“You are my sunshine my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey, You’ll never know Dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
Jimmie Davis
(Louisiana Governor 1944-1948; 1960-1964)
I bolted out of the classroom when the final recess bell of the day sounded. I was running towards the field that was directly behind my grammar school. Finally feeling like I had found some sliver of privacy I stopped and looked up. I suppose it had always been there, but I don’t think I realized how beautiful it was until now. I studied its gnarly bark and the spiky pine needles which seemed to emit a sheen that was glittery and icy in a way that was bewildering, but appreciated all the same. Aware of myself again I now noticed the fallen pine cones scattered around my feet. Wanting a better vantage I stepped back and positioned myself for proper viewing of this spectacular tree. I needed a look at it with the blue sky and fluffy white clouds and then I would have some peace. What was the problem again? I was never a great student and would easily drift away during class. I believe that day I was suffocating from the weight of the day and all of my classmates chatter and mess. I just wanted to run! As I looked at the perfect day and this gigantic tree against a perfectly blue sky I realized that I found solace in nature. Smiling for having pulled off a moment to myself I made a mental note for the next time I needed to escape. I sat down on the grass and looked back towards my school. No one was looking at me and I couldn’t believe some kid hadn’t come up to me by now and asked why I was in the field. A teacher was no where to be found. I felt such freedom. Every green thing was so very lush each Spring in my hometown. Growing up in Southeast Louisiana the weather is always on your mind. My small corner of the continent is full of tumultuous highs and lows. In more ways than just the weather. My mother’s side of the family immigrated from the British Isles back in the late 1700’s. Why they settled here is also not clear. Maybe they ran out of everything making the trip and they needed to set up camp and begin their new life in the sub tropics of Louisiana. The heat must have been withering for these coming from the United Kingdom. Their English summer’s reached temperatures of 70 degrees if they were lucky as opposed to our 90’s and beyond dog days. Summer storms like the one we just had on August 29th were only once every fifteen years or so. Each summer we’d watch the tropics with the weatherman and wonder if this year we’d narrowly escape utter doom and annihilation. When I was a kid WWL-TV had a much beloved retired weatherman named Nash Roberts. If you saw him forecasting you knew that they were serious about watching a hurricane and he was the local expert on the subject. A hurricane forecast can be a comfort and an absolute mystery in some ways. In the week before Ida I began noticing people around the Garden District walking out of their homes carrying pets in carriers and suitcases. They were packing cars and obviously evacuating before the storm. I remember thinking they must not be from here and are scared of a repeat of Katrina. But the weatherman said the storm was mainly going through the Port Fourchon and Houma areas. Right? Ida jogging over twenty miles to LaPlace and New Orleans was only a worst case scenario according to my favorite meteorologist. So, I trusted that they felt what we’d receive in Nola would be similar to the category 2 winds of Zeta which arrived on a Sunday after the Saints game back in October. I was prepared. I knew we’d lose power and accepted that it would be really hot and humid for a while. The storm didn’t concern me until sometime after 4:00 pm. When I tell you that the wind was growling outside of my windows I’m not kidding. If I was still high I sobered up quickly as I realized I evidently couldn’t smoke enough weed to calm down watching my neighbor’s tin roof peel away. This storm went on and on as it grew in intensity making me so rattled I ignored my hunger pains even though at 7:00 pm I realized I hadn’t eaten since morning. With shaky hands I carefully made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich which, in the end, proved futile, because I could barely choke it down. It was then I decided that it might have been better if I had evacuated and not put myself through this. Reassuring myself that I won’t ride through the next one, I cranked up my generator and plugged in my oscillating fan. Ida took her sweet ass time leaving the metropolitan New Orleans area, but sometime around 11:00 pm I stopped hearing the wind growl. I lay spread eagle on my sheets feeling thankful the house held and how I was a bad mother fucker for enduring it. I quickly passed out into a deep and delirious sleep. The next morning my homeless friend was outside banging on my door. “You alright?” I answered him with a groggy “yep.” He was offering to clean up my yard because he likes to give back. Sweet guy. I asked him if he’d like some breakfast and he did. I pulled out my little propane camping burner and fried eggs and bacon for us both on my side porch. Once he ate, cleaned up my debris and gave me lowdown of what’s happening in the neighborhood and what will likely happen in the coming days he jumped on his bike and went about his day. He said he rode out the storm in his tent under the bridge and thought Ida was exciting. I can’t imagine. I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to see how it had changed in twenty four hours. I made a bee line for the park to see if our live oaks had survived and to my relief they had all held and only lost some branches. Heading back to the house I stepped over downed cable lines and roof tiles careful not to let a nail go through my shoe. I got back home and considered the choices I had to make. I really didn’t want to sit in the heat for God knows how many weeks until the power came back on. Also, what client would be dropping by for a visit? Everyone was affected by the hurricane and I imagined that my typical regular was busy with his own personal hell. So, I cleaned out my refrigerator and made a decision. I was going to Texas. I figured I could find some work and have electricity somewhere. I don’t care for Houston for many reasons I won’t get into now and decided on Dallas. I picked Dallas because I have never been there. Looking back on that decision I think I would have preferred Houston because while Dallas is big and rich and impressive, it isn’t very soulful. However, you can find everything you could possibly want. I had started packing a bag when the storm was at its worse. Fearful that the roof would blow off I didn’t want to lose things like my passport and precious pictures and memories. So, after I cleaned out my refrigerator I grabbed my bag and hit the road. Thankful I had filled up my car before the storm I made my way out of New Orleans whispering to myself as I crossed into Metairie, “it’s just for a week or so.” Driving into East Texas in the dark is not what I had attended, but traffic had been averted from I-10 because of storm debris and water. So, I had to take the Causeway to I-12 which is always a longer drive. I arrived at the hotel I had thought ahead to pre-book while buying gas and boudin in Krotz Springs, LA. Around midnight I as I pulled into the hotel parking lot I noticed a lot of Louisiana license plates. As I entered the hotel I was greeted cheerfully by the night clerk who wanted to hear about my ordeal. He was a mild mannered fair skinned young man with whom I most likely shared the same culture and heritage. And that’s where it ended. I wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, but at least this place had its lights on. I said “goodnight” to the helpful East Texas night clerk and made my way down a maze of a hall I didn’t think I would ever solve. When I made it to my room I was pleased and satisfied. It was the first time I had felt safe in two days. I gave myself permission to collapse and slept until the sound of weed eaters woke me around 9:00 am. On my second night in Texas I wound up at a honky tonk type of club which doubled as a sex club, but without a band. Just various hip hop songs were played as scantily clad milfs and gilfs danced and pranced with and without the stripper pole. These people were locals and this was their little oasis of sin. As I made my way back to the sex rooms I was greeted by a friendly gay man with green hair. He told me the rules and I turned to find room after room with a bed and a black curtain which could be pulled closed or left open for proper voyeurism. I turned another corner and a woman was squatting on her knees and sucking off a guy who motioned for me to come over. I took off my dress and joined them. She paired off with another man on a nearby bed and they began fucking. As I took her place sucking the man who had lured me over I realized that he was fairly drunk and a little too forceful for my taste. I told him that he needed to take it easy, but he basically flipped me onto the bed and almost in unison, she handed him a condom. He begrudgingly put it on and thrust his cock into my pussy with the force of a man who doesn’t care about anyone but himself. I wasn’t wet enough at this point and it was uncomfortable. I pushed against him in an attempt to maneuver myself into a more comfortable position, but he wasn’t having it. I had obviously found the honky-tonk lothario, which means it was all about him and that’s always a recipe for disaster. I pushed him off of me and told him that I’d had enough. He said “most women like it that way.” I told him to “go fuck yourself” as he laughed still lying on the bed. And that was my introduction to kink in Dallas. So much for finding a polite cowboy who is all “shucks” and “mam.” I was batting zero and I was in the wrong place. Clients up to this point had proved elusive and weren’t something that I could depend on at this point. t was Labor Day Weekend and I hadn’t had luck with my ads and was starting to think I had made a mistake by coming this far up into white America. I went back to my hotel, took a bath in an attempt to wash off the failure of this night, soothed myself with some hot tea and hoped things would be better in the morning. According to the Entergy outage map my neighborhood was still without power and I had nothing else to do. The next morning was better. I was invited by an acquaintance to a sex party at a hotel in Fort Worth. A bunch of couples in a moderately priced Comfort Suites sounded a whole lot friendlier than the dysfunction I had suffered through the night before. I spent the day sight-seeing downtown Dallas and I found some fried chicken in the LGBTQ part of town that was nothing less than a religious experience. Even though I hadn’t found any work I was trying to stay optimistic and was eager for some good company and a little escape from the ordeal that still was Ida. When I arrived I noticed that there were a few pine trees scattered around the hotel parking lot. I stayed outside a little while before I went in and took in the smell of the trees. I missed New Orleans and remembered how I had tried living in Houston, Texas in my thirties. It wasn’t for me. I prefer the smell of decay that accompanies the natural world of Louisiana and the mystery of living shrouded among the oaks than the overwhelming stench of car exhaust that is Houston’s signature aroma. My corner of the world is where I feel most secure. I straightened my skirt and reapplied my lipstick and walked into the hotel lobby. On the elevator now I was tempted to take a pic for Instagram or Twitter just to say hello to everyone back home, but my heart wasn’t into it. I figured the dismay I was feeling would show in my eyes and then I’d bum subscribers and followers out. I knew they all had a lot to deal with in their own lives since Ida turned us upside down. When I knocked on the door I was greeted by a lean man with kind eyes. His wife was being pounded on one of the queen beds by an eager party goer and she wasn’t able to say hello, but we caught up later. Others came forward and introduced themselves and I felt like I had found the real pervs in Texas. These people were getting it on like nobody’s business. I found more sex and acceptance and freedom being passed around like a candy dish than I had seen in a good while. This was a group of friends who meet and have little soiree’s from time to time. I was the new girl and that meant that the guys wanted to have a crack at me. I received a warm Texas greeting over and over by men who knew what they were doing. No groping or forcing. It was just mutual and respectful sex between consenting adults. As the last guy slipped his cock into me I realized that I was focused and in the moment. I wasn’t thinking about the mess waiting for me back in New Orleans or the fact that I wasn’t working. I had filled out all of the FEMA applications and did what I could to recoup some of my losses. So, I was free to enjoy the surfboard position with a friendly man named Don. After he dismounted I gathered myself and had a little girl talk with some of the ladies. They were such a sweet bunch of girls and they made me feel better. They wanted to hear about what Ida was really like and if my home had survived. It was then that I really took in the fact that sitting through that hurricane for hours and hours was truly awful. I held back a tear and said my goodbyes and gave hugs to everyone. I thanked them for inviting me and giving me a diversion on my trip. I drove back to Dallas under a starry, starry night grateful for many things. Funny thing is I made money from regulars and people I didn’t even know wanting to help. So, the fact that Jilly struck out business wise didn’t bother me that much. Also, and much to my surprise, clients from home were eager to see me even though they had their own problems. For some men the comfort and reliability of their favorite whore is the only thing that will do. I decided I should get home sooner than later. I spent a few more days until I heard that power was restored on my block and packed my bags for Louisiana. It felt good crossing the state line from what is basically another country to the ruddiness of the roads in Louisiana and the old time feel of what can best be described as Kingfish country. Famed populist governor, Huey Long had vision and his legacy lives on in that portion of Winn Parish. I once visited the Louisiana Political Museum in his hometown of Winnfield, Louisiana. It is a town literally suspended in time and his shadow looms large in that not much has changed since he was assassinated back in 1935. Traveling through north Louisiana I marveled at what lovely and wide open views it has. For a portion of the trip between Shreveport and Alexandria no billboards are allowed. What a relief! There are many varieties of trees and pastures full of cows or crops. Sunsets are spectacular because this area, for more reason than one, has not been developed like most of my beloved Southeast. We were taught as children in school to hold onto the past and remember our state’s history fondly. I have always been proud to be a Louisianian and honoring all aspects including the Cajun culture as well. I still love my home. I wonder how much longer the areas that were and will be hit by monster hurricanes can hold on or even be habitable. Will the tourists want to visit us if we keep having these climatic fifteen year storms every year? We just don’t know. I will keep on wishing for the best, love the uniqueness of living below sea level and being fearless for choosing to stay in my beloved city of dreams come what may.
