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Chapter 59
Saturday, September 10, 2005
K plus one week
Katrina was starting
to make its effects felt across the nation. Before the storm,
one-tenth of all the crude oil consumed in the United States
and almost half of the gasoline produced in the country came
from refineries in the states along the Gulf of Mexico. An additional
quarter of the natural gas supply was extracted or imported in
the region.
The Coast Guard
could not tell for sure, but at least twenty oil platforms were
set adrift, sunk, or had simply disappeared. The Louisiana Offshore
Oil Port was out of commission until power could be restored,
which accounted for eleven percent of US consumption. But even
with electricity, the crude had nowhere to go. Ten refineries
were shut down, four of which were damaged or destroyed, and
the rest worked at reduced capacity. Supply and demand pushed
oil prices to over seventy dollars a barrel.
This affected gasoline
prices. Prices spiked to five or six dollars a gallon in isolated
locations, along with long lines at the pumps, until they stabilized
at a nation-wide average of over three dollars for the first
time in history.
The loss of exports
of corn, wheat, and other commodities could not be immediately
felt by average consumers. But spending twenty percent more to
fill up the car hurt. It got people's attention.
~*~*~
Conditions in the
evacuation centers were not pleasant, despite the best efforts
of local Texas officials and Red Cross personnel. Things were
close and loud, with no privacy whatsoever. It was hot and humid,
and inevitably fights broke out, sometimes over the smallest
and silliest of issues. There weren't many thieves, but only
a handful could fill an arena with a sense of mistrust.
The good news was
they had working bathrooms and, occasionally, showers. Clothing
was donated from charities, because the rags on the refugees'
backs were fit only for the trashcan. Best of all, hot food broke
up the monotony of MREs and canned drinking water. It was a far
cry from the Superdome, much less the Convention Center.
Relief officials
huddled to decide what to do with the refugees. The football
stadiums in Houston and San Antonio had to be emptied for the
upcoming games, and since there was no New Orleans or Gulfport
or Chalmette for the people to return to, long-term housing was
the priority. Interview teams were set up, and the plans and
skills of the people were checked against a list of offers flooding
the centers from all over the nation. Skilled workers and college
students were the easiest to place.
So it was that Scott
Davis walked hand-in-hand with Kaywanda Johnson and her mother
off an airliner at General Mitchell International Airport in
Milwaukee, Wisconsin to meet with a welcoming committee from
Lutheran Social Services, carrying nothing but the clothes on
their back and Scott's duffle. They were whisked to a waiting
van, and were soon driving westward along Interstate 94, passing
signs with strange names, like Waukesha, Pewaukee, and Oconomowoc.
The driver, a man named Kruepke, kept up a monologue of the passing
countryside, as the rolling hills in the Milwaukee region grew
gentler. Scott and the Johnsons watched as the built-up areas
gave way to dairy farms and acres of corn and soybeans.
After about a half-hour,
civilization reappeared as the van approached the state's second-largest
city, Madison. Turning off the interstate, they drove for some
time down a road that reminded the Louisiana refugees of Jefferson
Highway on a bad day. But in the distance, at the end of the
road, appeared an unusual sight. Soon, they were upon it, the
Wisconsin State Capital Building, centered on a thin isthmus
between the twin lakes that defined Madison. The building had
four wings set at right angles to each other at the points of
the compass, like a large plus sign lying on its side. Soaring
above the axis was a familiar looking dome.
"Looks like
the US Capitol, doesn't it?" Mr. Kruepke said as he drove
around the square surrounding the building. "It's 265 feet
tall, about three feet shorter than in one in Washington, DC.
On top is a statue of a woman with a helmet with a badger on
top. It's really something, isn't it?"
"Badger, huh?"
Scott asked politely, while Kaywanda and her mother sat back,
trying to recover from culture shock. They hadn't seen a black
face since they left the airplane. It's so white here!
"Oh, yes,"
said Kruepke in that slight, hard-to-place Wisconsin twang that
sounded vaguely Scandinavian. "Lots of things in Wisconsin
are tied somehow to badgers - that's the UW mascot, you know.
Badger this, or Badgerland that. We love our Badgers."
Scott nodded. "Yeah,
it's the same way with Baton Rouge and the LSU Tigers."
"Really? I
suppose so. Never been to New Orleans, myself." Kruepke
pronounced Orleans in the French manner of 'Or-leans.'
"Guess it's too late, now. Oh! And the Packers. Packer football
is just about the state religion."
"Of course,"
Scott replied, rolling his eyes at Kaywanda. The van continued
out of downtown Madison a short ways into the University section.
"This is the
University of Wisconsin," Kruepke said. "Which one
of you is enrolling?"
"That would
be me," Scott answered.
Wisconsin, like
many universities across the nation, had reached out to the student-victims
from Tulane, UNO, Loyola, SUNO, Xavier, Dillard, and the medical
schools. Tuition wavers were common, and some paid for board
and books as well. Lutheran Social Services had found housing
near the campus and had arranged for transportation for the group
from Texas. There was an opening at Wisconsin for Social Work,
and the small family decided to take advantage of it, knowing
the house in New Orleans was a total loss.
Minutes later, the
group walked into a small, two-bedroom apartment. "It's
got a good location, as it's only a few blocks from the campus,
and there's a bus stop right in front," Kruepke said. "Though
it might get a little noisy on Saturdays - you know, from Camp
Randall."
Kaywanda turned
to him. "Camp Randall? There's a military base around here?"
"Oh, no!"
Kruepke laughed. "Camp Randall is the name of the football
stadium where the Badgers play!"
"Oh,"
said Mrs. Johnson. "And where do the Packers play?"
"At Lambeau
Field in Green Bay," he responded, as if Mrs. Johnson had
grown a third eye. As they had no idea where Green Bay was, the
Johnson women kept quiet.
Kruepke pulled out
a folder from his briefcase. "We have some papers for you
to sign. Your rent and utilities will be covered for at least
six months through FEMA, though we think that will be extended
up to a year. If not, Lutheran Social Services will cover it.
You'll have to pay for phone service and any cable or internet.
A social worker will meet with you in the next few days to explain
all the assistance programs. FEMA will be issuing either debit
cards or transferring money into your bank account; that will
be $2,000 each. If you don't have a bank here in Madison, we
can help get one for you.
"Ms Johnson,
you stated you have a background in secretarial work. We'll arrange
for some interviews with local firms hiring. Mrs. Johnson, I
believe you're on disability. The social worker will help you
with that, including medical care and prescriptions. Mr. Davis,
you're to meet with the Dean of Social Work on Friday."
"Uh,"
Scott interrupted, "we really don't know what day it is.
What's today, again?"
Kruepke nodded.
"I understand. There's a lot that has been thrown at you.
Today's Wednesday."
"Thanks."
"No problem.
We'll have people meet with you about clothing and other necessities."
He looked down at his paper. "Oh, and there's some nice
restaurants nearby for Friday Fish Fry." He pointed to one.
"I really like the perch at this place, and most times they
get walleye. Good potato pancakes, too."
Scott and Kaywanda
looked at each other. Friday Fish Fry? Walleye? Potato pancakes?
Scott leaned close.
"K, I don't think we're in Louisiana anymore."
~*~*~
Sergeant Mack parked
the Humvee next to the burned-out Shops at Canal Place, and he
and Captain Buford walked across Canal Boulevard to Harrah's
New Orleans Casino. The owners of the place had set up a kitchen
for the soldiers, police officers, and others involved in the
city's recovery area. As the food was good and plentiful, and
the air conditioning was fully operational, Buford tried to eat
at Harrah's every chance he got.
Buford patted the
holster at his side, comforted by the weight of his government
issued M9 Beretta pistol contained within. With the change in
orders from search-and-rescue to law enforcement, his unit was
cleared to carry firearms. A detail was sent to the armory in
Baton Rouge to fetch their weapons, and Mack was pleased to get
his hands on his trusty M4 assault carbine. While the governor
talked tough about "shooting looters on sight," the
orders were far more benign, no matter what ill-informed rappers
had to say. The very presence of armed National Guardsmen was
thought conducive in keeping the peace.
As he and his sergeant
got their food, Buford noticed a familiar face sitting alone.
He made his excuses to Mack, as the NCO joined some other LANG,
and walked over to the NOPD officer.
"Fitzwilliam?
That you?"
Richard Fitzwilliam
looked up to see a tall, dark-haired Guardsman standing nearby.
"Buford! Well, I guess it was only a matter of time before
I saw you around here. Sit down, and tell me how you've been."
Buford sat across
the table. "Tired as hell, but all right regardless. You?"
"Fine, fine."
The haunted look in the back of Fitz' eyes told Buford that the
policeman wasn't being completely honest. "How did you make
out?"
"I live in
Baton Rouge, you know."
"Oh, yeah,
that's right."
"Except for
the power going out, no problems. Umm…you live in Mid City,
right?"
"Yeah, I did."
Buford winced. "Aw,
jeez, I'm sorry. Is your family okay?"
"Yeah, they're
in Atlanta. I've got four feet of water in my house."
"That's tough."
Fitz shook his head.
"Well, some people got it a lot worse. Have you been able
to talk to your family?"
Buford smiled. "Yeah,
I call home every night." His eyes grew a little misty as
he recalled the conversation from the night before. God, I
miss Carrie.
Fitz's attention
seemed to be on his food. "Yeah, I try to call every day,
too. Olivia's staying with family."
"My brother-in-law's
wife and kids are staying with us. You know Chuck and Jane Bingley,
right?"
"Oh, yeah.
Will told me what happened to Chuck's house. He's still working
on his place?"
Buford confirmed
that he was, and the two ate for a bit.
"So, were you
stuck at Jackson Barracks when the levees went?" Fitz asked.
"Nope. I was
at the Superdome."
"Crap! No kidding?"
"I was there
for one solid week. Don't wanna go through that again."
"I hear ya."
Fitz paused. He didn't want to bring up something painful, but
the stories he had heard were all over the place. He settled
for, "I heard it was real bad."
"Bad enough,
but not as bad as the Convention Center."
Fitz grunted at
first, but something in Buford's tone caught his ear. "You
know, I was at the Convention Center."
Buford gaped. "Really?
Shit! I heard it was like a wild west rodeo in there."
Fitz chuckled without
humor and spent the next couple of minutes telling the soldier
about his experiences. He could see that Buford was confused.
"Wait a sec,
Fitz. I heard you had a hundred dead bodies in there."
Fitz rolled his
eyes. "I've been hearing that story ever since we cleared
the place."
"It isn't true?"
"No. There
was one fatality from stab wounds. We have no idea if the attack
occurred in the building or if the victim was assaulted elsewhere
and somehow got to the Convention Center before he died. The
other three were from natural causes." He looked down. "The
truth is bad enough without exaggerating it."
"But, I heard
this report from the Chief of Police!"
"Who didn't
know shit!" He looked at Buford. "I heard two hundred
people died from gunshot wounds at the Dome. Is that true?"
Buford shook his
head. "One suicide, one suspected overdose, and four from
natural causes. The only person who got shot was a Guardsman,
and he wounded himself in the leg by accident."
Fitz leaned back.
"See? Six dead where you were, and four dead at my shop.
But according to the mayor on Oprah, we might as well be in Baghdad.
Shit." The two sat in contemplation of the misinformation
that was being broadcast across the country.
Fitz broke the silence
again. "You getting any leave soon?"
"Maybe next
weekend. How about you?"
"No, nothing.
We're too short-handed…but," Fitz grinned, "you
know FEMA's bringing in some cruise ships for housing?"
"Yeah, I heard
something about that. We're staying on the Iwo Jima."
"Yeah, I saw
that big sucker docked over there," he gestured with his
thumb. "Well, about those cruise ships, they're for police
and firefighters - and their families."
"Really? That's
cool."
"You said it.
As soon as those puppies get here, I'm gonna get Olivia to come
back and stay on board with me."
Buford wore a sincere
smile. "Well, I'm happy for you. You guys have really had
it tough. You need something nice to happen."
"Yeah. After
this last couple of weeks, things can only get better, right?"
~*~*~
Chris Breaux set
down the telephone with a stunned expression. "Well, that's
it."
His wife and mother
exchanged glances. "Bad news, baby?" asked Marianne.
He ran a hand through
his hair. "Yeah. LSU has absolutely no idea when - or if
- they're going to reopen University Hospital. Charity Hospital
is gone."
Mrs. Breaux blinked.
"Does that mean you have no job?"
"I'm still
being paid, for now, but long-term, it doesn't look good. LSU
is setting up an emergency clinic at the New Orleans Centre next
to the Superdome, but they don't need psychiatrists."
Mari sat next to
her husband and took his hand. "What do we do, baby?"
"I don't know,
honey. I just don't know."
~*~*~
Monday, September
12, 2005
K plus two weeks
William Darcy sat
back in his chair and took in the group assembled in the Houston
hotel conference room. A special meeting of the Delta Global
Shipping board of directors had been called, ostensibly to review
the condition of the company in the wake of Katrina. But neither
he nor his uncle was fooled. The future of DGS was to be decided.
As VP of Operations,
Leon Anderson, droned on about the last quarter's numbers, Will
took the opportunity to weight the strength of his position with
the people in the room. He knew the board was happy with his
tenure as CEO - that was clear, especially after the Edmund
Fitzwilliam incident. Profits had been good and tonnage was
up.
However, the slow
pace of improvements at the Port of New Orleans, particularly
in the handling of container cargo, irked a couple of the board
members. That, and the fact that New Orleans wasn't an airline
hub, which made travel by board members to meetings inconvenient,
kept alive a desire by some to move the headquarters to a larger
city such as Houston. Up until now, a majority of the board was
satisfied with New Orleans and had stopped any drive to relocate.
But Katrina had changed the equation. Will knew he had to act,
and act now, or things could get out of hand.
"Thank you,
Leon," said F. Edward Fitzwilliam, who ran the meeting is
his role as DGS Chairman. "Let me congratulate the operations
division's performance during this difficult time. You've had
to think on your feet and react quickly to a very fluid situation,
and you've done marvelously." The rest of the board gave
Anderson a polite round of applause as Ed gave Will a hopeful
glance. Will knew his uncle was hoping to get out of this meeting
without a confrontation, and Will shared that hope, as little
as it was.
Mr. Fitzwilliam
tried to bring the meeting to a close when a hand went up. Will
saw that it was Phil Osborne, the representative of an investment
group that had taken a five percent stake in DGS two years ago.
He ascended to the board last year and had been one of the more
vocal over the headquarters issue. Ed blanched and Will sighed,
knowing what was coming.
Osborne stood. "Ed,
there are a couple of things I believe I should bring to the
board's attention. One is to congratulate Will and Leon on their
hard work during this crisis. Let's give them another hand, shall
we?" He began clapping, and the rest joined in.
Slick bastard, thought Will.
"I also think
that Will's plan to bring the new George Darcy to New Orleans
with relief supplies is a very noble thing to do, even though
we could have waited for a contract from FEMA to do so."
He chuckled, "Hell, the way they're throwing around money,
I wonder if we did the right thing by our shareholders by not
waiting - but that's beside the point."
Asshole.
Osborne sobered.
"What's not beside the point is the future of this company,
and whether we can afford the luxury of maintaining our corporate
headquarters in a city that's so vulnerable to natural disasters."
Will listened as
Osborne expressed his concern over the residents of that "ruined
city" and laid out the advantages of transferring the corporate
offices to somewhere with a higher global identity, such as Houston
or Miami.
Ohh, good one,
Osborne. You're trying to drive a wedge between Uncle Ed and
me, knowing that Ed has a house in Ft. Lauderdale. But that's
not going to work.
Osborne finished
his presentation and sat down, expecting someone else to make
a motion to move DGS. Instead, Will put his plan into action.
Showtime. He glanced at another board member
who then raised his hand.
"Yes, Tony?"
said Ed.
"Ed, I'd like
to make a motion that this board pass a resolution stating that
an undeniable and unbreakable connection exists between Delta
Global Shipping and the City of New Orleans, and that this board
pledges to reestablish operations of its corporate headquarters
there as soon as possible."
"Second!"
cried the other plant. Osborne immediately saw the ploy for what
it was and began to shout it down, but Will got to his feet.
"The Chair
recognizes Will," Ed said quickly.
"Thank you,
Mr. Chairman," Will said formally. He took a breath to collect
his thoughts. Will had authority to vote his family's shares,
and he knew he had the support of a large block on the board,
but Osborne had the ear of a large number, too. Neither had a
majority of the board under their control and the vote could
go either way. Will had to shore up his votes and sway the undecided
over to his side. Two votes could make all the difference.
"I rise in
support of Tony's motion. Delta Global Shipping has been a Louisiana
company, under various names, for almost two hundred years. This
company is part of Louisiana and part of my family. Our roots
run deep. Our homes are there…"
"This is about
more than your family's homes, Will," remarked Osborne.
Darcy smiled, for
Osborne had fallen right into his trap. "True, Phil, but
it's also home to almost half of our employees, including the
entire executive team, and they've been with us a long time."
He gestured to the man beside him. "Leon, here, alone has
worked for this company for twenty years." He turned his
attention back to the people assembled around the table. "I'm
talking about over a hundred years of combined experience in
shipping. They're smart, hard-working, and loyal. They have roots
in the New Orleans metro area, too. They serve on numerous boards,
they volunteer at their children's schools and in their churches,
and they coach their neighborhood athletic teams. They have their
homes there - some of them in need of repair, some have been
flooded out. It's not that easy to sell a house in these conditions.
I don't see the value of uprooting and moving them for someone
else's convenience."
Osborne paled as
the verbal slap sunk in. Darcy had Osborne on the ropes - now
he had to finish him off.
"Let's face
it. We're in Louisiana for a reason. While container traffic
is the growth area for the company, the majority of our traffic
is steel, dry bulk, and break-bulk cargo. We ship in coffee and
ship out corn and wheat. This," he pointed to a map
of the Mississippi River that was hanging on the wall, "is
where our cargo is. Not Miami, not Houston. Our goods are here.
The railroads and barges are here. And here is where DGS will
be." He turned to the table again.
"If the majority
of our business and profits are generated with the ports along
the lower Mississippi River, why the heck move our headquarters
somewhere else? Why spend the money? Who is served by this? Not
our staff, not our workers, not our shareholders. I ask again
- who is served?" He stared at Osborne.
Will sat down. "For
the sake of our workers and our shareholders, the Darcy and Fitzwilliam
families, as well as the Darcy Charitable Trust, will vote in
favor of the resolution on the table."
Ed Fitzwilliam looked
around the silent table. "Is there any other discussion
on the motion, or shall I call for a vote?"
~*~*~
"Now, that
was a butt-kicking!" Leon laughed as he sipped a cognac
in Darcy's office, along with Will and Ed Fitzwilliam.
"Yep,"
agreed Ed. "Unanimous, with Osborne abstaining. You set
him down firmly but fairly, Will. Good job. The board's solidly
on your side."
Will scowled over
his snifter. "Don't think this is over. Osborne won't go
away. This vote gives me maybe a year to get us up and running
again, that's all."
Ed shifted in his
chair. "I agree, and that's why I've reconsidered my intention
of stepping down this year. You've got enough to do without the
mantle of Chairman hanging around your neck."
"Thanks, Uncle
Ed. I can use you in there."
"How's the
trailer proposal going?" asked Leon. "Any movement?"
"Elizabeth's
working on it. With the others putting pressure on the government,
we ought to get them."
"Good."
Leon threw back the last of his drink. "Let me get back
to work."
Ed got to his feet.
"I'm flying out this afternoon to Lauderdale. Why don't
you hitch a ride, Will? We can drop you off in Baton Rouge. Go
spend some time with Elizabeth."
Will glanced at
Leon. "Go on, boss. You can do more there than here right
now. Go get us up and running again so we all can go home."
"All right,
you've talked me into it. Give me some time to talk to my secretary
and run back to the hotel to pack a bag. Maybe an hour?"
Ed waved. "Take
all the time you need. I can hang around here and make a nuisance
of myself."
Leon laughed. "Just
like old times, eh, Ed?" The two left the office while Will
dialed Lizzy's cell.
~*~*~
That evening, after
Will climbed off the DGS Citation into Elizabeth's loving arms,
he was informed that he was drafted to grill steaks for dinner.
He and George Katz shared a beer on Pemberley's back patio while
the filets cooked.
"How's it feel
to be back, Will?" asked George.
"After living
in a hotel? So good I can't tell you."
George looked around
the backyard, the sky a darkening grey with streaks of red. "Thank
you for putting Emma and me up for the last couple of weeks.
We can never repay the kindness shown by you and Lizzy."
"Aw, knock
it off, George. We're glad to have you here. To be honest, I
like having someone to keep Lizzy company. You're both doing
us a favor."
"Well, we just
wanted to let you know how much we appreciate it."
"Consider the
place your place for as long as you need." Will turned back
to the steaks.
"About that…"
Something in George's voice - a finality - caught Will's attention.
He turned.
"You're leaving?"
"Yeah. Emma
and I have talked it over, and we can't impose on you and Lizzy
any longer. It's time to move on."
Will stared into
his fraternity brother's eyes. "You haven't imposed."
"It's time.
Emma's talking to Lizzy right now."
"Where are
you going?"
"Emma and I
have decided to go up to Maryland and stay with her sister for
a while, until we get back on our feet."
Will nodded. "You
coming back?"
George looked out
at the distance. "I don't know. We both grew up here, but…with
losing both Abe and the house and everything, there're too many
memories here. Bad memories." He sighed. "Emma can't
go back. Not now - it's too soon, too raw."
Will sighed. He
wasn't surprised. "When?"
"We're booking
the airline tickets now. In a few days."
"Is there anything
we can do?"
George looked at
his feet. "Yeah, there is one thing, if it's not too much
trouble."
"Name it."
"If you can
get me back to the hospital to pick up my car, I'd appreciate
it. It's still in the Tulane parking garage. We'll park it and
Emma's Volvo at some storage facility until we decide what to
do with them."
Will flipped the
meat. "We'll go tomorrow. I've got a pass that'll get us
in the city. And don't worry about any storage place. You can
keep the cars here at Pemberley until you need them." He
chuckled. "We've certainly got the room."
"Thanks, buddy.
We'll probably sell them - the Volvo, certainly. I don't think
Emma can drive that car anymore."
"Yeah, I can
understand that. Think you'll miss this place?"
George took a deep
breath as he considered. "No. Maybe later, but I think we
both need a fresh start. It's way too soon to get sentimental
over this town." He turned to Will. "But we will miss
our friends. You and Lizzy, Chris and Mari, Chuck and…and…"
To Will's surprise,
his big, strong friend began sobbing. "It's okay, George,
it's okay."
Tears flowed down
George's face as his voice cracked. "I know, it's…
it's like I can't stop. I…I don't know what's wrong with
me."
He broke down and
Will, without another thought, pulled him into a hug. George
wept on his shoulder, and Will looked helplessly into the house,
only to see Lizzy staring at him in pain, Emma crying in her
arms.
~*~*~
Whether from seeing
the logic of the proposal or bowing to political pressure, FEMA
allowed the positioning of the small travel trailers for workers
at large employers deemed important to the national economy.
That meant oil and gas refineries, shipyards engaged in military
construction, and ports. DGS' trailers were brought in on a barge
and docked near its headquarters, using the huge hollow platform
as a wastewater holding tank for the dozen travel trailers. There
was one frustrating requirement from FEMA, however - only workers
could use the trailers. Spouses and dependants were forbidden
from even stepping into the trailers.
Still, it was better
than nothing. DGS contacted its workers, promising food and water,
and a goodly number showed up to work.
For all his efforts,
Will Darcy could not completely keep his promise. On Tuesday,
September 13, 2005, around 7:15 p.m., the Lykes Flyer,
operated by CP Ships, docked at the Napoleon Avenue Container
Terminal, marking the return of commercial shipping to New Orleans.
The brand new container
ship, the George Darcy, filled with relief supplies, would
dock two days later.
~*~*~
Wednesday, September
14, 2005
Carrie was already
in bed when Jane came into the room to undress. She could tell
that her sister-in-law was unhappy. "What's wrong, Jane?
Are the kids still up?"
"No, they're
asleep. I just got off the phone with the mortgage company,"
she said as she took a maternity nightgown out of a drawer. She
wore the thing as a courtesy to Carrie. If she had been at home,
she would have slept in the nude, as usual.
"Again?"
Carrie exclaimed to Jane's back, as the other woman moved into
the bathroom.
"Oh! They're
so hard to work with! You know I've been calling all of our credit
card and gas card companies, explaining the situation down here.
We're not asking for much - just a little more time on the payments
until the worst of the emergency is over, without running up
any late fees or interest rate hikes. Almost all of the companies
have been completely cooperative. Some had already placed holds
on accounts from our zip codes even before we called. They all
understand we have a historic disaster down here, and they're
willing to help. No payments until January, a freeze on interest
costs, things like that. The banks are even letting us use whatever
ATM is nearby without fees." She stuck her head out of the
bathroom. "All except for Acme National Mortgage!"
An aggravated Jane
brushed her hair so hard that Carrie was afraid she would pull
it out.
Jane continued to
rant. "I call up, and after I finally get through to a live
person - and that was wasn't easy, let me tell you - the first
thing they want to do is put me through to the re-work department,
like we're somebody with bad credit issues. I explain again to
them that no, I don't want to do that, that we've had a hurricane,
and, no, I don't want to suspend payment to our loan, which would
go onto the back end and charge us more interest! I would like
to spend our money on food, now that Katrina has put us
temporarily out of our jobs! I explain to them - again - what
our other creditors have done and ask them what Acme National's
plan is. Now, they tell me they don't have a plan for Katrina
victims yet!"
Carrie frowned.
"Jane, they're the country's biggest mortgage company. How
can they not have a plan?"
Jane held her head.
"They can't tell me. I don't know why Gallic sold our home
mortgage to Acme National, but they've been trouble since day
one. Until they tell me they have a plan that will not cost us
more money or ruin our credit, I'll just have to continue making
our mortgage payments." She sat on the bed.
"Can you afford
that?"
"We have some
money in our savings."
"Oh, Janie,
I'm so sorry."
Jane sighed and
lay down next to Carrie. "At least Standard Insurance has
been great. They're supposed to send an adjuster out next week
to the house."
"Wow, that's
fast. Good thing you got your claim in early."
"I imagine
they're getting overwhelmed by calls now. I've seen Standard,
Allstate, and State Farm claim centers spring up all over the
place in the last week." Jane smoothed down the sheets.
"Charles is going to stay in Covington, cleaning up, until
the adjuster arrives."
"How are things
there?"
"Better. They've
restored power along US 190 from I-12 into Covington, so Chuck
doesn't have to drive to Hammond for gas. He says the stores
are trying to restock, but they have very limited hours, because
they have no workers." She turned over on her side. "What
is it with men?"
Carrie laughed.
"Now, that's a loaded question. What's Chuck done
now?"
Jane pursed her
lips. "He won't leave that house! He's over there, with
no power or air conditioning, running the refrigerator with a
generator, cleaning up the yard and trying to fix Hailey's window.
He's no carpenter - we're going to need to hire a contractor
once the insurance settlement comes through. But he's still putzing
around…What's so funny?"
Carrie was trying
not to laugh. "Oh…just something John once mentioned…"
She laughed.
"I'm good for
a laugh. What did he say?"
"It's…it's
why Chuck is trying to fix the house…(snort)…it's to
keep the penis happy." Carrie broke up.
Jane was nonplused.
"Okay, I'm missing something here. Keep the penis happy?
What are you talking about?"
"Something
John made up. He claims that everything can be traced back to
keeping the penis happy. The whole world has been designed to
keep the penis happy. Take the house. According to John, men
would be happy living in a cave somewhere, but to make their
women happy, they invented houses. So, a man fixes up his house,
or builds the biggest house he can afford, to make his wife happy.
When the wife's happy, the penis is happy - Q.E.D.(1) John's
a lawyer, so he loves throwing in that Q.E.D. stuff."
Jane had a queer
look on her face. "That almost makes sense."
"John can apply
it to anything." Carrie counted on her fingers. "Cars
- women like men with fancy cars, penis is happy. Sports - men
compete to find out who is the fastest, or strongest, or best
shot, or whatever. Women want to mate with the champion - that
whole survival of the fittest thing - so the penis is happy.
Women's clothes - men designed most of the clothing throughout
history, but even today with female designers, women's clothing
is intended to make the woman's body look good. Man gets excited,
woman feels pretty - penis is happy. Ballet…well, I think
you can figure that one by yourself."
"Oh my god,"
Jane giggled, "he's really thought this out!"
"I know. Go
ahead, try me."
Jane thought for
a moment. "Got it - monogamy."
Carrie smirked.
"Ha! That was the first one I tried. Let's see…most
religions stress monogamy for moral and health reasons. Kinda
like keeping kosher. If people are monogamous, then the chance
of spreading venereal disease is nil. No clap, penis is happy."
Jane jammed her
hand into her mouth to stop her laughter while Carrie continued.
"There's another
argument, too. By being monogamous, the penis is assured of at
least the possibility of being happy at regular intervals. Much
better chance of a happy ending if you're living with the source
of that enjoyment. Like shooting over a baited field."
Jane laughed so
hard she rolled over on her side, Carrie joining in as she managed
to state, "Remember, Janie, (snort) it's all about the penis!
Hahahaha!!"
~*~*~
Thanks to a mighty
effort, the Corps of Engineers, the levee districts, and their
contractors had sealed, albeit temporarily, the breaches in the
canals. The Corps brought in huge pumps to augment the Sewerage
& Water Board's equipment. To everyone's relief, the city's
pumps worked once the level of water was lowered enough to restore
power. By the middle of the month, over half the floodwaters
were gone, enough for the mayor to plan for the repopulation
of the Crescent City.
President Bush had
returned on September 15 to speak to the nation from Jackson
Square. He encouraged tourists to return to the Big Easy, to
enjoy its hotels and sights and restaurants. Pundits said the
President's remarks were at best overly optimistic, but it was
exactly the message the city wanted to get out. The Port and
the shipyards would come back, and oil was always needed, but
the third leg of the economy needed the shot in the arm. The
grim truth was that, without tourists and the convention trade,
New Orleans would never recover.
Many thought Mayor
Nagin's plan too much too soon. Energy New Orleans had worked
hard, but still vast areas of the city were without power, and
with the utility bleeding money, it would be many months before
even half of the city was inhabitable. Without power, there would
be no phone or cable service, except for cell phones. The Sewerage
& Water Board had restored much of the water in the dry central
part of the city, but it was unsafe to drink.
But the tourism
trade needed a jump start, and that meant people to work in the
lodging and entertainment industries. Besides, Nagin knew his
citizens. Most were straining at the bit to return, and with
a mayoral election next spring, he wasn't going to get in the
way. The return would start next week.
Unfortunately, Mother
Nature had other plans.
~*~*~
(1) - Q.E.D. is
an abbreviation of the Latin phrase quod erat demonstrandum
(literally, "which was to be demonstrated"). The phrase
is written in its abbreviated form at the end of a mathematical
proof or philosophical argument, to signify that the last statement
deduced was the one to be demonstrated, so the proof is complete.
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