Soon, I Hope: Tales of an Old Hippie in the post-Apocalypse.
by Luke

Cabinet maker, contractor and NOLAFugees correspondent Luke reflects on his first months in post-Apocalypse New Orleans.

My name is Luke. Like many others in New Orleans at this time I come from someplace else. I'm from Tennessee, the Appalachian Mountains just above Chattanooga, a poor place with few jobs. It's hard to find work; if your daddy has a job and he dies, and you have no older brothers, you might get his job. I had a job working in a cabinet shop, until Katrina hit. Lumber prices doubled. The shop closed.

I decided that Katrina took it, Katrina could give it back. I had reached a point in my life where I was staying with friends and had no home. The bank had took it. I have good friends and am not a bad houseguest, but even the best of friends get tired of seeing your smiling face at breakfast every morning. So one January Friday, with the sleet and snow blowing around, I kissed the ol'lady goodbye and caught a ride with a trucker to New Orleans.

I got dropped off in Metairie with four dollars in my pocket and a suitcase with a few clothes. It was Saturday afternoon. The weather was warm, sunshiney, and I had a smile on my face. I'd saw the destruction coming in and just knew I'd arrived in the land of opportunity. Not only would I get to help rebuild a beautiful old city; I'd be able to rebuild my life.

Every house being rebuilt had to have a set of kitchen cabinets. So with that thought the trucker dropped me off in front of a cabinet shop. Leaving the suitcase outside, I went in to ask about a job. Two minutes later, me and my suitcase are going down the street. Two hours later, I'm ready to leave that heavy suitcase and continue on by myself.

I sat down to ponder my predicament, and mentally kick my ass for thinking I was still young enough for this. Why did I leave that wonderful snow and sleet to drag a heavy-ass suitcase through an abandoned city?

As I sat on the curb, a truck pulled into the lot behind me. It had ladders and tools on it. Alright, I thought. I walked up to the truck and started talking to the driver. He wasn't working. He'd hurt his back, but he said he'd give me a ride to civilization.

He took me to the end of Airline, talking all the way. He cussed the government, the levee workers, the Mexicans, the blacks, the whites, and the insurance companies, and the mayor of New Orleans personally. He let me off at a bus stop, and I shook his hand.

Five minutes later a bus pulled up and I dragged my suitcase onboard, fumbling in my pocket for a dollar and a dime. I fed the meter and sat down. The bus stopped, and the driver called "end of the line. Brother, you got to get off." I'd been on the bus less than a minute. Looking out the windows, all I saw was busted glass, torn off roofs, streetlights lying on the sidewalk. I was back in no-man's land.

I'd heard on the news about racial prejudice down here and riots and stuff, and suddenly I discovered I was white. Not only that, but I was getting kicked off the bus in the middle of nowhere, and I was the only white person out of seven (and two of them didn't look too friendly). I was apprehensive. I couldn't talk the driver into taking me back. I had to get off out here.

Dragging the heavy suitcase off the bus, I no longer had a smile on my face. I sat the suitcase down on the curb, and as I looked up, I saw this good looking black chick laughing at me.

"You should have seen the look on your face when the driver told you to get off the bus," she said. "Come on-- we catch another one up the street." We got on the next bus, and as we rode through the ruins she talked to me like we were old friends. She was headed for the library.

By the time I stepped off on Canal Street, my smile had returned. All the ride down Tulane Ave I'd saw nothing but destruction, but Canal was alive. Evening was coming and I had no place to go. A couple blocks behind the street I'd spotted what I thought was a garage and decided to spend the night there. I had no blanket, so I spread my towel on the concrete. The wind blew all night.

Next morning, I left the heavy suitcase in the garage and went back to Canal. I saw a guy standing on the corner with a pack on his back and a box on his shoulder, just arrived in town.

I told him about my garage and we carried his stuff there, then went exploring the city, looking for work. We talked to people everywhere we went. I discovered that people here are so helpful that even if they don't know anything, they'd still tell you stuff. This really isn't out of meanness, but just that they heard rumors and pass them on as fact. Eighty percent of what we were told ended up in wasted trips. The next day I went to work at a labor pool.

Three months have passed since then. My garage turned out to be a firehouse that had been abandoned for a while. I moved into an abandoned house down the street.

I've met some really great people since then. But I am amazed at how slow New Orleans is to rebuild. I hear the people clamor about it all the time. I hear the plans. But I've watched skilled tradesmen come as I did, and leave disgusted at the rents and the lack of work. There are other places on the Coast where they can find what they want and need.

I still see New Orleans as a land of opportunity. My ol'lady wants to know when it's gonna happen. "Soon," I keep saying.

I came with nothing. I still have no material possessions, but I have made some friends and met some strange and interesting people. I haven't went hungry or dirty since I've been here. I've supported myself without begging, and when the time comes I'll be here to do what I came to do. I'm just an old hippie on my last great adventure in life, and I know it's gonna be a good one.

Soon, I hope.

Luke is an old hippie on his last great adventure in life. Look for more of his work to come in future issues of NOLAFugees.com