Hurricane Song Page 3

  When the saints go marching in

  Sunday August 28, 4:10 P.M.

  There weren’t any soldiers at the front of the line for the bathroom. So anybody who could flex enough muscle just pushed their way past. My uncle and me stood in line for almost an hour, with Pop staying back at the seats to eagle-eye our stuff.

  “Look at them crumb punks!” Uncle Roy said as a whole posse of thugs shoved through. “That’s how they was raised up. It’s a reflection on their family—treatin’ their own people like dirt! I hope they meet up with some other gang, and they beat the crap outta each other.”

  I stood there with my bowels ready to bust, thinking about how I’d snuck onto that food line. And that this was some kind of cosmic payback.

  “Maybe it’ll come back on them even worse,” I said, with the cramps shooting through me.

  My uncle nodded and said, “It will, if God or the devil’s got a hand in it.”

  There was a guy walking up and down the line, talking to people on the low. I thought he was hawking weed, but he wasn’t. Instead, he flashed a box of pills, like you’d buy in a drugstore.

  “This stuff will bind you up tight,” he said. “You won’t have to shit for days.”

  I looked at him like he was crazy. He wanted ten dollars for a single pill, but Uncle Roy traded him a brand-new pack of cigarettes for one.

  We finally got inside the bathroom and waved through a thick cloud of smoke. I could smell the weed mixed with cigarettes, and after a minute, my head started spinning. I felt sorry for some little boy whose father had his hand cupped over the kid’s nose and mouth.

  Uncle Roy kept watch outside the stall while I went in to do my business. Then I did the same for him. Only people had already robbed all the toilet paper. I guess so they’d have it for themselves later, or to sell. So I just pulled my pants up, and didn’t let myself think about it.

  On the way back, I found that guy and bought two of those pills, for Pop and me. I had mostly fives and singles, so it probably looked like I had more money than I did. People saw that roll in my hand and some of them eyed it good. That’s when Uncle Roy got up on me close to show we were together, and I put a grill to chill on my face, advertising that I wasn’t a herb.

  There wasn’t a clock you could look at anywhere. But I had on the wristwatch Mom got me. It was a little after five o’clock, and I was trying to get comfortable in one of those stiff seats. I kept thinking about that bastard kid who’d stole my football. Then I took out that damn drum. I spun it around in my hands and wanted to throw a perfect spiral with it from the stands and see it smash into a thousand pieces on the field. But that wasn’t going to fix anything. So I pulled back and left the drum sitting on my lap. Then I pounded on it, like I could put my fist straight through the skin stretched across the top.

  “Ease up on that!” scolded Pop. “Remember, that’s an instrument, not a toy.”

  I didn’t say a word back, and just sank lower into my seat.

  When I called Mom about the hurricane last night, it was late and I’d woke her up.

  “Your father’s bringin’ you where? To what motel?” she started in, still half asleep. “You tell your father and uncle to drive you up here to Chicago. I want you where it’s safe.”

  What really ran through my brain was, Why? So the three of us can sleep in a closet in your crowded-ass house?

  Instead, I answered, “You know nobody can change Pop’s mind when he’s set on something.”

  But I missed her, too. And it stung when she gave up on the idea of getting me there so quick.

  “Then you just make sure he fills up jugs of water, and take all the food you can find,” she told me.

  Only we weren’t smart enough to do any of that.

  Back in Chicago, Mom was probably setting the table for Sunday dinner around now.

  My stomach rumbled and I started beating on that drum dreaming of all the things Mom cooked best. I could taste her macaroni and cheese, pork ribs, and meat loaf with mashed potatoes when Pop said, “That noodlin’ almost sounds decent, son. You been down to the Crossroads without me knowing?”

  "Down to where?” I asked.

  “The Crossroads—that’s where you learn to play your ax without havin’ to sweat over it,” Pop said. “The devil shows up and makes you a deal. You trade him your soul and he gives you the power to play. So you got to choose one road over another—the easy one or the rough one that might never get you there.”

  “I been nowhere near there, Pop,” I said fast, losing my patience. “You ever been?”

  “I went there one time but the devil never came. Guess I had nothin’ to trade. Jazz had already snatched up my soul,” said Pop, picking up my drum. “It’s the only way I can say what I feel, and I’d be less than nothin’ without it.”

  Then Pop grabbed the drum and used just his fingertips to beat a rhythm off the top of his head. It cut straight through all the noise, like it had something to say just to me. And I wondered how long Pop suffered on the rough road to make a drum talk that way.

  The preacher’s name was Culver, and at around seven o’clock that night he stood up on his chair and said he was going to hold a service. Lots of people got up to move closer, and Uncle Roy even unzipped his clothes bag to put on a suit jacket.

  “I may be a sinner on Saturday night, but I’ll show some respect on the Lord’s day,” said Uncle Roy.

  I hadn’t been to any kind of service since I started living with Pop. My uncle and him played every Friday and Saturday night. That’s when I could get work bussing tables, too. So Sundays were mostly for sleeping late.

  Culver was yelling over the noise from the start.

  “Know that Katrina’s not some kind of punishment, ” he preached. “That’s not God’s way. I’ll tell you this storm is a test. It’s a test of character, and a chance to prove what’s really important to you in this life— faith, family, and the brotherhood we all share.”

  I could tell parts of that speech were written out beforehand. But sometimes Preacher Culver would go off sideways to answer somebody’s question, like, Why does God have it in for poor people? He’d pull words right out of the air to come up with an answer. And that’s when Culver sounded to me like he meant it the most.

  Cyrus sat there stone quiet with his eyes fixed on something in front of him. Then close to the end of Culver’s sermon he hollered out, “How ’bout some singin’, preacher? It’s not a service without a hymn!”

  Culver called up two of his own kids who had tambourines. He looked at me and asked, “Young brother, can you come up here with that drum, please?”

  I don’t know what happened. But I was on my feet before I knew it, like I never really had a choice.

  Then Preacher Culver asked if anybody else had an instrument they could play. Only Pop and Uncle Roy stayed blank on him and never moved a muscle. When I got up front, I stood there looking at them. They both had big grins on their faces, like the joke was on me.

  “Just a simple beat,” Culver said.

  I didn’t have the time to think about how I didn’t really know what I was doing.

  Preacher Culver’s hand rose up and down, and I banged on the drum to it, before he started singing alone.

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me . . .

  Most everybody in our section joined in, and there were voices coming from other directions, too. And for a minute, the loudest sound in the Superdome came from that song, and everything else faded out behind it.

  I didn’t sing a word and just concentrated on following Culver’s rhythm, trying not to screw up.

  When it was finished and I walked back, Pop and my uncle were both clapping for me.

  “See, now your first gig was in a shelter, too,” said Uncle Roy, smirking. “Your trio was tight. I didn’t hear a single clam in that whole piece. Maybe all you need is the right nickname to crash the big-time. How about ‘Chic’ for all them years you spent in Chicago?
”

  “That’ll hype him good,” laughed Pop. “Two generations of Shaws—Doc, Chic, and just plain Roy, bringing down the house.”

  I couldn’t figure why, but on the inside, every part of me was tingling. I felt like I’d made it past something. It wasn’t anything corny, like that Crossroads story Pop told me. But it felt like something I could never lose, even if Katrina did us all dirty and blew everything else away.

  Late that night, I was sound asleep in a straight-back seat when my stomach woke me. My eyes focused slow, and I saw the empty football field. At first, I thought it was some kind of dream. That’s when the sound of a baby crying jumped between my ears, and every second of being stuck inside the Superdome came roaring back.

  “If you’re gonna stay up, I’ll grab a little shut-eye,” Pop said, sitting two seats away.

  “Sure, Pop,” I said, rubbing the crust from my eyes.

  Uncle Roy was sitting with Cyrus’s daughter. They were both smoking cigarettes on the sly after a soldier made them stop before. And my uncle was puffing smoke rings for one of her little girls who was still awake. I thought those two girls had been taking turns holding a teddy bear. Only this time I saw it move in her arms and knew it was a guinea pig. They must have snuck it in, because when we first got here, I saw those soldiers turn away a lady with a dog that small.

  More and more people were filling up the stands. New families were scouting around for someplace to settle. It must have been raining buckets outside now because every one of them and their things were soaked ten times worse than when we first got to the Superdome.

  Dunham and Cain came walking through the corridor, and I sank down low into my chair. But they spotted me anyway and started waving their arms for me to climb the stairs to where they were. So I turned my back on our stuff.

  I reached the top step and saw they had two other guys with them I didn’t recognize. Those guys weren’t on the football squad, but they were wearing red shirts, too.

  “This where you been holed up?” Dunham said. “Damn! We coulda used you, Miles. We had a stare-down with some other dudes over who owned a whole section of people. They had us outnumbered five to four, so we had to blink.”

  “Forget that shit. Niggers was poor in those seats anyway—welfare cases, straight up,” said Cain. “Miles, what do people got in them bags where you are? You see anything with dollar signs on it?”

  “Nothing like that,” I answered. “It’s mostly old folks, women, and little kids. There’s even a preacher and his family.”

  Then somebody saw the candy machine in the corner. Cain watched for soldiers, and a huge heavy dude, who was big enough to play the whole offensive line on a football team by himself, pulled out a switchblade and pried open the coin slot. There was a flood of silver on the floor, and they were all stuffing their pockets with change.

  “Get the candy, too!” hollered Cain, kicking in the glass. “Get it all! We can sell that shit for some real dough!”

  Dunham came back to me and said, “Go tell that preacher to take up a collection for us. That we’ll be his protection from any thugs on the loose. But people gotta pay up first.”

  “I can’t,” I told him. “My family’s down there.”

  “That’s why you should do it,” said the dude with the knife, in a thick bass voice. “You wanna see them safe, right?”

  “Come on, Miles. People are scared to death in this joint,” Dunham said. “Even if everybody where you are coughs up a dollar—that’s fifty, sixty bucks, easy.”

  When Cain saw I wasn’t going for it, he tugged at his red jersey and said, “No wonder he ain’t wearin’ his colors. This ain’t no charity, Miles. This is business. If you ain’t down with us, you’re against us.”

  Their eyes all zeroed in behind me, and I spun back around.

  “What’s the problem, son?” Pop asked, with my uncle coming up behind him.

  “No problem, Pop,” I said. “Just talkin’ to some teammates.”

  Pop and Uncle Roy got next to me, and those dudes circled around us like a pack of wolves.

  That’s when Preacher Culver came charging up the stairs, and suddenly the numbers got evened off.

  “I don’t know what this is all about, boys, but I’m not walkin’ away,” said Culver, with some real fire to his voice.

  I thought about the knife that dude had, and Pop’s story about his mama. So I took out my money. Then I counted out half and stood up in Cain’s face.

  “Here’s what I owe for that jersey I lost,” I told him, and buried the rest in my pocket.

  “Just so you know, you can’t never get another one,” Cain said, ripping the cash out of my hand. “You off my squad forever.”

  Then I watched them all bounce down the corridor.

  4

  And when the sun refuse to shine

  Yes, the sun refuse to shine

  Lord, I want to be in that number

  When the saints go marching in

  Monday August 29, 6:30 A.M.

  Early Monday morning, Katrina hit for real, and nobody needed a weatherman to know it. The Superdome started shaking, like Katrina was slapping its sides with a giant open hand, over and over. And the only time it stopped was when she pulled back to wind up and smack us all upside the head again.

  The wind and rain beat down on top of the dome, and I could feel its rhythm. It was louder than the noise from the thousands of people packed inside put together. In my head, I pictured God beating his own African drum, saying, “Here’s my hurricane song.” And you couldn’t leave or close your ears to His playing. You had to stay put and listen, till He decided that He was done.

  The lights went dead, and everything turned pitch black. For a few seconds, the voices dropped down to a whisper. Then people started shouting, “Lord! God! Jesus!”

  But He wasn’t close to being finished, and the Superdome kept getting rocked.

  That’s when Cyrus lost it.

  “Slave ship!” His voice split the darkness. “It’s our Middle Passage to hell! Turn me free! Lord, let me free!”

  His daughter screamed for him to stop.

  My legs shot up, like I needed to run over there. But I felt Pop’s hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down. My heart was running wild. Only I couldn’t see a place in front of me for it to go. So it kept pumping overtime inside my chest, till it ran down on its own and started beating slower. Then the ring of lights over our heads began to glow again.

  Uncle Roy and Preacher Culver were already with Cyrus. His daughter was standing over him, and one of the little girls had her arms wrapped tight around his legs. I stood up slow and walked past Pop, down to where they all were.

  It was warm as anything, but Cyrus was shivering. He looked up from his seat and said, “I know I ain’t never getting off this slave ship alive. This is it. I can’t just sit and wait. I gotta get out now, or I ain’t never gonna see the sun again.”

  The other little girl was sitting alone, rocking the brown guinea pig in her arms. I bent down low and scratched under its neck. Then she asked if I wanted to hold it, and I said sure. When she took it off her chest to give to me, I saw the rainbow painted across her shirt.

  The sound inside the Superdome had changed. There was a hum missing from underneath all that noise. The air was already getting thick and harder to breathe, and I figured out the AC hadn’t come back on with the lights.

  The Superdome took another solid hit of wind, and a section of the roof ripped right off. You could hear the rivets pop and the metal tear. Everybody was staring straight up. The hole was maybe ten feet wide, and the sky behind it was black as tar. Then a second piece, just as big, flew off.

  “I coulda stayed home and watched my own roof blow away!” screamed some woman, raising her fist to the sky.

  Then the rain started falling inside on the football field, making a puddle on the artificial turf. Some people ran down to the field with plastic bags, so they could catch the water, to wash with or drink
. They were pushing and shoving for the best spots, till a fight broke out.

  There was a line for bottled water that Pop and me waited on. The soldiers sat there with their machine guns in front of big wooden skids, with cases of it piled high on top. And if I had just walked in from all that rain outside with the rest of those people who were still filling the Superdome, I would never have believed it. I would have thought for sure those soldiers were guarding gold, or anything but water.

  “Two nine-ounce bottles a day per person,” a black soldier said. “That’s it. Don’t come back with a sad story looking for more ’cause it ain’t gonna happen.”

  A man wearing a soaked tank top shouted at the soldier, “Brother, is that all you get to drink? ’Cause that canteen hangin’ on your belt looks like it holds a lot more!”

  “Hell, yeah, they drink more—and eat good, too!” yelled a dark-skinned woman, with the sweat glistening on her cheeks. “They think they’re better than us ’cause they got those guns! But those ain’t the only guns in here!”

  “Again,” the soldier started up, “refugees will be provided with—”

  That’s when that same woman cut him off, screaming, “We ain’t no damn refugees! This is our country, or at least it’s supposed to be!”

  Everybody in line backed her up on it and started barking at that soldier, too.

  Pop was right. People were more than uptight. I could hear in their voices how every worry inside them was ready to bust loose. And it didn’t make me feel any better to know the dude holding the machine gun could have been pumping gas last week and wasn’t even a real soldier.

  We’d swallowed those drugstore pills and didn’t have to shit, but we still needed to piss. And after we got our water and drank it, Pop and me headed for a bathroom. I was shocked at how short the line was. Only the closer we got to the door, the more I understood why.

  “Goddamn,” Pop said, cupping both hands over his nose and mouth.

  It smelled like your head was buried in the toilet bowl, and we weren’t even inside yet. A man ran out, holding his breath, with his cheeks looking ready to explode. Then he opened his mouth wide for a gulp of air and said, “There ain’t any running water. You can’t flush or nothing. The toilets are all backed up over the top.”