You hang around New Orleans long enough these days, and you begin to absorb what is new and what is different.
For instance, I was sitting on my front stoop and an RTA bus marked MAGAZINE zoomed by. I thought: Well, how about that! That’s a good sign.
Never mind that the bus was empty; at least it was running, and that’s a sign of normalcy. And it was going way too fast, and therein was another harbinger of the same-ol’, same-ol’.
Then, about ninety seconds later, another RTA bus marked MAGAZINE whizzed by, shaking my house to its foundation. It, too, was empty, but it was the realization that there were probably only two buses running the entire Magazine Street route and here they were, one right after the other and I thought: We’re back!
What could be a better indication of a return to the old ways than the colossal inefficiency of our public transportation system? I don’t know about you, but I will sleep better tonight; at least, that is, until an RTA bus blows by the house at midnight at Category 5 speed and does more damage to my plaster ceilings than Katrina did.
Of course, a common joke around here—dire times make for dire humor—is that when the mayor announced that he was laying off three thousand workers this week, who would notice? I believe he, or some other public official, called them “nonessential employees,” and I’ll let you fill in your own punch line.
I just hope it’s not the two guys who’ve been assigned to cut the grass on the neutral grounds for the past ten years; man, things would really be different around here without them.
I have a feeling I just really ticked off three thousand people, maybe more. But then, that would be another sign of normalcy, wouldn’t it? People being angry at the local newspaper: a comfort zone if ever there was one.
A casual drive around town—or at least what remains of it—is also a compelling reminder of the old days. It reminds you how much a simple afternoon drive can involve facing danger to its core.
First of all, at least half the city’s one-way signs were turned sideways by the wind and now point in the wrong direction. And half the people driving around here are guys from out of state in massive pickup trucks and the National Guard put up temporary stop signs at intersections where traffic lights are now working, so it’s all a game of Russian roulette. Or maybe chicken.
A run to the local drug store/gas station/strip club has turned into a not-so-virtual game of Grand Theft Auto.
Every now and then I see some church lady tooling down the road at 7 mph in her cream-colored, four-door Grand Marquis, and I can only wonder: Why are you here?
I know it’s probably bad taste to kick the city while it’s down, but it is interesting/fun/mind-boggling to watch some of the old New Orleans civic quirks work their way back into operation.
For instance, the mayor has urged business owners to come back into town and open up and we residents have been encouraged to patronize them, but neighborhood restaurants and bars are bum-rushed by the authorities every night at 8 P.M. and told to close for curfew.
I’m no restaurateur, but I can imagine it must be hard to build up a steady dinner clientele when you have to close at sunset. Oddly—maybe not so oddly, when I think about it—the strip clubs on Bourbon Street are somehow exempt from this rule and there are tons of big, beefy guys in town (who drive really big pickup trucks) with disposable cash who are all too happy to stuff garter belts full of fivers until the sun comes up and they have to report to work and operate heavy machinery on a one-way street.
Yes, indeed, all is returning to normal. I think there is no better indication of this than the running commentary that has been taking place on the plywood boards mounted over the windows of Sarouk Shop Oriental Rugs down on St. Charles Avenue near Lee Circle.
Early on, in the hairy days of Aftermath, the owner/proprietor/squatter who was living there spray-painted (I’m no handwriting analyst, but I’d say it was with some urgency), “Don’t try: I am sleeping inside with a big dog, an ugly woman, two shotguns and a claw hammer.”
Claw hammer. Nice touch.
Then, in a spray-paint posting dated 9/4/05 (talk about meticulous graffiti!), it says, “Still here. Woman left. Cooking a pot of dog gumbo.”
As I said, dire times call for dire humor. Or maybe it wasn’t a joke; some strange things have happened around here lately.
Anyway, in a spray-painted update dated 9/24, it says, “Welcome back, y’all. Grin & bear it.”
Ain’t that the truth? I mean, what are the other choices?