The Husband and I bought our shotgun double in the Fall of 2002. My father's words, "location, location, location" rang in my head as we painted walls and replaced appliance after appliance. I never fully grasped how true those words were until now. I did an exhaustive search for property throughout many zip codes. I drove through the Ninth Ward, Mid-City, Central City and parts of Lakeview trying to find something in our price range. It's no coincidence that we bought a house four blocks from where we were renting. We were comfortable with the area and in New Orleans, it's better to stick with the devil you know.Our street seemed busy but safe. There were always people outside on their porches which had its advantages and disadvantages. In a manner that only makes sense in New Orleans, our neighborhood crack dealer, Joe, kept our block even safer by keeping a watchful eye on all goings on. Harry came lagniappe.
Harry was a drunk, plain and simple. That in itself wasn't so bad but Harry was a mean drunk. He seemed pretty innocuous at first, coming over to beg for money and when we stopped giving him that, he wanted cigarettes. Harry did some yard work but mostly he just collected his disability checks and lived with his mom. Though in his late forties, Harry looked nearly seventy and had such severe cirrhosis of the liver that he was not expected to live much longer. I watched him once dump over trash cans in front of a neighbor's house because of a money squabble until a relative came and took him inside.
He would come to our porch, his face shiny and his yellow eyes wide and imploring as the words stumbled out of his mouth, "can I ask you a philosophal [sic] question?""Sure Harry, what's up?"
"Gimmee a cigarette."
This conversation happened countless times until finally we started saying no.
One night he came over looking for a smoke and we refused him. The Husband and I were trying to be firm in order to get him the hell off our porch as we had new tenants coming at any moment to sign a lease. Harry returned minutes later with a plate of food and parked himself on our steps. He could barely walk, let alone talk straight. The Husband and I were rushing to straighten up the apartment next door, hoping that these tenants would work out and trying to make a good impression.
"Gimmee some hot sauce."
"No Harry, go home."
Home was a whole thirty feed away and I'm sure that his mama could spare him whatever he needed.
"Well, then gimmee some black pepper."
"We don't have any. Harry, you have to go home NOW."
But Harry just sat there angrily eating his meal as I returned to the rental unit and The Husband went into our half of the house to retrieve some tools.
When I exited the rental moments later, I was relieved to see that Harry was gone. It took a moment to see that in his place a pile of peas and spaghetti had been hurled at our front door. All for refusing the man some black pepper.
The Husband continued to humor Harry but I was through with him. He drove me into a wild frenzy every time he would come up our porch steps and park himself in our chair, reach his right hand into the air and knock on the door. I eventually moved the chairs off the porch and Harry stopped coming around as often. I literally rejoiced during the few months that he was take in to Orleans Parish Prison for one thing or another. For once I didn't tense up every time I stepped outside and I was sorry to see him return when his time was up.
There was no love lost between us. We both understood that there was only contempt and kept our distance.
I last saw Harry the morning of August 28th as we piled into the car to head across the lake. It was a sunny and and he yelled to me across the street, "y'all runnin'?"
"Yeah," I yelled back.
"Not me. I'm staying."
I smiled and placed two very unhappy cats into the back seat of my Honda Civic.
"Take care of your old man," he said. Then we were off.
Several weeks later I sat in front of a borrowed laptop in a hotel room looking at message boards trying to gain a sense of the amount of water our block got. One recent post described the very intersection of our block as unscathed and I was still guarded but somewhat relieved. The post went on to mention in gruesome detail a decaying body right at that very intersection, four houses from our own. I read it aloud to The Husband and laughed inappropriately. I don't know why I laughed and I'd take it back if I could. There was something about the image, about the idea that seemed comic in that very moment. Why would there be a dead body on our street? This all had to be some sort of sick joke.The Husband just looked at me, "what if it were Harry," he said.
I tried not to think about Harry or the dead body when we returned. We saw more new faces than familiar ones on our block as new tenants moved into the rentals. It wasn't until Joe, our crack dealing watchdog returned for a visit that we found out Harry's fate.
Harry did indeed weather the storm and then got a free trip to Houston. It was in the Lone Star State that Harry sobered up, found Jesus and became a preacher. I find this all very hard to believe but with his entire family gone and no one else to confirm or deny the claims, it's become truth to our neighbors. Who knows, maybe one night there will be knock at the door and Brother Harry will be there with a pack of Kools and a plate of spaghetti to share.
I'll be happy if I never see Harry again but I understand The Husband's melancholy about the changes in our 'hood from Michelob, the dog next door who went M.I.A., to Mr. Eddie who recently moved out with his wife due to medical reasons. There are an awful lot of new faces and new rhythms to get used to on my block and across the city.
