The heat of the south in July reaches every surface, every impenetrable field. There is no escape from the humidity, the stickiness that makes any article of clothing unbearable. Air condition may as well be useless unless you are positioned in front of a fan larger than the surface area of your body. His car blasted into New Orleans at a time when most kids were just waking up after staying out late the night before, probably lying to their parents, a night that would blur together with many other similar nights. The day before, I had driven a hundred miles the opposite direction, east. Now, headed west, we were chased by a storm that quickly threatened to ruin our day. Southern heat is not weakened by southern rain. If anything, the rain hitting the ground resembles water hitting a hot stove, steam pours out of the dry dirt, ants scurry into the cracked earth. He payed the toll and we took off, hand in hand, feeling very sticky and sweet.
We wandered through the streets trying to stay away from the tourist destinations like Bourbon Street. It was easy to tell when we got too close to unfavorable areas because of the increasing numbers of flashing lights, shot glasses with voodoo dolls and Mardi Gras masks, plastic beads, signs advertising drinks called “Hurricanes” (a terrible reminder of the all too recent past), and strip clubs. Many, many strips clubs. Instead, we wandered through side alleys that seemed abandoned. The buildings were light pastel colors, they became more french, less trashy. We picked out our houses, where we would eat, pondered parking in a city,and questioned how much seafood we would consume. When the rain started, we had no idea that we were about to resemble the wet rats that surely lurk the city’s levies. There was no protection from the bullets of rain that threatened to wash us into the Mississippi. Water up to our shins, tryied not to think of the scary things that could be floating around my unprotected feet, no one on the streets, dry restaurant hosts glaring at us, not welcoming wet rats, wet children, wet bags. We found solace in a small alley that was home to a sandwich shop. On a normal day, the cobbled alley would be a lovely place to enjoy a thick vegetable sandwich, but as we pushed through the whirling maelstrom, all sunny day possibilities seemed like a world away. Our shared sandwich became soggy between our wet hands. A creepy New Orleans native made sexual jokes at our expense, prompting us to leave. Yes, I am wet. Yes, I AM wet. Thank you for noticing. I was very wet. Back into the streets. We need to find your car. Where did we park it, the streets are flooded and signs suddenly are unrecognizable. We found the car. Leather seats become soaked, what a mistake to wear a white dress, what a mistake. We need to buy new clothing. We brought clothing to exchange. Why isn’t my clothing worth more, why am I so picky. Did I even buy a new outfit? I can’t remember. Did I let my dress dry in the now blazing sun? Our bodies became rags being wrung out by the humidity our shoes pooled with sweat and rain water. You complained and I tried to comfort you, but I knew you would be in a bad mood the rest of the day. I tried my hardest, but it’s up to you. It’s always up to you.
We needed clothing. We used your smartphone (I still had a dumbphone) to find a Goodwill. We drove into the part of town that had the cheapest gas, the saddest buildings, and the scariest people. We stayed in that Goodwill for too long. We felt guilty for taking clothing from those who may really need them. School children uniforms seemed really appealing to my heat-addled brain. We needed to get back to the familiar parts of the city. We searched for a coffee shop from my memory, driving to the green parts of the city, where Spanish Moss drapes every tree, making them appear as old as they are. The streetcar would rumble by, dads in safari hats would look out the windows, children in their summer clothing would peer out, looking for the zoo. I looked for the zoo of my memories, my dad in his safari hat, how I saw the city before it was destroyed, before it became so scary to the rest of the world, before it became abandoned, hopeless, only to begin its climb back to its former glory. We found the coffee shop, but as you parked the car, we were greeted by a man who claimed to have just been released from jail. You left me in the car to deal with him. I watched his friend wait impatiently in a wheelchair, until he pushed himself away. You got back in the car. You weren’t my dad in a safari hat, but you protected me anyways. You replaced my dad at the coffee shop, but you didn’t treat me like I was 10, going to the zoo, or 16, at Jazz Fest to see Simon and Garfunkel. You weren’t with me when I cried, when women came up to him and said, “You must be proud of your daughter.” Why did I take you here, why here, to a place I found with him, not you, you’re not him. He probably thinks you have replaced him. Your memory is intruding on his, you don’t understand why “America” makes me cry, he does. Why must places hold so many layers of memories? What would I give to remember everything perfectly?
The city wanted us to leave: the sun was setting, our clothes were finally drying, the jazz bands were beginning to play, and our eyes were growing sleepy. I left the city knowing I wouldn’t see it for a very long time. I left you knowing I wouldn’t see you for a very long time. I didn’t want you to go back there without me. I know it was selfish, but do you find it as painful as I do to relive such happy memories?
