A Katrina Story

A Katrina Story

Black wallpaper with a single red rose print unfolded slowly as the water rose and devoured. She watched it drown from the window of the old Holmes building. And the water rose. And she watched. And she thought it was time to go.

Five days passed as she waded from the building to her business and back again. The water was up to her waist. Still it didn’t bother her but the idea of not leaving (death) not escaping (death) did.  Her family was long gone in Houston now her two sons-and she with no working phone. Her white van was crushed under the roof of the Hilton hotel. That was two days gone and now she must go or something bad may happen. Something bad already had she said to herself out loud and giggled. Her giggle rose along with--

--with a gun her gun she grabbed she grabbed her gun.  She grabbed her backpack and she left with her accountant. A tough man, she thought before; one to have in a tight place she thought before: an ex cop. An ex cop and she was dragging him now through the street he was crumbling along with the buildings and cars and walls and everything was falling but her. It’s just another time she thought, like the time in Mexico when she was strong and the time she was living in the abandoned warehouse with her boys she was strong and it’s just another time she was strong. It’s just another unfolding.

She and he both had guns. “You can’t cross here” the cops said to them as they shrunk into the crowd of people, two streaks of wet white among a blanket of dark night, but it was day. “You can’t cross here” the cops said with their guns and their guns wanted to speak louder than they could.  There was a van a cargo load of dark eyed passengers and they jumped into a nook and sped across the bridge. You can cross if you can hide.

The van kept moving forward and now there were bushes and grass and woods. And woods and more woods and she didn’t know where the woods came from. She had lived her life not far and now there were woods from nowhere. She couldn’t think but:  “stop the van” she announced to the driver and instead he drove faster.  More woods and now panic and only two streaks of wet white among the dark. Now panic and she pulled out her gun and pointed it at the driver. “Stop the van now” she announced again and he slowed, but didn’t stop.

How slow does it have to be to jump and will I hit the truck and be run over by the wheels or will I hit a bush and tumble and she kept the gun on the driver and now “stop the van” and it slowed a bit and she jumped. 

“Jump down!” she calls to the unfolded man; the tough man the ex cop who is broken. “I’ll shoot any of you that follow” she calls to the dark eyed passengers and none do. The man jumps but leaves her backpack. Nothing can be done and now they are in the woods, unknown. They watch the van head down the dirt path and turn. Nothing can be done and they follow. It’s slow but they have their guns and she is not broken.

Everything is broken the houses the street—she crawls over downed electric lines and under caved roofs and torn tarps—she sits on the stoop of a dirty Fourplex. It, unlike them, is still standing. The woman inside accepts her twenty dollars to use her phone. One call to her boys in Houston. She is ok. She is also stuck, but not broken. 

“Is that Ms. Brooks?” She hears a voice say and yes it’s me. It’s me. She knows (me) the husband of the wife who leant her the phone; he’s an old employee and she has four hundred dollars. She has four hundred dollars and two twin sons in Houston. The old employee has a van and he earns the four hundred dollars over 400 miles, driving in stolen sunglasses with the stickers still on and stolen sneakers he took from the mall. And why not? Everything is broken and everyone and everything. But not her.  She isn’t unfolded just the world when the water rose.  Just the world when the water rose.