Out Of The Shower

 I just got out of the shower at Bobby's and used one of his towels. I hadn't gone as far as grabbing all my toiletries when forced, at gunpoint, out of Sacred Heart.

I visit the Lily Pad, where red lines painted on the sidewalk confirm my suspicion that there is indeed an electrical current that runs to and from Lilly's house. It is always easier to tune the guitar if I step away from the black box, which is otherwise right by my right elbow. The problem by the box is that even out of tune notes sound kind of in tune in a weird way.

 

Back To Bobby's

I did bag up the acoustic guitar and harmonica, laptop, phone, and I brought my keys to ring for Harold, since he is outside the building, patrolling the parking lot for vermin, under the watchful eyes of security, who have replaced the National Guardsmen, who were there mostly for the forcing out at gunpoint phase of the operation.

3 Weeks!

They are saying "three weeks," before they open up Sacred Heart Apartments. My theory: They are going to attribute every problem with the building to being the "impact" of hurricane Ida. Impact is a word that has gone viral around here...it helps, when filling out an application for FEMA relief. Also, I have heard that if you use the word "critical" in some context that I forget right now, your FEMA relief check will be rubber stamped automatically. A real life magic word!

But, every pipe that needs mending, having been overloaded when residents had to fill their bathtubs with cold water, to sleep in, in order to survive, and the roof! The bane of their existence, that roof. A constant battle between it, and an all Latino crew not afraid to go up and brave the steep slope of the thing seems to wage.

The windows on apartment A one-oh-eight, where not broken by a man who threw a brick in order to communicate his discontent with the lady who lives there, and who had most likely stolen crack from him, not at all. Hurricane Ida done come through an' blowed them windows out!

A lot of windows would have been blown out, a lot of piping in need of replacement, and the mold spawned by the oppressive humidity that was let into the place, again by residents, who had resorted to propping all the doors open, including the ones separating halls from stairwells, so that the cooler outside air at night might find its way to their beds.

This also drove residents to sleep outdoors, and all around the lobby area, which became kind of a clearing house for food that had been donated, to include huge aluminum trays laden with what we used to call "American chop suey," but with green beans having been introduced into the recipe, effectively southern-izing it, but not to the degree that okra would, and plenty of fresh bread, in the form of rolls.

So, I believe they are going to be working on Sacred Heart -or condemning it- for the next 3 weeks, according to Carlos, who is one of five residents on my floor and so, whom I speak to, who I encountered on my way to successfully feed Harold this morning.

Carlos had been very vocal in his defiance of the National Guardsmen who invaded that floor a little after 4 p.m. a couple days ago. "I ain't goin' nowhere; I pay rent -expletive- ain't nobody making me leave MY place -expletive-expletive!"

I suppose they eventually coaxed Carlos out of the building after I had already ridden off for Bobby's, because there he was, walking down Canal Street and informing me of the "three weeks" that he had heard.

I just hope they notice how the hurricane kind of messed up my heating and air unit, and that at the height of the storm, just as the "eye wall" was passing by, my microwave oven started acting funny, and probably needs to be replaced..  

Wherever I went, palm leaves had been laid in my path...

The security lady, a slightly overweight woman of color of about thirty years old, and having gotten the plumb assignment of just sitting in her car in a parking lot which has 12 foot high, spiked gates around it; spikes placed there by the Roman Catholic church -the original owners- so they were designed to protect the house of God, and making sure nobody tries to go into the building, rolled down the window at I was standing at the gate, rattling my keys for Harold.

"Can I help you?!"

She sounded very serious. I think she thought that I was rattling my set of keys in order to get her attention; and deeming that a very condescending gesture; or thinking that it meant I wanted to get into the building, as in "come unlock this place" and so she was all business.

I told her that I was ringing for my cat. She shrugged her shoulders -she had gotten out of her car, at least, to deal with the key ringer guy- as if to say that she hadn't seen any cat. I told her that Harold was "orange" to perhaps jog her memory. She looked at me like she didn't believe there even was any cat and that I was up to something.

After failing to produce Harold at that gate, I rode around to the north side gate and rang again. There was another heavyset middle aged woman of color in the uniform of the security outfit that Sacred Heart hires in another car sitting nearby that gate, who similarly rolled her window down, who I gave the same explanation to, and who also looked at me as if I just might be the guy who lives at Sacred Heart through mental disability benefits, who walks around ringing his keys for "my cat," that nobody has ever seen.

But, then, I was redeemed when Harold emerged, perhaps from under the church building and became visible to both of those non believers, who suddenly saw the crazy key rattling man in a different light. As Harold half trotted towards me, while emitting the "fairly hungry" tone of meow; I could barely constrain myself from shouting, loud enough so the one at the other end of the parking lot would hear: "I TOLD YOU I had a f$#@ CAT!!"

I could have grabbed Harold by the scruff of the neck and elevated him over the spikes of the gate, I thought. But then, I would have to switch the hand on the scruff of his neck, and pass him to myself, all while contending with the spikes, and I didn't want to attempt it. I'll jut plan upon making regular visits there with food. 

Plus, there would be the hell-ride on the bike, while he dug, in varying degrees into my flesh, perhaps thinking about making a jump for it, all the way to Bobby's.

One ambulance that decided to put its siren on just then, as they were passing Harold and I on the bike, might have sent me to the hospital with deep scratches. I would have had to resort to the scruff of the neck, riding the bike with one hand and suspending him in that limp attitude with the other.

He may have been emitting the incredibly loud meow of fear, all the way up the incredibly resonant stairwell, which I would have to carry him up 4 flights of, I thought, and this in the building that Bobby just moved into which probably has a clause in its lease concerning pets, and any required security deposit needing to be remunerated along those lines.

There is a reason that "letting the cat out of the bag" came to mean what it does.