Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 07 - Tubby Meets Katrina

by Tony Dunbar

  They got down with that.

  They set up cots for Christine and Hope off in the nacho cheese aisle, and there were plenty of blankets fresh out of the package, still smelling of the Chinese factory perfume. Christine crawled under the covers and was out like a light.

  Hope lay still, looking at the ceiling, her mind full of chaotic visions of the past few days. She wondered what had become of her house on Banks Street and all the little things she had collected in life. Her father’s pipe. Her mother’s wedding dress. Her refrigerator magnets. She wondered if her son, a writer of sorts who lived in the northern California redwood-and-wine country, even knew about the hurricane. She wondered how her students in the Advanced English class at Delgado College, whom she had taught for just one week before the storm hit, had made out. She wondered, she wondered… She heard some rustling about an aisle or two over and feared it might be rats. Since she couldn’t sleep anyway, she finally mustered her nerve and got out of her cot to investigate.

  She caught Gastro in the act of rifling through some cardboard containers.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, and he jumped about a foot.

  “I’m, uh, just getting some writing stuff,” he said, jamming things into his pockets.

  Hope got closer and took a better look. It seemed to her that the open boxes contained calculators and electronic gear.

  “I just wanted some paper,” Gastro explained, displaying a yellow pad and a handful of pens.

  “What are you writing?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know, I keep a journal, poetry, stuff like that.”

  “Really? I’d like to read some, if you ever want me to. I teach students your age.”

  “Yeah? Well, nobody reads my stuff. So good night, lady.” Gastro melted back into the shadows.

  Hope shrugged. This hurricane had turned everything upside down. Who knew what belonged to anybody anymore. Maybe we all just had to take what we needed to get through. Suddenly tired, she went back to bed.

  16

  Over the weekend the radio reported that the city had reached equilibrium with the lake. The bathtub was full. No more water could get in, unless there was a rain or another powerful storm. Both seemed unlikely because the sky was blue and the forecast was dry. Finally the buses came to the Superdome and the Convention Center, and the haggard refugees were leaving for Houston and points all over America. The Coast Guard and the Air National Guard reported rescuing thousands by airlift and boat. Heartwarming tales of arms opening to the tragic survivors in Salt Lake City, Nashville, Indianapolis, Bismarck, and Tulsa got on the news.

  Televised stories of looting had also been broadcast around the globe, or so those gathered around the cooker at the Petrofoods plant learned on WWL radio. They did not yet have any TV reception, though Steve had fashioned an antenna on the tin roof to try to pick up Baton Rouge. They said the New Orleans cops were taking part in the stealing. They said the cops had looked the other way since there was no jail to lock people up in. They said the Wal-Mart on Tchoupitoulas Street, a newly opened mega-store battled by preservationists and the small business owners who had previously abounded and added charm to New Orleans, had been cleaned out. Microwaves and toaster-ovens littered Race Street, dropped by people overcome by all the merchandise they had to carry. There was a shoot-out on some bridge Tubby had never heard of between young black men and the police, and the young black men were killed. It was said that news of this battle had cleared the streets of the vultures.

  Martial law was imposed in New Orleans and also in Jefferson Parish, where the Petrofoods refuge was located, but this did not deter Tubby and Flowers from making forays into the outside world to learn what was going on. Flowers had his detective badge, of course. Another big asset was Gastro. Using one of the office laptops powered by the generator when Commander Flowers allowed it to be operated, he designed and printed colorful credentials from Governor Kathleen Babineaux Blanco declaring the bearer to be essential hurricane recovery personnel.

  There were few official impediments to travel, however. Mostly the problems on the roads were downed trees and building material such as fallen billboards and gas-station canopies. Only occasionally did one encounter a sheriff’s deputy, and the officer never took an interest in two white guys in a big truck.

  So Tubby and Flowers were able to engage in reconnaissance. They drove around the empty streets of Metairie saying, “Will you look at that!” as they passed extraordinary sights. Such as an apartment building with the front wall sheared away by wind, exposing a dozen rooms, still with furniture inside. Or men loading stuffed deer heads and softball trophies into a pickup from a crushed union hall. Or a McDonald’s sign crumpled like an aluminum can. They took Hope on one short trip, to relieve her boredom.

  “I guess I was just hoping to see some sign of normalcy,” she said, as they passed a boarded-up supermarket.

  “There really isn’t any.” Flowers said. “And there can’t be so long as there’s a mandatory evacuation. Nobody can come back yet.”

  Helicopters soared overhead. There were bulldozers and front-end loaders at work clearing the major thoroughfares. They avoided those, not to slow the work, and ventured onto side streets. Here they saw a few humans, a few chain saws getting to work, a few armed residents watching their homes resentfully.

  On Sunday afternoon, the lights came back on at Petrofoods. The water heaters worked again. Everybody took a hot shower. The TV still received no channels, but the office air conditioner hummed. Steve asked who wanted to have their cots moved into the office, but nobody jumped at it. In a strange way, they were sad to see the amenities return and life get back to normal. They had begun to enjoy their camp and their unplanned fellowship.

  The radio reported that on Labor Day Jefferson Parish would be again open to the public. Access would be restricted to homeowners, and the I-10 was off-limits to all but emergency vehicles. Valero and the other oil refineries in nearby St. Charles Parish were calling workers back. The only thing completely sealed off would be New Orleans. The Petrofoods Company informed Flowers that its administrative staff would be trickling in on Monday and hoped to get back to work on Tuesday.

  “So I guess we’ll all have to think about…” Flowers began.

  “Leaving?” Hope completed his thought.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ve got a house to look after,” Tubby said, “You’re all welcome to come with me.”

  “What’s your idea exactly, Tubby?” Flowers asked. “I mean, there’s no electricity or water in New Orleans.”

  “Hell if I know,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go back and forth from civilization to swamp, but I’m used to this after five months in Bolivia. Anybody who wants to come with me is welcome.”

  “No plumbing?” Gastro asked. “Sounds like the places I lived in the French Quarter.”

  “You can come out to Myrtle Grove with me and stay with my auntie. She’s got plumbing and she can cook.”

  Gastro pointed to the dark skin of his forearm and the ring in his nose.

  “You don’t look no worse than Cousin Billie.” Steve said. “She came back that way from Afghanistan.”

  Gastro shrugged.

  “I don’t want to put you out,” Hope said to Tubby.

  “It wouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “Not for me, at least. You really are welcome to come.”

  “It would keep me closer to my house,” she said. “And maybe I could start cleaning that up.”

  Tubby said sure.

  “I’ll have plenty of work to do out here,” Flowers said. “But I can help you all get settled in.”

  So they all made their plans and packed up.

  The men loaded a generator, a water purification unit, and about a quarter ton of bottled water and canned goods into the truck. They hooked a trailer on behind and loaded it with twenty plastic four-gallon cans of gasoline and a Port-O-Let toilet, all courtesy of Petrofoods.

  “Charge it all to Dubon
net & Associates,” Tubby told Flowers.

  “I think it will all be covered by their insurance,” Flowers said. “If not, you and me can work it out. You wouldn’t believe what I’m getting paid for this job.”

  Tubby was more used to being the giver than the givee. It was a humbling experience, all this kindness, and one of the first nice things to come out of this hurricane. He knew that Flowers’s own home, a condo he seldom occupied, was in Algiers, a portion of the city spared by the storm. But the detective knew people—everybody knew people—who had been wiped out.

  “Sure,” Tubby said. “Let’s see if we can smuggle all of this into New Orleans.”

  They all broke camp. Steve and Gastro drove away in the Nissan Frontier for Myrtle Grove. Tubby, Christine, and Hope waved them good-bye and piled into Flowers’s truck. The hound, Rex, hopped into the back seat. It was now legal to be on the streets as far as the New Orleans city line. After that, who knew? They decided to try River Road.

  Bonner Rivette, after losing his tug-of-war for Christine’s right arm, had rolled through the levee grass and then run for the trees. He had sensed rather than heard Flowers’s gunshots, and he zigzagged as he went, stumbling through the uneven turf to the wood line, where the Levee Board mowers stopped and wild thickets began. He leaped over a fallen tree into the cover of willows and yaupon. The helicopter was overhead, and Bonner struggled through the brush, getting himself deeper into the woods until the branches overhead concealed him. He was in a veritable hobo haven, that batture land between the river and the levee, often inundated by high water, but which when dry provided a sandy campsite for tramps, degenerates, and lovers. Right now it was dry, for despite the lake’s pillaging of New Orleans, the river had never flooded.

  Rivette made his way to the shoreline where muddy waves lapped against the sand, and the ground was littered with discarded milk jugs, broken bottles, and coils of yellow and blue poly line. Here was a log where one might watch the sunset, and there were the cold ashes of a tramp’s fire. Upstream was a tall metal structure with a green sign on top: pipeline crossing. do not dredge, he read. Downstream was nothing but a woodsy shoreline until the river far below was crossed by electricity transmission towers.

  He felt safe. The woods were not unlike those in which he had helped his father cook methamphetamines as a child. The problem, however, was a familiar one, which he also remembered from his childhood. There was nothing to eat. Since it was still broad daylight, he did not fancy returning to civilization, even the post-hurricane remains across the levee. That could wait until after dark. Until then he would bide his time and use his woods skills to build a shelter and try to catch some fish.

  The shelter was easy enough. He found a tarp fragment left by a previous hermit and stretched it over some limbs he propped up against a sweet gum tree. He weighted the ends down with driftwood stumps and scoured the leaves from underneath with a piece of two-by-six. That gave him a sandy bedroom.

  There was plenty of fishing line tangled in the trees. He made himself a pole from a willow sapling, dug some worms from under a log, and sat down to catch his supper. And he fell asleep.

  In his dream he was drowning. Something was holding him under, and he was gulping putrid water. Two arms reached down and rescued him. They belonged to a maid with blonde hair. She was Christine. She held him close and tugged him ashore. On the sand he lay gasping while she cradled his head and kissed him tenderly. Overhead, the helicopters were coming to capture him. They ran through the woods in terror, trying to get away. Branches tore at his face. He looked back and the girl was gone. No matter, because the fight against the enemy-without-a-face was his alone. He hit the ground and began to crawl.

  He woke up, laying on the ground, and the pole that had been in his hand was trying to get away. Scrambling in the sand and brush he got a hand on it before it snaked into the water and felt the tug of a powerful creature. He tugged back, worried that his line would come untied or break. And he struggled with his fish until he could see its ugly head under the water. It was a monster cat, as long as his leg, and he was almost unable to bring it ashore. But he worked it out of the shallows until its head and gills were on the beach. The fish heaved and bristled, seeking oxygen it could use, and flapped its great tail in an effort to get submerged again. Bonner found his two-by-six and flailed at the fish until it stopped flopping. The he shoveled it ashore and admired his catch. It would feed a family of four for a week, if he only had a way to cook it.

  As dusk fell, he emerged slowly from cover and scouted the levee. He saw no pedestrians, no policemen, no people, just a grassy green slope that curved in both directions as far as the eye could see. Nor were any helicopters immediately overhead. He crept up the embankment to get a view of what lay on the other side. The top was blacktopped, a bike path he deduced from the wind-bent sign a few feet away that explained that bikes must yield to joggers. On the inland side of the levee, fifty yards off, were streets and houses. There was a sign in front of one that read tiny tom day care. No traffic was coming from either direction, so he got to his feet and loped to the places once inhabited by humans.

  Tiny Tom’s was a regular brick ranch house, but the carport was empty. In the backyard, pine trees had blown down and smashed a swing set. The top of a jungle-gym protruded from a pile of green branches. The back door was locked. A decal on the glass advertised a security service. Without hesitation he picked up a fragment of a tree limb and busted through the glass. He waited a second, but he heard no alarm and he saw no excited neighbors. All he detected was the breeze rustling the pine needles. For the first time all day, he smiled. Civilization here was in ruins—all as he had ordained.

  The door opened easily when he reached inside and turned the knob. He found himself in a kitchen. It was very quiet. He went from room to room, past piles of toys and a stack of cots where peaceful children had once rested. Satisfied that he had the place to himself, he returned to the kitchen.

  Bonner went though the refrigerator and all the cabinets thoroughly, and he came up with some acceptable grub. The ice box stank, of course, since the power had been out for about a week. But he found jars of mustard and pickles and ketchup he thought he could use, and a bag of tiny carrots, and some green olives. He had always liked olives. There was a big tube of bologna, which he also craved, but the end was blue and dripping white jelly so he was forced to leave it behind. Same with a family-sized package of Ball Park Franks.

  The cabinets held everything else he needed. There was a frying pan and a pot, used for boiling hot dogs, no doubt. He stuffed a handful of plastic knives, forks, and spoons in his pocket. Here were also jars of peanut butter and jelly, a can of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, and a huge box of fruit roll-ups. He was smart enough to run his fingers over the very top shelf, and there it was, a box of kitchen matches, hidden from curious little children. He found salt and pepper shakers and a jug of fruit punch. And there were plastic bags to carry it all in.

  Heavily laden, he left the house as he had entered it. The street outside was still dark and deserted. He scrambled across the roadway and up the levee again, bearing his provisions. As he hurried down the other side his foot suddenly got stuck in a hole while the rest of his body kept traveling. He slammed into the hillside, throwing his bags away as he fell. Splayed out on the rough turf, the pain began. It raced up his leg, still pinned in a hole, through his chest to his head and he could not help himself. He yowled. His ankle was on fire.

  After a few minutes of twisting in excruciating pain, Bonner collected his wits and eased himself to his knees. He had no idea whether he had broken his ankle or sprained it, but it hurt like hell. He was still twenty yards from the protection of the woods, and his goods were strewn all about him. For the first time, he felt weak and almost wished for the security of his jail cell. All his life, it seemed, he had been alone. Depressing thoughts of self-immolation crossed his mind. Just go up in flames. Funny how it was nature that had tripped him up.
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br />   In a few minutes the fire in his ankle subsided and his powers returned. Crawling about, he retrieved as much as he could of his booty. Most important were the matches, and he bared his teeth in a hideous grimace when his hand clutched those again. It was pitch black now, though the sky was full of stars. Gagging from the pain, he hopped, falling sometimes, with his groceries to the trees, and then he used them to support himself, jumping from trunk to trunk, until at last he regained his camp. Cursing himself for not collecting firewood while it was daylight, he lumbered about in the sand, pulling in dry branches and vines to make a pile. He tried one match, then two, then three, before he got it lit. He knew it would be a struggle to keep it going, but he needed the light to eat his peanut butter. The damn fish would have to wait. Even hurricanes had their bad days.

  17

  The evidence of civilization’s collapse was everywhere. Flowers would point out a plywood sign promising that looters will be shot, and Hope would point out a convenience store with all the plate glass smashed leaving empty shelves visible inside. Approaching the parish line they could see ahead a blockade of police vehicles, lights flashing. Flowers had his badge ready in his hand.

  “Where are those guys from?” Tubby asked. One of the police cars was maroon with a white roof; the other was white.

  “Beats me. Hello, officer,” Flowers said through the open window. He slowed and prepared to stop.

  The middle-aged cop waved them through.

  “Lexington, Kentucky, Sheriff’s Department,” Tubby read as they passed. “They didn’t seem too interested in us.”

  “I guess we don’t look like looters,” Christine suggested.

  “What’s a looter look like?”

  They crossed the railroad tracks, and they were in. The city was drab, and trash was strewn everywhere. They stuck to the levee road, carefully navigating around pieces of tin and roof shingles, until they reached St. Charles Avenue where it ends at the river.