Deserted in New Orleans

I lit a cigarette, the last cigarette from the last pack. The glare from the red cherry was the only light for miles in a city that was once a beacon to the world. Three days had passed since the waters descended on New Orleans, swallowing everything I ever knew.

My eyes saw nothing in the pitch black, not even my own black hands, and it was a reminder of those that forgot about me. I had no sustenance. My parched lips thirst for the taste of cold clean water, but there was none to be found. I would have drank the water that rose to my roof, even if it did smell of death and human waste. Even if it was covered with a film of disease. I probably would have, if it was not the watery grave of my beloved Jackie. She did not make it, though I tried desperately to wrench her from her wheel chair and pull her to the roof with me.

At least I had my dignity. That was what I told myself, since there was no one else around to see me. I glared at the small pack I had carried on my back. The pack held the small amount of supplies we could gather before we could wait no longer. The left strap was still broken where my Jackie had held on, strapped to my back.

I was once adored by passing tourists on Bourbon Street, playing soft jazz ballads from the trumpet I had played since the days of Charlie Parker. I would never see Bourbon Street again. On my roof, my frail seventy-two year old hands could barely hold the trumpet, but I played it anyway. It was the only thing left to do, as I waited for God to take me home to my Jackie. My home in heaven - for the home I knew in New Orleans had been downcast into Hell.

Gunshots echoed through the deserted streets of the French Quarter. I wondered how many more would die before our country remembered us. I rested my head on my empty pack covered by an old moldy jacket. After smoking, I threw my cigarette butts into the lake that was once my front yard, half expecting them to set fire to the floating filth and burn the city down. I felt bad at first, littering the city that I loved so much. But it mattered little any more. The flood water carried my trash far from view, and I forgot about it soon after.

By night I played Miles Davis and Yardbird from my roof. At sunrise I played the soft droning Taps, to remember the dead. Why didn't I leave. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I had no one to help me find my way out, no one to help my Jackie and I to a safe place. But I am not angry. Not at the people of New Orleans, or at those that fly the helicopters over the city searching for survivors; even if they hadn't found me yet.

I wanted to be angry at the American people for forgetting about me, for forcing me to live in poverty with no way to protect or feed my family; with no way to leave a city that would be destroyed. But it was not the fault of the people. It was our leaders that were to blame.

On the sixth day my usual routine continued. I played my trumpet. The soft notes of Taps rolled across the floating neighborhood. The rescuers flew overhead, but the sound was closer.

I looked up into the sky to see a strange man being lowered onto my roof. The sound from the revolving blades was almost deafening. It was an ugly sound, nothing like the sound of Jazz, and it angered me to know that it would be some time before I would remember the sounds of Charlie Parker that helped me go to sleep at night; playing inside my mind, every note memorized from a thousand spun records.

My rescuer shouted in my ear. For the first time I saw my emaciated form in his giant fly-like goggles. I cried. He told me that he was there to take me to safety.

'Where are you taking me?'?, I asked.

'Somewhere safe out of the city.'?

'I will not leave my Jackie.'

'Where is she?'?, he asked.

'Inside the house.'?

He did not speak for several seconds. 'I'm sorry sir, we cannot bring her with us. Please come with me. Everything is going to be okay.'?

'I will not leave my Jackie.'?, I said again.

In the end my rescuers left without me, leaving me on my roof with my trumpet and my beloved Jackie below. They dropped a small supply of food and bottled water. I even managed to get a half pack of Marlboros from them.

I would have to ration, but I would have enough to fill the city of New Orleans with my trumpet for a few more days - fill the city with the sounds of a new song 'Ode to Jackie'. I loved this city, but the only way I was leaving was with her. At least then, we could have made a new New Orleans some other place, but not now. Not ever.