street people had their own little hibachis and grills going.
“You got your house boarded?” SJ asked the woman named Delois. “What I’m protecting, J? I can’t be lifting that wood, take it up, put it down once twice a month. Ain’t nothing ever happen anyway. What they say about this one.”
“Mayor said on TV this one going to be big,” Jawanda said. “They telling people get out. Oliver Thomas was walking around here early talking about get out of town.”
“That all C.Y.A.,” Delois said. “They really thought something gonna happen they make it mandatory and have buses lined up all on Claiborne. Shit. You can’t get up and run every time somebody say Boo…You don’t hear nobody talking about evacuation plan, meet here, do this. They just covering they ass for the white folks and the insurance. Plus my check coming on Thursday; I ain’t about to leave.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow and put up some wood,” SJ said.
“No, SJ,” Delois said. “I ain’t want to sit around in the dark listening at the wind. I want to be able to get out if I got to get out.” SJ looked around him, and he remembered an image from when he was barely in his teens, of the streets flooded during Hurricane Betsy, and helping his father pull his mother and Lucy in a dinghy they had gotten from somewhere.
“Well…” SJ said, straightening up, brushing off the side of his slacks, “you call me, let me know if you want me to come over and board you up, hear?”
“Thank you baby,” Delois said, reaching her arms out and hugging SJ.
“I’m-a walk over and see what they got at the truck.”
“Hey SJ, that’s good. They got Italian sausage cooking there by Charles.”
Alfred took his foot off the ladies’ steps and said, “Y’all see Tina, I’m just down here.”
“Allright, baby.”
The two men walked off to get some food. They never talked about the army at all, or even brought it up. They talked some about the sad Saints game the night before, but mostly they just walked along enjoying being there. The street was full of life; groups of girls stood talking and eyeing groups of boys who pretended not to be eyeing them back, or who communicated with them by pantomime and facial expression until the girls turned away, giggling or with expressions of exaggerated nonchalance and even dismissal. Older people sat out on steps, leaned on railings, talking to one another or just watching the activity in the street. They knew the story behind the story of everyone on that street. They had seen neighborhood adults turn into the old people who sat behind their walkers; they had seen their friends’ and cousins’ babies turn into these young men and women, had seen the young men and women in band uniforms and cars, in graduation robes and caskets.
SJ and his friend stopped and got hot sausage at one of the grills, and while he was waiting SJ noticed Wesley, down toward the end of the block, talking to a couple of other young men by the turntables. Behind the turntable platform he could see a couple of the motorbikes they rode around on.
When they had finished eating, SJ said goodbye to his friend and walked down to where his nephew was. Wesley and another young man were talking, shoulder to shoulder, conspiratorially, Wesley looking from under his brows at the other young man as SJ approached. Then Wesley acknowledged his uncle with his eyes and a short head bob, finished whatever it was he was saying to the other young man, and as SJ walked up to them Wesley turned and gave his uncle a quick one-arm hug, a sign of affection, but delivered in a self-assertive manner of which SJ took note.
“This my Uncle J,” Wesley said to his friend, a smiling young man with very dark skin wearing a white T-shirt with one of the ubiquitous airbrushed legends on it in lurid pink and black script, this one reading R.I.P. BOONIE—SUNRISE SEPTEMBER 18, 1988—SUNSET JUNE 3, 2005—NEVER FORGET YOU deployed around a silk-screened
“You got your house boarded?” SJ asked the woman named Delois. “What I’m protecting, J? I can’t be lifting that wood, take it up, put it down once twice a month. Ain’t nothing ever happen anyway. What they say about this one.”
“Mayor said on TV this one going to be big,” Jawanda said. “They telling people get out. Oliver Thomas was walking around here early talking about get out of town.”
“That all C.Y.A.,” Delois said. “They really thought something gonna happen they make it mandatory and have buses lined up all on Claiborne. Shit. You can’t get up and run every time somebody say Boo…You don’t hear nobody talking about evacuation plan, meet here, do this. They just covering they ass for the white folks and the insurance. Plus my check coming on Thursday; I ain’t about to leave.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow and put up some wood,” SJ said.
“No, SJ,” Delois said. “I ain’t want to sit around in the dark listening at the wind. I want to be able to get out if I got to get out.” SJ looked around him, and he remembered an image from when he was barely in his teens, of the streets flooded during Hurricane Betsy, and helping his father pull his mother and Lucy in a dinghy they had gotten from somewhere.
“Well…” SJ said, straightening up, brushing off the side of his slacks, “you call me, let me know if you want me to come over and board you up, hear?”
“Thank you baby,” Delois said, reaching her arms out and hugging SJ.
“I’m-a walk over and see what they got at the truck.”
“Hey SJ, that’s good. They got Italian sausage cooking there by Charles.”
Alfred took his foot off the ladies’ steps and said, “Y’all see Tina, I’m just down here.”
“Allright, baby.”
The two men walked off to get some food. They never talked about the army at all, or even brought it up. They talked some about the sad Saints game the night before, but mostly they just walked along enjoying being there. The street was full of life; groups of girls stood talking and eyeing groups of boys who pretended not to be eyeing them back, or who communicated with them by pantomime and facial expression until the girls turned away, giggling or with expressions of exaggerated nonchalance and even dismissal. Older people sat out on steps, leaned on railings, talking to one another or just watching the activity in the street. They knew the story behind the story of everyone on that street. They had seen neighborhood adults turn into the old people who sat behind their walkers; they had seen their friends’ and cousins’ babies turn into these young men and women, had seen the young men and women in band uniforms and cars, in graduation robes and caskets.
SJ and his friend stopped and got hot sausage at one of the grills, and while he was waiting SJ noticed Wesley, down toward the end of the block, talking to a couple of other young men by the turntables. Behind the turntable platform he could see a couple of the motorbikes they rode around on.
When they had finished eating, SJ said goodbye to his friend and walked down to where his nephew was. Wesley and another young man were talking, shoulder to shoulder, conspiratorially, Wesley looking from under his brows at the other young man as SJ approached. Then Wesley acknowledged his uncle with his eyes and a short head bob, finished whatever it was he was saying to the other young man, and as SJ walked up to them Wesley turned and gave his uncle a quick one-arm hug, a sign of affection, but delivered in a self-assertive manner of which SJ took note.
“This my Uncle J,” Wesley said to his friend, a smiling young man with very dark skin wearing a white T-shirt with one of the ubiquitous airbrushed legends on it in lurid pink and black script, this one reading R.I.P. BOONIE—SUNRISE SEPTEMBER 18, 1988—SUNSET JUNE 3, 2005—NEVER FORGET YOU deployed around a silk-screened
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