EXILE
RATTY SCURVICS REMEMBERS HIS MONTHS IN TEXAS
Go
here to read Ratty Scurvics' bio.
We
landed at a campground east of Baton Rouge and there I had a lovely
hurricane. The hours flowed by while I read a book and watched the
trees dance themselves to death through the windshield. Once Katrina
passed we expected to spend one more night and drive back to New
Orleans the next day to avoid traffic. There was a problem with
our plan though, the only source of information we had was a shitty
jambox that barely picked up anything. For the rest of the day we
periodically tried to listen for news but mostly frustrated ourselves.
The next day more people came by the grounds and we got what we
could from them - which wasn’t good, but we were hopeful anyway.
It wasn’t until we heard that no one was being allowed back
for a week that we decided to drive to Austin and visit old pals
while we waited it out. That’s when we got our first taste
of catastrophe.
The only open
gas station we found had a line miles long. Most of the cars were
turned off and people clustered in the shade off the highway. Obviously
this had been going on for a while because I overheard that the
station ran out of fuel twice already. Hours later I needed something
to eat so I walked to the distant station itself only to find another
line of thirsty frustrated people waiting to be let in. From the
guy in front of me I learned that there was eight feet of water
in the Ninth Ward. I staved off panic by reminding myself that my
neighborhood, the Bywater, sometimes isn’t considered to be
the Ninth Ward. Rumors of waterlines were on every tongue. This
part got twelve feet, that part only three….. I didn’t
know what to think. When I returned to the car a woman had her radio
up so loud everyone could hear it. New Orleans was “filling
up like a bowl”; it would be years before it was a livable
city again, if ever. Mo, my friend who persuaded me to leave with
her, looked over at me and with tears in her throat asked, “We
lost everything didn’t we?” There was no other answer
at the moment besides “Yes”. After five or six hours
we finally refueled and drove thankfully away. We were in two vehicles,
Mo, a cat and I in her car and her lover, Jo Power, in a bread truck
with her dog and the directions to our destination in Austin. Go
figure, we lost him. This didn’t sit well with her. Explaining
the stress and open nerves on this trip is not possible. It felt
like a breath could bring the cool crashing. We had no phone numbers,
no idea where to go and the unsettling knowledge that Jo didn’t
have enough gas money on him to make it there. If we took a route
that differed from the one we’d agreed on Jo could end up
stranded on another highway without a dime or a cell phone, or dog
food. The decision was made to continue to Austin and drive back
through this area later if we hadn’t heard from him.
At
last, we approach Austin (three to four hours away), the journey
had been a test of character but, being so close, surely nothing
else could go wrong. Bullshit. In some little Texas town where the
two lane highway actually has a stop sign, she noticed her cat was
no longer in the back seat. This animal, Paddy, had been trying
to escape the entire trip. I suppose he saw his big chance when
we slowed down and my window was open. That was the killing breath,
nothing was cool now. Mo grew hysterical; we had to find Paddy dead
or alive.
By this time
it was probably midnight and I hadn’t slept in days. When
she said we were going to drive back the twenty miles since our
last stop, on the shoulder at jogging speed with a flashlight scanning
the brush, I simply surrendered. There was nothing left in me to
freak no matter how close to a complete breakdown I thought I was.
The next hours
were spent leisurely driving along the shoulder up and down that
twenty mile stretch with me remaining mostly quiet while Mo slid
swiftly into despair. There were a few times when a piece of trash
resembled a mangled cat and she would jump out the car screaming
while I mutely hoped it was him so we could at least have a conclusion
to this fresh trial. No such luck. She formulated another plan:
we were to sleep a few hours in a shelter and wake early to make
lost cat flyers to post all over the tiny town. If in three days
she didn’t find him we would continue to Austin.
The shelter
was located in a Baptist summer camp dormitory. There were armed
soldiers and police officers milling around which intimidated us
and also illustrated the seriousness of our situation. You really
got the feeling that something had gone horribly wrong. Up to this
point the most information we had gotten was from that woman’s
radio at the gas station and minutes in front of a truck stop TV
on the Louisiana/Texas border. Evidently there had been a disaster
but reality was slow sinking in. Bedding was provided by the worker
who guided us to the dorm. She opened the door, turned on the light
and there in the room were probably fifteen wooden bunk beds armed
with tossing, grumbling people. I fell immediately to sleep, nothing
could stop it.
For the next
couple of days we covered over and again every street, alley and
parking lot. We interrogated anyone one we saw and rushed after
every lead. Paddy apparently was a cat about town but couldn’t
be caught. For the nights we stepped up to a hotel room where at
last we got to watch the news and face what was really going on.
Quite a few people I knew had remained, including the housemate
I spent my last day at home with. I couldn’t help but to imagine
them on rooftops or in the dome, drowned, shot … there were
no answers. Of course there was my family as well. Nothing could
be done and that was terrifying. Eventually Mo hesitantly admitted
that we had to get to Austin. There was little joy in the idea for
her but I was damn anxious to get somewhere. Apparently we were
going to have to start all over again and I, in my five day beard
and pink polka dotted dress, was anxious to begin.
For several
years I was in a band based out of Texas so there were a lot familiar
faces to greet me when we arrived. They had information, contacts
for free housing and refugee projects, - booze. At the time I wasn’t
sure where else to relocate, broke as I was and without a vehicle
of my own, it seemed logical to stay there at least for the moment.
There is a
place in Austin called the Musicians Co-op which was waiving deposits
and getting grants so that musician evacuees could have a place
to live. The conditions were right so I took a room after sleeping
on my old band mate’s floor for a month. I would estimate
that two thirds of the twenty residents came from New Orleans. The
Hot Eight Brass Band came by once in a while and Big Chief Kevin
took over the restaurant worthy kitchen briefly with his Indians.
An optimistic vibe pervaded among most of us. Sure, it was a screwed
up situation but at least we survived and there were all kinds of
opportunities to play benefit shows. Organizations as well as individuals
were donating equipment to cats like me who lost everything or weren’t
sure what was left. At the co-op itself there were open mics every
week where we could hang over a lot beer and get down with each
other. As for myself, I reconnected with some of my former band
mates who were working on a new project. There was a great feeling
in it; I rediscovered rock-n-roll.
Continue
to
read about of Detonations' John Henry returning to claim his property.
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