Two months before Katrina hit New Orleans, forcing people to migrate from their homes, I left the Gulf Coast. As I look back, my story is like a strange metaphor for this famous tragedy about to befall millions of people. Only my hurricane was an emotional storm. My flood was the pieces of my broken life, swirling around me suffocating and drowning my will to survive. For my son I fought and cheated death.
I have a sacred bond with the South, particularly with New Orleans. The Vieux Carre and the St. Louis Cathedral. My favorite hotel, the Maison Dupuy, Beignets, and all that jazz, its where my roots are. On my way to NC, I detoured through New Orleans, amazed at how much the city had changed since i had been there with my father. Much like myself, floods changed everything, for both of us.
But, I get ahead of my tale.
In May, I left my home of 5 years, and moved to the Meth Compound in River Oaks. I thought I could live there forever. You wouldnt believe this place. Our landlord was hoarder, a meth addict. We paid our rent in the meth we cooked or scored, so he wouldnt have to leave his web of lies. All my neighbors shared our affliction. It was a small community of insanity kindred spirits. There was a bottomless pit of knick knacks, everywhere you turned, you were tripping over doll collections, metal lunchboxes, lamps, wooden boxes with little uknown pills inside, shoes, comic books, dining room chairs, not to mention the huge plastic bull set atop apartment A in the front. Its an addicts wet dream. Days of digging through the same carboard boxes and closets hoping to find some small speck of interest, and coming up empty handed.
Ha, I just realized its a metaphorical excercise. Digging in deep into your soul and coming up empty handed. Repeatedly. Then theres that saying about the definition of insanity if repeating the same behavior, expecting different results.
If you know anything about River Oaks, it is the most affluent neighborhood in Houston, prime location, and all the rich playboys and tramps were mine to view from my rooftop, for an ounce a month.
And when, in June, I magically encountered the best dope of my life, it all turned to random chaos. I wont tell you the horrors I witnessed as the result too much lithium in the cook, only those who have been there know that the whole of the world goes topsy turvy and every man for himself. Its Junkie XXXL. Someone from this world did give me a wonderful enlightening psychology book about Heterosexuality, but I digress. Thats another story.
I was working at Jackson and Company, the most sought after catering company in the city, run by the "Woman Haters Man Club". I should have sued them, Mr. Jackson found out I was hired to work in Human Resources, and cuz im a woman he fired me. Oh the things I witnessed from the balcony on my smoke breaks. Again, I digress.
That night, at the StopNGo, our car was surrounded by narcotics agents. I was forced to the ground, and hauled off screaming to jail. In holding, I could hear the agents talking about their suspicions of our dealings in apartment B. Terror set in, thinking of the fact that Candice and Collin were sitting in my apartment spinning records, prepping Phosphorus and Iodine. I knew the jig was up.
So, I did what I always do when I am entering into County Jail. I declare that I am pregnant. Its a smart move, it keeps you out of general population in a separate tank while you can sort things out. Only this time, I was never transferred out of that tank. I thought this strange, but since I was let go the next morning, free to walk home with no bail or charges pending, I shut my mouth and ran.
Upon returning home, they hadnt raided my place. I still dont know what the hell happend. It was like a bad dream, only everyone had the same dream. Is that possible?? Had they kicked in Apartment D, the vacant apartment by mistake? Or were they just trying to shake us up? I wasnt makin mass quantities anyway. I dont know, dont care now.
A few weeks later, smokin the dope made me throw up. A pregnancy test confirmed what you already know. The rains came and flooded that complex, and washed away all of my effects, warped every vinyl record, destroyed every love letter i ever saved, the colors on all my photos bled together. Ffilthy water, filtered by the walls that were infested with mold, all over my clothes and in my bed. everything i ever coveted stole or cherished as a monument to my confusion was washed away, just like my evil facade. I had to rebuild, I could no longer hide.
My landlord sold the complex in July, and they tore it down; new housing for those rich people who used to walk by my window.
I revisit this tale 2 months before the 2nd anniversary of its conception. I need to know how I came to leave such horror behind, but still am not happy? Can a person go from shit, and never live it down? I used to be th/ankful for my memories, they are what make you who you are, but now I just want to forget, to stop longing and lusting after freedom. To accept my fate. To be a true fatalist.
Even when I am found, I am still lost inside.