BEFORE THE RAIN, Part 11: Overview of a Bobblehead Tsunami Village

From above, whether your eyeview was that of Georgie Bush Two, or a WWRL traffic pilot, NoLa was simply a sodden mess. As far as eye could see, Canal, Poydras, City Park and so many of the grand boulevards were immersed in a grayish brown bubbly muck some news folk might thoughtlessly refer to as “high water.”
Some landmarks rose prominently: the tower of Hibernia bank, the glass slab of Shell Oil, the sprawling uneven roofline of Morial Center; the grievous wounded Super Dome.
Out upper Canal,Panteria Gaulinfat sat shotgun- literally– on a rude bench out front of her HAIR-DRO-MAT Salon of Beauty. “Ah’www, you ain’t got a thing to worry ’bout,” cried Missy Braulx, a most esteemed customer. “Put that dang Raffle down or a’leas’ pass it over t’my huzz’n! You know Poseidon!”
Panteria dutifully let Poseidon Smith, Missy’s common-law partner, shoulder the piece, as the two ladies squeezed through the tiny entrance flap, Missy going on and on how much she wanted off the sides and such. Blackish, brackish stuff lapped at Smith’s already rusted out cream Caddie brougham, parked half on the slab sidewalk. Three cases of vodka in plastic demijohns floated past.
Much further downtown, another parade was in progress. Ferrive Morse, her tangled strands of darkish red own locks acting in lieu of pennons for a small band, maybe five rainbow-bandana-wearing and masked anarchist ‘pirate boys’ bemoaned her brand new fate.
Her latest place of employment, the half-rotted Corinthian Bordello on Perdido was half-submerged and even the head madam, a Cyclopean woman named Beulah, had split.
This palatial ruin, for the history-minded, had festered pretty much since 1898 when Admiral Telford Haycock(by then officially “tetched,”) had been forced to hand the deed over to his Unity son, Thain! And, of course who was to know or care?
As Ferrive and her loving anarchy band flung eggs, mud, and hunks of wet plaster at the first unsuspecting “Terror Tourists of Katrina” to wander into the danger zone, over at Morial Center Loomis Reader was engaged in a different warfare. He was sputtering, struggling under a lather of bitter de-lousing soap. “Pah!”, he sputtered. I most recently had bed bugs, mayap they drownded, I dunno–”
A mightily built orderly lifted Loom off his feet entirely. “Say, man. You ain’t got nothin’ coming.”
Loomis shoved back, upsetting the basin and its administrator. “Where’s the girl?,” he roared, clearly feeling a bit of fresh strength. “She’s th’only one I”ll deal with here!”
“Calling for me, Loomis,” Lindsay Patterson gently broke in, all smiles despite the apparent carnage. “It’s all right, Solomon,” she continued, gesturing for all hands to lay out. “I’ll consider how many sandwiches I have remaining, and then–”
Lindsay rummaged through her plaid bag, miraculously free of mud, checking for home-mades.
She decided to split her remaining overstuffed muffaletta between Solomon and Loomis.
That should cool things down. “And I’ve at least three sets of Twinkies, fellas. How about it?”
Loomis licked the corner of his sore mouth and considered this offer to be a push. He and Lindsay locked glances meaningfully.
(To Be Continued)