And the wind howled...

Somewhere off the coast of North Africa, the wind picked up and blew harder and longer than usual. The temperatures are warmer than normal, and the ocean is hotter than it’s been all year. Waves steadily grew larger beneath the wind as they began their westward trek towards the continent of North America, swirling in a giant circle and gaining steam as it went. The further westward the storm went, the stronger it became, and soon it would crossover from a tropical depression to a tropical storm to a hurricane.

It’s been 17 years since Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. Eighteen hundred people lost their lives, and countless others lost their homes, businesses, and futures. Those were tough times, but we made it through, and slowly, we rebuilt our livelihoods, and New Orleans came back stronger than ever. We face a similar event almost to the day, and everyone is afraid the results will be the same or worse. Such is the case when the wind howls. And now… Hurricane Ida has entered the Gulf of Mexico.

Such is the case when the wind howls.

I’m afraid this time. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the impending danger. When Katrina came through, I was younger, and I had a home, money, and a car. It was easier for me to get around. I could pack up my belongings and flee to higher, safer ground in my little Toyota. The times since Katrina has not been kind to me and I no longer have a home, nor a car, and very few belongings. I am one of the invisible people that adorn the streets of New Orleans, living my life daily, scrounging for a meal wherever I can find one, and hoping that another catastrophe like Katrina doesn’t happen in my lifetime.

I won’t bore you with the details of my past life. Let’s just say that addiction and mental illness, coupled with little to no family, have left me in this predicament. I’m not unhappy. I’ve made many friends over the past seventeen years. I’ve actually enjoyed sleeping beneath the stars on a cool, clear night, and although finding a good healthy meal is nigh on impossible, I’m not starving. And I’ve been clean of drugs and alcohol for the past five years. Without a job, it’s impossible to support those habits unless you resort to a life of crime. I refuse to steal or take what’s not given to me. I am poor, but I am no thief. I work the occasional day job if needed, but it doesn’t produce enough money to do anything with. Besides, there are folks way worse off than me, so whenever I get some cash, I’ll share some with my friends. It’s the way of the street. They reciprocate with me, too.

But now, Ida is coming, or so I’m told. She may be the worst hurricane since the 1850s, worse than Hurricane Katrina. The city is already closing and boarding up windows and doors. I can see traffic backed up on the highways that run through downtown by the stadium, and everywhere I look, people seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere, but no one is really leaving yet. I’ve spoken with several of my friends, and they are all worried too.

I hear the same questions over and over. Where will we go? What will we eat? Where will we stay? I wonder if the tidal surge will be as bad as Katrina. I can remember in some places like Metairie Gardens and the Lower 9th Ward, and even over in Chalmette, the water got as high as twenty feet in some places. The debris and the wind were hazardous, too. I suppose none of these matters concern most people, though. They will get in their cars and drive away to somewhere safe until the storm passes.

I am one of the invisible people that adorn the streets of New Orleans, living my life daily, scrounging for a meal wherever I can find one, and hoping that another catastrophe like Katrina doesn’t happen in my lifetime.

Those of us who can’t remain to survive on our own. During Katrina, it was nearly a month before the rescue crews, and the National Guard arrived and began the laborious task of restoring basic services and rescuing people. I can remember people dying because of the lack of water and food. I have a shopping cart I use to carry my belongings in, and I’ve been collecting water bottles and food to prepare for a similar occurrence. However, they promised what happened with Katrina would never happen again. All I really needed to find now was a safe, dry place, high enough to keep from drowning to wait out the storm.

. . . .

My bones and joints ached around 11 A.M. on Sunday morning. That was always a surefire sign to me that foul weather was inbound. By 1 P. M., Sunday afternoon, I hunched over like a disabled older man and the rain poured down like windblown sheets flapping on a clothesline. I knew if I didn’t find shelter soon, it would catch me outside in the storm’s worst. I dared not go to a homeless shelter because the staff there treated everyone like criminals. The staff was right to do so because the people who sought refuge there would steal anything and everything from you regardless of holding it in your hands. I couldn’t bring my cart inside with me, which meant I would lose everything I had collected. And they crammed people into those places, shoulder to shoulder, making for a lot of noise. I can’t handle noisy places. I get really nervous and may have a mental episode. So it’s better if I find someplace where I can be alone, someplace safe and quiet.

The rain is coming down harder and more steady, and I know my time is running out, and then as if by grace, I see a large parking deck. It is one of those parking decks with an interior elevator, and it’s maybe four stories tall next to an even taller medical building. I make my way to the garage, and once I’m inside, I have some immediate relief from the wind and the rain, but I know it won’t last. Once the brunt of the hurricane comes across us, I will need to be in a place with four walls and higher than the lower deck. I push my cart up the drive, moving from level to level before I remember there’s an elevator, so on the third level, I walk over to the elevator lobby and open the door. Inside the lobby area, gathered on the floor, are five people. Well, two adults and three children. The man (I assume the father) stood up to confront me, but I raised my hands and apologized for intruding. I pointed to the elevator and asked if I could use it. The father nodded yes, so I pushed the up button and waited. In a few moments, the elevator doors opened. I grabbed my cart, pushed it into the elevator, wished the family good luck, and pressed 4. The doors closed behind me, and I was alone again.

The doors opened into the 4th-floor lobby, which was empty. I pushed my cart off the elevator and walked over to check the door to the parking deck and the door to the stairs. I propped open the door to the stairs a little to help equalize the air pressure, but I made sure the door to the parking deck was firmly closed. I pulled out my gear from the cart and set up my campsite. It’s not the best gear, but every single iota is mine. I either found it, or I paid for it. Besides, it fills my needs.

I was happy to be in a safe place, too. There was a light. The walls, floor, and ceiling all appeared to be concrete and concrete blocks. There was also a small window that faced outside. From here, I could watch everything. I could see everything I needed to see. I stood there, looking outside for a very long time. I watched as other people, some of them invisible people like me, wandered around looking lost. I watched the storm pick up strength, too. Soon, the clouds darkened the sky, and the wind howled louder than I ever remembered. It had been a long time since Katrina, and Ida’s howling wind brought those memories back to me in a flash.

The rain came down in droves, and the wind tore roofs off of nearby buildings. Then the electricity went out. Fortunately, the parking garage must have had a generator because shortly, the emergency lighting came back on in the lobbies and the stairwells. The winds howled louder, sounding almost like a freight train. I was so happy to be inside, safe from this maddening weather. I decided I was hungry, so I broke out a can of vegetables and lit a can of Sterno. I’ve learned over the years, and if I’m frugal with my Sterno, I can cook 5 or 6 small meals with one can. That’s important to me because it costs $2.25 at the dollar store.

I pulled out my skillet and poured the can of red beans and a can of Spam into the skillet. Soon, the Sterno had the skillet nice and hot, and the beans were bubbling. I guess the smell wafted down the staircase because it wasn’t very long, and I heard footsteps coming in my direction. I waited several minutes before standing up and walking over to the staircase door and opening it all the way. To my surprise stood the family that I had interrupted on the 3rd floor.

I could tell they were hungry, and I can only imagine the smell of my cooking dinner made them more hungry. I’m never one for small talk, and I would expect no one to beg me for a meal, so I stood aside and invited them in for dinner. They scampered inside the small lobby, and the dad pushed the door closed behind them. Once everyone sat on the floor, I handed out paper plates, plastic forks, and water bottles. The mom seemed surprised I had so much stuff with me. I smiled at her and asked her if she would like to serve the portions for her family first. I told her I also had an unopened loaf of bread. She picked up the skillet and dished out an equal serving to everyone, including me.

When everyone had finished eating, I gathered the dirty plates and empty water bottles and put them in a trash bag I kept in my cart. It was completely dark outside now, and the wind and rain were still blowing harder than ever before. The father was holding his youngest child, so she could peer out the window when there was a sudden loud bang. Something large had struck the roof above us, and we could hear the wrenching sound as metal and concrete gave way to the wind blowing loud.

The children shrieked in terror, and the mom gathered her other children around her as the father kneeled over them. Then the emergency lighting went out, and it engulfed us in complete and total darkness. The only light source came from the small window as the storm’s lightning would occasionally flash to remind us the storm was still outside. I looked out and could see the wind and the floodwaters pushing cars down a side street, and I knew the storm surge was upon us. I also knew we were in the safest place we could be at the moment.

I felt along the wall until I found the doorway to the staircase and opened the door. The staircase still had emergency lighting along each step, so I ordered the family to get inside the stairwell. I had no way of knowing if it was safer, but there were no windows, and there was light. I dragged my sleeping bags and the quilt the church had given me into the stairwell, and without asking, the mother knew what to do. She made a pallet for her children and covered them with the quilt. Then, I dug through my cart until I found a treat I had been saving for myself for a special occasion, a brand-new bag of Oreo cookies. I gave them to the mother, and she smiled at me. This was the first time she had smiled at me.

She gave each of her children two cookies each, and soon they were fast asleep. The mother and father leaned against each other and finally closed their eyes, too. I stayed awake for as long as I could remember. I listened to the down-pouring rain and the wind howling. Every so often, I would hear the wind catch the roof above us, and it would make that awful wrenching sound like someone was twisting metal that didn’t want to be twisted. The family was fast asleep and didn’t seem to be disturbed by the noise.

I drifted off to sleep right before daybreak. I jerked suddenly when my head fell forward, waking me up. The family had all laid down flat and covered themselves with the quilt the best as they could. I quietly stood erect and walked back into the elevator lobby area, and peered out the window. The wind was still blowing harder than normal, but not like it was when the storm first came ashore. It was still raining too, but it was more of a steady rain than a driving rain. The streets had turned into rivers.

By my estimates, the water was at least seven feet deep in most places, deeper in others from what I could see. I could see the windshields of trucks above the waterline, but any cars were completely underwater. There was debris everywhere. It had turned some cars over, roofs were missing from buildings, and the storm blew many windows out. I saw no people anywhere, and from what I could tell, no one in the immediate area had electricity. I must have been standing there, staring out the window for some time, because I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me.

When the father spoke, I nearly jumped out of my skin. He laughed and then apologized for scaring me. I turned to face him and saw his wife and the kids busy cleaning up their mess in the stairwell. He began thanking me for all of my hospitality and tried to shove a wad of money into my hand as his way of paying for their inconvenience on me. I refused his money. Although I’m poor and homeless, it didn’t seem right to take from them when they needed help the most. Besides, this adventure was far from over.

I asked him if they were leaving, and he nodded yes. They believed since the storm had passed, it was safe to leave. I asked him if he had looked outside this morning, and he said he had not, so I moved aside and motioned for him to look. He dropped his head in defeat and wept. I asked him if he was from the area, and he shook his head no. He told me his family was on vacation when they got word the hurricane was inbound. Their flight was canceled, and the hotel they were staying at locked the doors, preventing them from accessing their room and their luggage.

They walked around looking for any place to stay, but no one would open their doors. That’s when they sought shelter inside the parking deck. And then I came along. I stood there listening to him vent before I finally spoke. I told him my name, Fitz, and I told him I was around for the last big hurricane in 2005 and all the little ones ever since. I told him the best thing he could do for his family was to stay put. The real danger wasn’t the storm itself. That’s long gone. The real danger will be from the flooding, the downed power lines, and the predators, not just the human variety but the wildlife.

I warned him that if he ventured out right now, he was too risky with not only his life but with the lives of his family. To put his mind at ease, I let him know I had enough food and water in my cart to last us all 4-5 days if we were cautious and didn’t waste any. I even had toilet paper. Then I pointed down to the street just below us at what looked like a log but turned out to be a rather large alligator. I suggested we walk upstairs to the top level, check out the damage and see what we could see. He agreed and told me his name was Sam, and his wife’s name was Debbie.

Before we walked upstairs, I told Sam it might not be a bad idea to let her know we were going to be stuck together for at least another day or two and that she had my permission to go through my cart to figure out the things I have and what she might need to make she and her kids more comfortable during this stay. He agreed again and did just that. I could hear her crying, but then I heard her stand up and come to where I was standing. She thanked me for everything I was doing and said that she wouldn’t forget my kindness. Then she went through my cart while Sam and I walked upstairs.

. . . .

I pushed open the door to the roof and stepped outside. It felt good to feel the breeze on my face. There was a mist in the air, and I could smell the salt from the aftermath of the hurricane. It was eerily quiet except for the sound of Sam and my footsteps as we walked over to the edge of the deck. When we peered over the edge, the devastation below shocked us. The floodwaters were higher than I first thought. The flooding definitely stranded us here in the parking deck, and unless a rescue boat came along, we were here until the waters receded.

I surveyed the cars on the parking deck. There weren’t many, and those we found weren’t salvageable. Some were upside down, and the storm had blown others against the parking deck wall. I suggested to Sam we explore the cars for things we might need during our extended stay, and he agreed. So we searched car to car, looking for anything that would increase our chances of surviving and make our stay more comfortable. We found blankets and pillows and bottles of water. We also found the occasional bags of chips, cookies, and even a couple of boxes of chocolate. We carried everything we could back downstairs with us and stored it inside the stairwell. Sam also found a cellphone charger, but it did us little good since the networks were offline.

I could tell Sam and Debbie needed privacy by the confused look on her face when we returned carrying blankets and food, so I excused myself to go forage for more water and food. I figured she would not take the news well about the extent of the flooding. I ventured downstairs this time to see if the water had flooded the lower decks, too. Although it was daylight outside, it was still dark inside the parking deck and even darker inside the stairwell.

I had no flashlight to light my way, so I really depended on my intuition that the next step downward would also be dry. I never expected what happened next. There was no warning. I never heard a sound, but I knew I was in trouble when the water moccasin struck me in the leg. I figured it must have been an enormous snake because the impact of the strike knocked me off my feet, and I fell backward into a seated position on the staircase. It was then I smelled the distinctive odor of the cottonmouth snake. Some say they emit an odor that smells like rotten cucumbers right before they strike. I’ve never smelled that odor. To me, the odor smells more like that of an upset skunk. It is a musky, almost nauseous odor.

I immediately felt the poison working on my body. My leg went numb, and I became dizzy. I removed my belt from my pants and used it as a tourniquet to slow the poison down. I turned and slowly made my way back upstairs to Sam and Debbie. When I reached the landing, I called out to Sam, who came to my aid immediately. I explained to them what happened and when they cut open my pants leg to examine the bite, it had already turned colors. Without immediate medical help and antivenom, I would die.

Sam and Debbie made me as comfortable as possible in the stairwell. I knew my time was expiring without immediate medical help. I tried not to scream out in agony, but as the poison made its journey up my leg, the pain became excruciating. Then the fever began, and nausea overwhelmed me. I called for Sam to find a cigar box in my cart. I asked him if I died if he would give the cigar box to my sister if she wanted it. He told me he would put it in her hands personally then I slipped off into a restless sleep.

. . . .

My name is Sam, and this is my wife, Debbie. We first met Fitz during Hurricane Ida. We had sought refuge from the storm inside a stairwell in a parking deck when Fitz came across us. He, too, was seeking a place to weather the storm. He realized we had no food or other gear to survive very long, so he shared what he had with us. He kept us safe, and without his help, we most likely wouldn’t be here right now. He told our kids’ stories to keep them entertained, and he produced paper and crayons to draw pictures of their adventures. Although we only knew Sam for a few days before his accident, I believe he is one of those kinds of people who would have been a lifelong friend. Fitz was non-judgmental and was always willing to lend a helping hand until the moment of his injury. We did not know what to do after the snake bit him. There were no hospitals open, no way to call for help. All we could do was make him as comfortable as possible in his last hours.

I’m Debbie. I didn’t trust Fitz when I first saw him. I didn’t really recognize him as a trustworthy person. I saw a somewhat dirty homeless older man who intruded on our safe space. I was wrong. He wasn’t an intruder. He was a lifesaver. He unselfishly shared his food and water with us, and he made sure my kids and I had plenty to eat and drink and were as comfortable as possible, given the situation. He never made me feel uneasy. I didn’t realize how much he meant to my family and me until we lost him. It was like losing my dad or a grandfather. I’ll never forget the generosity of Fitz.

The night Fitz passed away, we had only been inside the stairwell for maybe 4 nights. The floodwaters had not abated, and the immediate area had taken on the aura of a gigantic urban swamp. Although we were near Metairie Gardens, a ritzy suburb of New Orleans, you wouldn’t know it. The area appeared abandoned, and squalor had set it without electricity and basic services. There was a stench in the air, not unlike what you would smell in any swamp. During our time with Fitz, he had taught us to be frugal with our food and water. He taught us how to entertain ourselves with storytelling and enjoy each other’s company without interfering with electronics like cellphones or tablets. When the poison took over Fitz, he was in a lot of pain that night. He rambled on and on, and every so often, he would shout unintelligible words. Fitz finally slipped off into a deep slumber in the wee hours of the morning, and he never woke up.

We wrapped his body in his sleeping bag, and I dragged him up to the roof. I didn’t know what else to do. Debbie found the cigar box he mentioned, and out of curiosity, she opened it. Inside, there were old photos of when he served in the Marines. There were also letters of commendation and various medals. From what we could tell, he earned the Purple Heart twice and the Silver Star. He never mentioned this to us. He asked us to deliver these items to his sister, but we do not know who she is or where she lives.

The Deputy Sheriff and paramedics stood in silence as they listened to my wife and me impart the details of how we had survived alone in the parking deck stairwell for almost ten days on nothing but the food in a shopping cart. The Deputy asked me to take him upstairs where I had stored Fitz’s body, so I pointed to the staircase and led the way. Debbie handed the cigar box to the paramedic, who browsed through the papers and photos with a confused look on her face. Another paramedic brought my children with her downstairs to the waiting ambulances.

When we got to the roof of the parking deck, I walked over to a maintenance closet that had been locked during our entire stay. I told the Deputy I had left Fitz’s body right here. Now he wasn’t there. I explained I didn’t know how this could happen because people would have had to walk right past us. We looked around, and behind a dumpster, I found the sleeping bag. It appeared older and almost rotten. Fitz’s body was still nowhere to be found. We walked back downstairs to where Debbie and the paramedic were standing.

They were still going through the items in the cigar box. Debbie handed me a newspaper article that showed a photo of Fritz. He was wearing his Marine Corps uniform with his medals and ribbons. The write-up told of his heroics during a battle on Saipan at the beginning of WWII. The article also mentioned how he died at the hands of a homeless person looking for drugs during a botched robbery attempt here in New Orleans about forty years ago. The article also listed his only next of kin as a sister that lived in Metairie Gardens. The newspaper showed a date of August 29, 1981.

How was this even possible? Had we hallucinated? It was so real. The Deputy and paramedic escorted us downstairs to where our children were waiting, and we all got inside the ambulance for the short ride over to the hospital. As the ambulance drove away, I looked out the rear window of the ambulance to see Fitz standing there by the parking deck. He was holding on to his shopping cart, and he was waving at us.