrick smiles. "Well, we were, but we weren't working on the ground."

"I am glad you find this amusing," Suresh snorts.

"If you can't laugh at yourself, what can you laugh at?" Patrick asks.

"Yes, it is very bloody funny. First I get a job in the World Trade Center. Then I purchase a rebirth on the day of a tsunami. Very funny indeed."

Patrick sighs yet again. "I'm sure they'll get that all straightened out soon."

"Yes, that is what they keep bloody telling me."

Charley sniffs the air. "Hey, did a sewer line just break?"

"I am sorry," Suresh says. "I have not yet mastered bowel control on this model."

***

The lighter's flame exposes Dave's face for a second, then there is only the shadowy hood of his rainslicker and the glowing red end of the joint in his mouth. Above them the hanging ferns on the wrought-iron veranda swing like pendulums in the wind.

"How the hell you get cut off when you're drinkin' in New Orleans?" Charley coughs, then takes another drag and returns the spliff to Dave the Dead Vegan Social Worker. "They ain't kiddin' this city's goin' straight down the toilet."

Dave shakes his head and takes the joint. "Trust me, Charley, you're not the first drunk to get cut off on Bourbon Street. You're not even the first drunk to get cut off tonight."

The wind picks up; the ferns bang a 4/4 rhythm against the plywood-covered windows.

"I ain't goddamn drunk," Charley snarls. "I tried tellin' the stupid bitch that but she wouldn't listen."

"There's four stages of drunk, Charley. Happy, aggressive, sad and comatose."

"Yeah, and I ain't even got to the first one yet."

Dave passes back the joint. "Do you want to talk about what's bothering you?"

"Sure. I'm bothered that I can't get another Hurricane at Daquiris-a-Go-Go. And there ain't another goddamn bar open for six blocks in either direction." Charley snorts. "What the hell they savin' their booze for anyways? Ain't like they're gonna be needin' it tomorrow."

"This is about 9/11, isn't it, Charley?"

"Don't go startin' that social worker shit on me!" Charley takes the joint. "This ain't got nothin' to do with no 9/11. That was almost four goddamn years ago. I had plenty of time to get over that."

One of the potted ferns falls from the veranda above and crashes into the street. Charley's battered porkpie hat falls from his head as he flinches. He grabs it from the puddle and shoves it over the bullet hole in his forehead.

"What the hell was they thinkin' leavin' those hangin' there like that? Somebody's liable to get killed."

"A lot of somebodys are liable to get killed, Charley." Dave's smile is sad as lightning exposes his face again. "That's why we're here, remember?"

"Of course I remember. Look, I know you mean well. But save the psychoanimalizin' for them folks what are gonna cross over tomorrow, huh? They need it more 'n I do."

"Sure, Charley." Dave snubs out the joint, then passes it to Charley. "Why don't you hold onto this? And if you feel like you need to talk to somebody you know what to do."

***

Lightning casts the chapel into spiky baroque relief, then darkness comes again. St. Roch's plaster dog eyes Charley warily as he steps over an abandoned crutch. St. Gerard Majella dozes silently before the statue, oblivious to the water swirling about his feet.

"Jerry? You OK, Jerry?"

"Huh!" St. Gerard starts. "I'm sorry, Charley. I didn't hear you come in."

"Nah, I'm sorry. I oughtn't have scared ya like that." Charley crosses himself and tips his hat as he walks toward the crucifix. "Jesus sent an e-mail and said I oughta make sure you was doin' OK. He said he sent you an e-mail but you didn't get back to him."

"I haven't checked my Blackberry for a while." Jerry looks down at the floor. "This morning I had 2,000 requests to stop the hurricane. I don't know how many I have now."

"Jeez, that's rough. You OK, Kid?"

Charley puts his hand against the wall to steady himself. A palmetto bug runs into the shadows.

"I'm fine. I just wanted to come here one more time before it was underwater." Gerard looks up at the St. Roch statue, his eyes heavy. "This was always my favorite place in New Orleans."

"I'm glad you're gettin' a little relaxation in. Jesus said I should tell you to take it easy." Charley leans against the wall. Another lightning bolt strikes close by. The palmetto bugs scatter. "Some guy downtown was wearin' a T-shirt with your picture on it. He was talkin' to some real pretty little girl. Said after Katrina missed he was gonna get another tattoo to commiserate the occasion." Charley pauses. "I took a look at the list. They was both on it."

"I'm sorry." Gerard nods as if he might fall asleep, then looks up again. "I'm sure this is very hard for everyone."

A knee brace floats past Charley. "How do ya do it, Kid?"

"Do what, Charley?"

"I mean, don't you ever get tired of seein' stuff like this?"

"Of course. We all get tired once in a while."

"Watchin' all these people goin' about their business not knowin' that real soon they ain't gonna have no business no more. Like in the Towers." Charley's voice cracks. "I can't get all them people outta my mind. And I don't know if I can handle dealin' with a whole bunch more."

Lightning flashes again; thunder cracks close by. The smell of ozone joins the smell of mud and decay. Charley bites his lower lip.

"You with me, Jerry? Jerry?"

St. Gerard snores quietly, his chin resting on his clasped hands. Outside a tree creaks, then falls as the wind picks up. Charley jumps at the noise.

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

The old Black man steps over the floating artificial leg. The rope around his neck trails in the now ankle-deep water. "You can see the boy needs his rest? Why you disturbin' him."

Charley turns. "Yeah, you're probably right. There's nothing he can do about this one. Might as well let him sleep."

The old man grins, his smile wide as the rope burn around his neck. "We got a big mess comin'. They even brought the Yankees in to take care of things."

"Yeah, it's gonna be a big mess." Charley lights two cigarettes, then hands the old Black man one. "Charley DelCruccio. Pleasure to meet you. You know anyplace a man can get a drink around here?"

"Louis Prima playin' Preservation Hall tonight. Bound to be someone sellin' booze there."

"You're shittin' me! Louis Prima is playing tonight?"

"Ain't that what I just said?"

"Jerry," Charley rustles his shoulder. "Come on, Jerry. We got a proud son of Italy playin' here."

St. Gerard stirs, then falls back to sleep.

"Leave the boy be. It's gonna be a while fore he gets any rest again."

"You think he's gonna be all right here?"

Pops grins, exposing three gold teeth. "What they gonna do? Kill him?"

***

"And please-a" Louis Prima leers, "don't a-squeezea the banana!"

The crowd cheers wildly. Pops takes a long swig from the bottle of bourbon, then hands it to Charley. Pee Wee Russell's clarinet skitters high and sharp over the rainfall against the roof.

"Ain't nothin' like a New Orleans funeral," Pops says, grinning sadly as he fingers his rope burn. "Pity I didn't never get one."

"I know how you feel," Charley says as he lights up Dave's joint. "I got uncerruptitiously dumped in the goddamn Meadowland. Every football game I wish they tossed me in the East River instead "

"Hell, that just mean you used to the swamp. That gonna come in handy real soon."

"Charley!"

Crustyfred makes his way through the crowd, his Radio Flyer wagon bouncing behind him. Damiens curses loudly with each bump.

"You should have seen it. El Duce was fucking awesome!!! He gobbed on me. Twice!!"

"Damiens speets on you too. Ptuii! Ptuii! You fuck."

Pops eyes Crustyfred's Mohawk. "What the hell happened to you hair?"
"I dyed it green."

"I know you dyed it green. What the hell you do that for?"
"I was protesting capitalism."

Pops shakes his head. "Damn."

"You got those Afterlife Orientation packets ready?" Charley hands the bourbon back to Pops. "We're gonna need all we got and more tomorrow."

"Not to fear, boss guy. Me and Damiens are tan, rested and ready." Crustyfred pauses. "Well, we're not really tan. And we didn't get much rest. But we're ready."

"Damiens gets no rest. First he begs een street, then he leestens to noise. And he does not even have feengers to put een hees ears."

"Sorry you didn't like the music. But at least you got to let out some aggro in the mosh pit. Owww!!" Crustyfred looks down at the limbless torso. "You headbutted my needle."

"Ohhh… Damiens ees so sorry he headbutt your needle. He weeshes he could slap eet."

Charley shakes his head as Crustyfred and Damiens depart. "I don't get kids nowadays. All this great music for free, and they'd rather pay to listen to noise."

Pops grins. "I bet you Daddy said the same thing 'bout you."

All right, people!" Louis Prima calls out to the milling dead. "Let's get ready to welcome the new folks New Orleans style. I want you all to welcome a dear friend of mine. Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Louis Armstrong."

Charley's jaw drops. "Holy… Satchmo!"

"Oh when the saints," Louis Armstrong croons, "go marching in."

The wind picks up. A branch falls on the roof. Charley jumps with the crash and barely manages to suppress a scream.

"I ain't never gonna get over this shit," he mutters.

Pops shrugs. "I got hung on account of some crackers thought I stole a horse I done bought fair and square. My son die in the penitentiary. My grandson spent his whole life workin' down on the docks." He passes the joint back to Charley. "This year my great-granddaughter graduate from medical school."

"Oh when the saints deebeedebopadeebopadabopadobap" says Louis Prima.

Pops leans back against the waterstained plaster wall. "Everything get better if'n you just wait long enough."

Pops passes the bourbon back to Charley as Louis Armstrong grins and picks up his trumpet. The drummer breaks into a solo. The snares rattle like gunfire: Oscar Bradley's bass drum plays counterpoint to the surf against the levees.