Hurricane Song

by Paul Volponi

  “Maybe I’m not used to being looked after by you,” I answered him, pushing my feet into the ground till the water squeezed from my shoes. “But I guess you got a son to stress over now, and I got a Pop.”

  And we kept on going.

  Plenty of buildings had been blown to bits—sometimes just one or two spread out on a block, like Katrina had took her pick. The ones made from brick were still mostly in one piece, and I pictured those three little pigs from the kid’s story with their backs pressed up against the door to keep out the wind. Only this was no fairy tale you could close a book on and walk away from. And there wasn’t any big bad wolf you could kill. It was something nobody could touch, not even an army of soldiers with machine guns.

  “Look what that bitch did here,” Pop said, pointing to a house that got picked up and shoved right through the one next door.

  There was even an upside-down car, like a turtle stuck on its back, sticking out from under that whole mess. And both those houses were made out of wood, the same as Pharaohs.

  We walked past that row of stores where the gunshots had come from. Only we were moving slow and cautious, like we were coming up on a hornets’ nest. People were running in and out of the different stores with their arms full of stolen stuff. Katrina had cracked some of those stores wide open for them. But to get into the others, people had pulled down the sheets of plywood covering the windows and doors and smashed through the glass.

  There were ’fros, fades, dreadlocks, cornrows, twists, and braids knocking each other senseless, trying to grab for all they could.

  Lots of them were carrying out milk, bread, and other things to feed their family.

  “Pop, if somebody drops a box of cookies on the floor, I might have to fight them for it,” I said.

  “I hear ya, Miles. My insides are starved for something, too,” said Pop. “But I can’t stomach what some of these bandits are making off with. Except for the food, it ain’t nothin’ but stealing.”

  Some people had their arms wrapped around TVs, or were rolling out shopping carts filled with radios, rugs, and cartons of car wax.

  “It’s everybody’s store now!” crowed a guy, carrying away a whole metal shelf stacked with CDs and videos.

  There was even a woman in the street trying on clothes she’d robbed, and tossing anything that didn’t fit.

  A bunch of cops were standing way off to the side, watching everything. There weren’t enough handcuffs in a whole police station to arrest all those people, so they didn’t make a move for anybody. But you could see how the cops were scared, too, and they never took their hands off the guns in their holsters.

  Pop and me passed too close by an iron gate in front of somebody’s house, and out of nowhere a man and his rottweiler charged the bars from the other side. The man swung a big claw hammer, and the dog was out of its mind barking.

  We were so shook that we nearly jumped out of our skin.

  “Nigger thieves—keep off my property!” the man seethed from behind the locked gate, with his black dog tearing his teeth through the air.

  The man was white, and as old as Pop. But you could see by his twisted face that he’d snapped.

  “Damn fool!” Pop exploded. “I’ll shove that fuckin’ hammer up your ass, you—”

  That’s when I grabbed Pop, pulling him away from the gate.

  “Don’t waste it on him, Pop. He’s touched. Katrina musta pushed him over the edge,” I said, with the most sickening tune I’d ever heard rattling through those iron bars as the man pounded them with the hammer— piiing-piiing-piiing-piiing.

  After that, Pop needed to sit and settle himself, so he squatted on a steel rail outside a store. The sweat was pouring from his forehead, and I held his horn while he pulled his soaked shirt up over his face and then wrung it out.

  The sun had already started sinking, but it was still blazing hot. I looked down for my watch and saw that it was gone. There was just the imprint of its face and the band left across my wrist. That’s when a teenager broke out of the store, carrying away as much as he could. He was wearing a Saints football jersey and my eyes landed dead square on his.

  "Yo, who you lookin’ at?” he snarled, stopping in front of me. “Don’t be eyeing my shit when all your sorry ass could snatch was some old trumpet.”"

  I could hear Pop saying something to that kid, but I couldn’t focus on what it was. There were a million thoughts streaking through my mind, and I wasn’t sure which one would win out. Part of me wanted to lower my shoulder and knock that kid fucking flat. But another part wanted to break down and cry in front of him. Then one foot moved and the other followed, as I stepped to the side and out of his way.

  “Yeah! Don’t say shit to me,” he howled, walking the path where I was just standing.

  That’s when we saw a crew of four Rasta-looking guys walking straight towards us, and Pop took the trumpet back from me. They were all wearing skullcaps with Jamaican colors—green, yellow, and black. And at first, I thought maybe they were with that loudmouth kid.

  “There must be a reason you’re out in these streets,” one of them said. “’Cause I know you ain’t here to play a concert.”

  Neither Pop nor me answered, and I fixed a hard look on my face to show we weren’t going to roll over easy.

  “Relax, young brother,” he said. “This your father? You need food or somethin’ to drink?”

  They opened a bag full of bologna and bread they must have boosted from a store. Then they gave Pop and me each a sandwich and a bottle of beer.

  “We’re here to make sure nobody goes hungry and— if we can—nobody gets hurt,” another one said. “Even if we gotta play like Robin Hood to make it happen.”

  People around us were calling them “Soul Patrol,” and they even had formula and juice boxes to give mothers for their kids.

  Pop sucked down that beer and told them how we were hell-bent for Pharaohs.

  “You better make it before dark,” said one of the Soul Patrol. “There might not be much love on the streets tonight.”

  A car came rolling by slow with its trunk popped open, and a man riding outside on the bumper. That guy jumped off before the car stopped, running up to some woman who was wheeling off a brand-new TV set in a shopping cart.

  “You got to give that over, sister—law of the jungle, ” the guy snapped, shoving her down as she tried to fight him for it.

  The Soul Patrol went running over to help her, and Pop and me followed behind out of shame. They didn’t do a thing to stop that man from putting the TV in the trunk. But they made a human wall in front of that woman, so he couldn’t touch her again. Only she didn’t give a damn about being shoved to the ground, and just wanted that TV back.

  “If I had a gun I’d fuckin’ kill you!” she screamed, spitting at the car.

  Then she cursed out the Soul Patrol for getting in her way and letting that guy make off with her stolen TV.

  12

  Oh, when the trumpet sounds its call

  Yes, when the trumpet sounds its call

  Lord, how I want to be in that number

  When the trumpet sounds its call

  Tuesday August 30, 6:18 P.M.

  We kept moving, and on the next block there was a drugstore with a red spray-painted sign on its side that read, LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT AND KILLED!!!

  Two black dudes with shotguns stood watch on the roof. They had a homemade metal fort up there, too, in case somebody started shooting back. I guess they were the owners and didn’t have a problem killing anybody who wanted to rip them off.

  “Least they give fair warning ’fore they put a bullet in a brother,” Pop said, sarcastic-like. “Most times you don’t even get that.”

  People were emptying out other stores all around it, but nobody went anywhere close to that one.

  We came up on a club where Pop had played plenty of times. It had big wooden shutters for doors, and the windows were boarded up with plywood. It didn’t look like it wa
s built any stronger than Pharaohs, and there wasn’t a scratch on it. Other buildings on that same block had been smacked hard by the hurricane, but not that one. And I kept thinking how maybe somebody in heaven was watching down over it.

  Pop walked up to it and stretched his fingers across the front door. Then he put his cheek to the outside wall, like it had a pulse he could feel.

  “That’s one still standing,” he said. “But I know it can’t all be good news.”

  Looters were everywhere, and any cops around just watched. Then a guy who was either drunk or insane went over to a group of cops by their car. He held his arms out to the side with his hands opened wide to show that he didn’t have any weapon.

  "You scared now’cause these is the people’s streets!” he hollered at them. “We the law now! Not you! Go hide! Hide from your crimes before the Mighty People judges you!”

  The cops stayed cool for a while, letting him run his mouth. But then the guy put a big grin on his face and cursed their mothers for having them. That’s when they pounced on him, pinning that guy to the ground.

  Suddenly, shots started raining down from somewhere— Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Everybody ran for cover, including the cops, who left that guy sitting in the street with his hands cuffed behind him.

  “Sniper! Sniper on a roof!” a cop screamed.

  Pop and me hit the sidewalk, hiding behind the metal base of a streetlight that wasn’t wide enough to shield either one of us.

  I was scared shitless with those bullets buzzing around.

  The cops were dug in behind their squad car, taking most of the fire. Maybe that sniper was only interested in picking off police. But those bullets bounced off the concrete, ricocheting in every direction.

  The guy cuffed in the street stamped his feet and laughed out loud, like he was bulletproof and said, “Those is just mosquitoes to me!”

  Then he looked over at Pop and yelled, “Stand up and play that horn, man, and I’ll dance. You know these streets is made from music. Just close your eyes and play. You can find your way blind here if there’s music in you.”

  Another round of shots rained down—Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  I could feel Pop’s hand pushing on my back, and my face going flat against the ground. I raised my eyes up to see, and the guy in the street was staring straight at me.

  “Study your lessons, boy, before you get too grown to learn!” he cried.

  Then the guy stood up tall and took off down the block. A minute later, the shooting finally stopped. But the cops never chased after him, not even to get their handcuffs back.

  We got out of there quick, and Pop said, “That crack-pot should play in a marching band. His brass balls are so damn big they probably clang together when he walks.”

  If my nerves weren’t so numb from being shot at for the first time in my life, I probably would have laughed.

  The shadows were starting to run deep through the streets, and we passed by a couple of clubs that took up pages in Pop’s gig book. But this time the view wasn’t so sweet.

  Katrina had blown in the side of one place, and the roof had collapsed partway, too. We walked right up to where a wall once stood and looked inside. The wind had whipped around all the tables and chairs. Some of them got airlifted down the block, and others had smashed up against the stage and walls still standing, till they nearly turned to sawdust.

  A clock in the back was frozen at a few minutes after seven—the time the current must have got cut off Monday morning. I was thinking how it must be about that time now on the flip-side, with the sun sinking down. Then I looked at my wrist, and the outline of the watch Mom gave me had already faded from my skin.

  The second place was nothing but splinters. There was no clue left that a jazz club had stood there, and I wouldn’t have known either till Pop sobbed over that spot.

  “To see it now, you’d think somebody took up this space to sell firewood,” moaned Pop.

  “They’ll build it back up again, even better,” I said, as respectful as I could. “You’ll see.”

  “There were spirits in buildings like these, Miles. They collected here over years and years,” he explained. “I don’t know if you can put that back together.”

  And I could feel something in my bones and blowing in the air all around me.

  We were just a few blocks from Pharaohs when we hit a stretch of floodwater that rose ankle-high. There was a row of jazz joints coming up, and Pop held his breath to see them.

  He stopped cold, staring down the length of that strip.

  “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered into the air.

  Katrina had been almost kind to those clubs. Most of them were battered bad but still standing. I could see in Pop’s face how tight he was over coming up on home. It weighed heavy on me, too, but deep down I was worried more about what it would do to Pop on the inside if Pharaohs was gone.

  That’s when two men looting the last club on that strip stepped outside. The first guy had a small piano hoisted up on his back, and had to be strong as a bull to do it. Then the second one followed, lugging a suit of armor with a silver sword wedged between its two hands in front of him.

  I almost couldn’t believe my own eyes to see them splashing down the street with those things. But when Pop saw them, he blew a fuse.

  “That’s the house piano from Santa’s,” Pop said. “It’s been there close to seventy years. Some of the greatest cats ever laid their fingers ’cross those keys.”

  Pop went charging after that guy to stop him.

  “Hey, you can’t have that, man!” Pop yelled, jumping in front of him. “You put that piano back!”

  “Get the fuck outta my way, old man, ’fore I drop-kick your ass!” the guy exploded.

  But Pop wouldn’t back off, moving sideways every time the guy with the piano tried to step around him.

  “Yo, Clench, come slap this sucka for me!” the guy screamed furious to his friend.

  The dude holding the suit of armor dropped it and took a step towards Pop. I knew there wasn’t going to be anymore talking, so I hooked him hard under the neck, slamming him down—football style. Most bullies aren’t looking for a real fight. They just want to be on the right end of a beating. But that wasn’t going to happen. And I chased his ass halfway down the street, letting him disappear into the long shadows.

  The other guy had put the piano down, and him and Pop were already wrestling. I steamed back there, pulling him off Pop. Then the guy wrapped both hands around my throat and tried to choke the life out of me. He was so strong I couldn’t break his grip. He spun me down, pinning my shoulders to the street, and every time I wiggled free enough to catch a breath, I swallowed a mouthful of water.

  Pop was on top of him, trying his best to get me loose. He was the only thing that saved me from getting suffocated and drowned at the same time. Then the guy pushed Pop off with one arm and tried to split my skull against the concrete.

  I was desperate, fighting for my life and losing bad.

  That’s when I heard the first thud. Then the second.

  The guy’s grip loosened from my throat, and he slid off me into the floodwater. He was holding his head, screaming out in pain. He stood up slow and staggered away, with Pop waving his smashed-up horn at him, hollering, “Don’t you ever put your filthy paws on my son again!”

  I laid on my back, looking up at Pop.

  “Miles! Miles! You okay?” he asked, frantic.

  “Yeah—Pop,” I answered, between gulps of air. “I’m still—in one—whole piece.”

  Pop had wrenched his knee, and lowered himself down onto the curb, looking at his bent trumpet.

  “Is it all right?” I asked, concerned. “Can it get fixed? ”

  “There’s still some good notes in her, no matter what shape she’s in,” said Pop, running his fingers over the valves. “I just couldn’t lose you, Miles. Not for anything. ”

  I saw the cardboard case with the red velvet lining floating in pieces in
the street. Then I looked back at that horn in Pop’s hands and knew for sure that he loved me more than his music.

  I threw my arms around him, hugging him with all my might. There wasn’t any space between us, and for once, every part of me felt close to him. Then I went over to that piano and knew I had to get it back where it belonged.

  “I’m gonna get this done, Pop,” I said, never more certain of anything.

  I wasn’t strong enough to hoist it on my back, so I had to pick it up and carry it a few feet at a time. I was straining like anything, but I wouldn’t quit. It took me maybe twenty-five minutes to get it back inside that club, and I almost collapsed from exhaustion. But I felt a surge of energy rush through me near the end, and I finally did it, with Pop cheering me on.

  “This city owes you somethin’ for what you just done, Miles,” he said, hobbling behind me. “It won’t never forget, and I won’t, either.”

  “That makes two of us, Pop,” I said.

  The sunlight was starting to really fade now, and I could see the outline of the shining silver moon. I had Pop grab on to my shoulders from behind. Then I lifted him off the ground and carried him the way a fireman takes somebody from a burning building.

  We left that suit of armor lying facedown in the flood and started the last few blocks for home. I thought about that St. Christopher medal on the dashboard of my uncle’s car. How he carried baby Jesus across that river and felt like he had the weight of the world on him. Pop had told me that he was the saint who looked after travelers. And right then, I prayed he was watching over us, too.

  Neither one of us said a word as we turned the last corner.

  Then we saw it.

  Katrina had kicked the living hell out of Pharaohs, and our apartment had partly come crashing in on top.

  Pop climbed down off me. He limped over to the cracked archway, pushing in what was left of the front door. He stared into the darkness, like he was searching for a ghost. Then he pulled out Uncle Roy’s lighter to see by, and bent low enough to duck his head beneath a cracked beam.

  I followed that light inside past our busted-up living-room furniture that had fallen through the ceiling, and the smashed bar from Pharaohs, till Pop found an open corner where the walls were still standing straight.