strike that

what happened next

First it was Friday, and Rebuilding Together had a press conference at the house on Spain Street. The Hands On volunteers sat around for two hours twitching to work while corporate sponsors thanked each other behind a podium. As we finally unloaded our tools at ten, a cameraman clomped from one room to another sniggering No one is doing anything. He asked us to lift tools, and posed VIPs with paintbrushes. Gag Gag Gag.

Then it was Friday night, and – freshman year style - twenty of us went to the French Quarter for jazz. We had three drivers. I caught a ride in a small four-door with six other passengers. The pack mercifully splintered upon arrival, and I spent the evening with a small group on a leopard print couch at the Black Cat club with a corner full of musicians and one Force of Nature who goes by the name Tambourine Lady.

Then it was Saturday morning, and I said goodbye to Tripp and Mick. Which sucks, because they were two of my favorite people around here. Tripp is a sports writer who is sharp and funny as hell. Mick is a marketer who is headed to Thailand between contracts. I hate when people leave.

Then it was Saturday daytime, and I went to the house on Spain Street for the last time, and I patched walls and cut baseboards and framed doors, and in the afternoon I joined the bathroom crew and learned how to hang drywall. There were other volunteers from Countrywide home financing, and the men from Texas and Louisiana called me ma’am and always let me go down the stairs first. One of them was pointing out a troublesome repair to me and I said Yeah, that wall’s all fucked up and I thought he might fall over backwards. But southern men? That could grow on me. And by three thirty the walls were all painted and the porch was screened and the back door opened all the way again.

And then it was Saturday early evening, and I went for a walk with Katie and MaryHelen and Stasha through the Garden District, past the grand houses with balconies and spiral stairs and Fleur de Lis ironwork.

And now it is Saturday night, and I’d like a mellow night in, but at the other end of the table they’re deciding between hip hop and dancing on Bourbon Street and a beer at Igor’s to start out in any case, and I don’t want to leave New Orleans but I might, so I better enjoy every humid dark furtive festive minute.

posted by tortaluga @ 7:40 PM