. . . I drove a Spitfire Triumph from Catahoula to my apartment in New Orleans. Shifting from third to fourth, the Triumph lost some steam, so when I spotted a hitchhiking mechanic on the entrance ramp at Butte La Rose, I figured, rather than coming to a complete stop, I’d better just slow down and have him hop inside.
The top was down, which made it easy. He hopped right on in and said, “Take me to my usual place.” He couldn’t fit comfortably in the back seat, but when I moved over to the passenger side, still holding on to the steering wheel, he was able to stretch his legs while shifting with his right foot. Then we were in New Orleans. Mopeds were racing by us. I didn’t think the Triumph would make it, but it got us where we needed to go.
I walked beneath a series of umbrellas covering a flooded sidewalk. Melanie Blanchard was boiling crawfish, half under an umbrella, half in the rain. She stopped me to ask what I thought about Charlie Latiolais’ plans for refurbishing Catahoula Lake. I had no idea what she was talking about. I told her I’d have to get back to her.
The door to my apartment was covered with visqueen. I poked my key through the plastic sheeting and inserted it into the keyhole. I was afraid it would break with the twisting, but the door opened surprisingly easily. Three strangers were sleeping on the living room floor. I said, “What are you doing in my apartment?” One of them said, “We live here. Who are you?” Apparently my apartment had been re-rented in my absence. I’d been gone a long time, admittedly, and I probably should have submitted a notice to my landlord, not to mention a formal leave of absence from my fellowship program, but how dare he rent my apartment to someone else while my lease was still in place? “You’re here illegally,” I said. “Get out.” Then I tried a nicer angle. “Now I do have another floor you might be interested in . . .” The landlord walked in, escorting a couple through the apartment. He was trying to rent it again.
I made my way through a maze of sofa cushions on the floor, eventually arriving at my bedroom where I noticed an animal tunneling beneath the quilt covering my bed, the quilt my grandmother made for me. I tugged the end of the quilt sharply, like a magician might pull the hem of a tablecloth from beneath an elaborate table setting. A discombobulated cat tumbled to the floor. It was Minou. Zora came running behind him. Their eyes were bloodshot, and their fur was matted and clumped with cockleburrs. I felt bad for having neglected them. How long had I been away exactly? Longer than I’d imagined. I was sure they were thirsty and starving, but I didn’t want to get too close to them, in case they’d contracted rabies. How could I have been so irresponsible?
