A woman about my age, soaking wet, stands dripping in the aisle outside my
gate, belting out You Are My Sunshine at the top of her lungs. She looks me
straight in the eyes, water leaking off the ends of her stringy black hair,
puddles appearing at her bare feet, and explains how I make her happy when
skies are gray.
I look around to see if anyone else is watching this woman sing the
Louisiana state song written by a former governor, her arms outstretched for
emphasis when she hits “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,” but
no one seems to notice her. A mother and daughter play with an American
Girl doll to my right, a businessman devours a biscuit and sausage to my left
and Mr. Fancy Pants continues reading his laptop.
Usually I ignore the crazies in New Orleans, too, especially in Louis
Armstrong Airport where half of the tourists are glazed and hung over and
the other still fresh and slobbering from a night on Bourbon Street. The ones
arriving have that get-me-a-drink look and who knows what for a motive so
their focus is elsewhere. But this woman is soaked head to toe, looking
positively frightened or agitated or both and singing as if her life depends on
it.
I lean over to search the airport corridors and two cops are laughing over
coffee around Gate Number Four. Esther Williams is still singing and neither
one looks in her direction. Weird. The gate agents are busy sliding boarding
passes into the machine and a security guard drives up in one of those pseudo
golf carts but no one even glances in this poor lady’s direction.
Just when I am about to get up and see if I can be of assistance, Mr.
Fancy Pants across from me, his head still bent toward his laptop in
engrossed concentration, lifts his right hand and snaps his fingers. One simple
gesture, and the singing stops.
The woman appears as if she’s been slapped, her eyes registering intense
pain. She bows her head in failure and moves away, her feet leaving prints as
she meanders down the aisle.
I glance back at Fancy Pants, whose hand has returned to his side, his
gaze never leaving the screen, until they call Zone Three. He closes his laptop
and rises, never glancing in my direction, heading to the ticket agent as if
nothing had happened.
When I check back on the wet opera singer, she’s gone. Vanished.
Maybe my family and friends are right, I think, wondering where I put
that card Mary Jo gave me, the one for the counselor specializing in post
traumatic stress disorder. But that woman was standing in the aisle in front of
me, singing to the heavens. I know what I saw. And if I’m not totally nuts
Mr. Fancy Pants heard her too.
I’m so confused and, like a good journalist, totally curious, but it’s time
to get on the plane and start my new career. I sneak one last look down the
airport corridor, even check for footprints, shake my head and hand the gate
attendant my boarding pass.
Once aboard, I have other things to worry about. I end up lodged between
an overweight man hogging the armrest and an elderly woman knitting. I
practically wrap my elbows around my chest like a true crazy person and
attempt to read my “S” book, something light and funny with cartoon women
on the cover with words like “sassy,” “seductive” and “scandalizing” among
the back cover’s description. S books make me happy, take me away from
waterlines and levee breaches and I’m not going to apologize for it like most
women I know and call it “trash.” Right now these books are better than
Prosac.
I’m so enraptured in the hunk who runs the town newspaper and his fight
with the spirited yet intelligent heroine of the mayor’s office that we land in
the Northwest Arkansas airport in no time at all, a good-sized facility in a
rural area near Bentonville and Rogers, places most people have never heard
of unless they work for Walmart. Bentonville was home to entrepreneur Sam
Walton who started the multi-national chain and thus the town became the
operational hub of the megastores. Because Walton insisted companies move
to the area if they wanted to be part of his dream, and all these new
businesses plus Walmart need transportation services, the lovely new airport
was built.
Too bad New Orleans never had such pull, I think, as I head down
impeccable marble aisles toward the baggage claim. The Crescent City had
long outgrown its airport and progressive politicians had suggested a larger
international airport almost halfway between Baton Rouge and New Orleans
with a light rail in between but the idea never took. As usual not enough
money. Or forward thinking. Plus, there was that time after Katrina when the
airport became a hospital and morgue so right now all everyone’s thinking
about is getting it back to normal.
I wasn’t going to think about New Orleans on this trip, or my flooded
home, lack of a steady job and the fact that my electricity would get cut off if
my FEMA check didn’t arrive soon. Tonight I would sleep between layers of
multi-thread linens and indulge in fine cuisine while PR people drive me
around, line up interviews and pay for everything. Only in America could
writers straddling the poverty line be wined and dined at posh hotels and
four-star restaurants in fun destinations.
“It doesn’t get better than this,” I whisper to myself.
Travel writing was my dream in college, a career I wanted to start the
moment that journalism diploma hit my greedy little hands. But it’s not
something you major in, interview for and start the next day. You could nab a
similar position at a magazine or become a newspaper travel editor, and lord
knows I tried getting on at Southern Living and the Times-Picayune travel
section for years. Or you could do what I did and cover the cops beat in St.
Bernard Parish for the New Orleans Post while writing travel on the side for
the Sunday edition and a few other small magazines and newspapers.
That’s how I met Henry Torrington Wallace. I had driven to Birmingham
for a journalism conference and took some side trips to compile into a feature
for the Martin Luther King Jr. birthday weekend. The travel piece garnered a
Louisiana Press Award and Henry called to ask if I wanted to join his
agency’s press trip to Nashville. I wasn’t able to accept free trips at the time
— against newspaper policy — but I kept his card just in case.
Needless to say, my cops job in St. Bernard Parish washed away, pun so
very much intended. Good riddance. Once I got established in Lafayette,
Henry was the first person I rang.
“I’m freelancing now for the chain in southwest Louisiana and a few
magazines,” I told him. “Got any trips in the Deep South?”
Did he ever. I was in business before you can say, “Your hotel room is
complimentary.”
I grab my polka dot bag and do as instructed, travel to the baggage claim
and look for signs from Henry’s PR agency, the Wallace Group. As expected,
Henry is waiting at the bottom of the escalator, his arms full of press packets.
He tilts his chin up at me and I smile, tingling with excitement. I can feel
those silky-smooth sheets already, after which I will relax in a bathtub full of
free upscale products. For not the first time I wonder if the other journalists
— those working at travel writing longer than me or who live in equally nice
residences — feel the same rush when they exit the plane knowing what’s
coming.
“How’ve you been, Viola?” Henry asks me after an obligatory hug. His
agency hails from Tennessee, so he’s Southern to the core. He also
pronounces my name correctly: VIE-O-LA.
“I’m great, Henry.” If only he knew just how, staring down at a press kit
announcing “Heaven in the Ozarks!”
“Is this it?” He grabs the handle of the polka dot bag and heads toward
the exit.
“I always travel light,” I say apologetically. Do other journalists bring
more? What’s funny is that practically everything I own is in that bag. You
know I’m not kidding.
“Am I the only pick-up?”
As soon as I ask, I realize two other travel writers are waiting by the door,
a dark-haired woman dressed in a Talbots-style outfit complete with high
heels and several layers of gold necklaces, intent on text messaging on what
looks like a Blackberry (I honestly don’t know, never had the money to buy
one), and an older man in jeans and a Lacosse shirt scoping out the local
newspaper container. I smooth down the designer linen shirt I found at
Goodwill, sorry for my choice since traveling between those two armrest
hogs has rendered it a massive wave of wrinkles. I also worry about my tried
and true Converse sneakers my mother calls adolescent. These days, I don’t
care what my mother calls my clothes but I’m self-conscious around these
people.
“Small news hole,” the tall guy says without looking up.
I extend my hand. “Viola Valentine.”
Tall guy ignores me. “I hate it when they put ads on the front page.”
“Richard Cambry,” Henry explains, then nods his head toward texting
queen. “And Irene Fisher.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, but only Irene responds, without looking up.
Ah, a nice polite bunch. We make our way to the van, one Henry has
rented for the trip, and the Friendlys deposit their bags at the back while
Richard talks about his newspaper days and grabs the front seat. Irene sighs
and mutters something under her breath.
“Do you need help?” I ask Henry, who gives me a sweet “Are you
kidding, get in the van” look. He opens my door and I do the obligatory
Southern conversation, asking about his wife, his job and Henry gives me a
quick roundup with a smile.
“Don’t we have to be there by four,” Richard asks from inside the van. “I
don’t know, just saying. It has four on the schedule.”
Henry smiles politely as only PR people can do; it’s an amazing talent
they own, being able to offer impeccable customer service in the presence of
assholes.
“Be right back,” Henry says and heads back inside the airport.
You’d think plum assignments such as these would render people
gracious and thankful, but there are jerks in the best of professions, and
plenty of folks who need bibs and bottles. Now realize, we must have
credentials and extensive work experiences to be asked on press trips, not to
mention there is an art to this craft most people don’t understand. No, it’s not
about writing what you did on vacation. But come on, folks. When
someone’s paying the bill, lining up interviews and driving you around in a
van where you don’t even have to wear a seatbelt, the least you can do is be
polite and grateful. Leave your whining at home.
I enter the van and park next to Irene, who finishes her text and looks up.
“Irene Fisher,” she announces, holding out her hand. I skip the reminder that
we’ve already met and shake her hand, but dear old Richard doesn’t miss a
thing.
“We had introductions in the airport, Irene. If you weren’t so busy on that
cell phone….”
Richard must be around sixty or seventy with a head full of white hair to
back up that statement and he launches into a tirade about young people and
cell phones, using a woman not paying attention while driving as an example.
From the way he describes this female, I pick up chauvinistic sentiments, not
to mention arrogance and conceit. I didn’t like him back at the newspaper.
Now I really don’t.
Irene tunes him out but he keeps shifting in his seat to look at me. Just for
fun, I ask if he’s married.
“Who knows?” he answers, leaving this balloon of a thought floating
above us. As if synchronized, Irene and I gaze at each other and silently vote
not to pop that bubble. The pause we offer makes Richard uncomfortable so
he launches into a lengthy explanation, mostly about how difficult women are
to live with and how his wife is at fault for everything. Irene begins texting
again and I stare out the window, noticing how rural the surrounding area is,
when who should saunter by but Mr. Fancy Pants. He pauses at the van door
with his laptop and garment bag — do people use those anymore? — and
leans his head in to greet us.
It’s the first time I get a good look at his face, which is handsome with
sleek, sculptured lines, a no-nonsense countenance although I detect a slyness
lurking beneath. His salt and pepper hair is perfectly combed back, a bit of a
white streak happening around one temple but this guy plays it up, embracing
what I suspect is early middle age. His green-gray eyes match the whole
ensemble, as if he did it on purpose. My gay-dar is beeping rapidly.
“You all remember Carmine Kelsey,” Henry says, adding for me, “and
this is Viola Valentine. The Arkansas trip is her first with us.”
Carmine looks me in the eye for the first time, albeit briefly, raising one
eyebrow. The atmosphere feels uncomfortable. I’m not sure if it’s because
everyone now knows I’m a newbie to this business or Carmine had witnessed
the wet opera singer. I realize someone must move to the back row to
accommodate Carmine, so I take the opportunity to break gaze, stumbling
into the back, the pieces of my press packet flying all over the floor.
“Nice to meet you too,” he says, which garners a laugh from Richard and
Irene, and I immediately dislike the man.
As I rearrange my belongings and attempt to tame my now horribly
wrinkled shirt, Henry jumps in the front and off we go. Richard begins a long
discourse on the state of travel writing today and Henry politely listens while
Irene and Carmine take to their electronics. I want desperately to ask Carmine
about the wet apparition in the airport, but on the flip side, from his haughty
demeanor and sarcastic snide, I want to cross him off my list with the rest of
the van’s occupants.
Instead, I enjoy the rolling countryside of northwest Arkansas with the
budding sycamore and maple trees, fields full of rolled hay and nonchalant
cows and little rolling streams crossing the highway. We pass lovely
farmhouses where people reside with all their belongings, photos carefully
preserved in family albums. We pass a small town and I envy the smiling
faces of the children riding the streets in their Schwins. A man pumps gas at a
self-service, a canoe propped up in the cab of his truck. Two businessmen
stand in a parking lot laughing about something. Butterflies flit past enjoying
roadside flowers.
Suddenly a malaise so deep and powerful consumes me, knowing
normalcy exists outside the borders of my disaster zone. I don’t know why I
should be shocked that the rest of the country lives on, but I feel betrayed. I
want to be these people. I want to wake up in a bed where all my belongings
exist where I put them the night before.
I close my eyes, remembering why I am here. “This is what you wanted
and Katrina gave it to you,” I tell myself.
But I can’t help wanting more, and that black hole that took the place of
my heart years ago when Lillye died opens up once more, swallowing me
whole.
“Isn’t that right, Viola?”
I realize with horror that Henry has been asking me questions. I wonder
how long I have been in the dark place this time.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re from New Orleans.”
Where once was polite acknowledgement — with a bit of sarcasm from
Carmine — there is now complete attention. All eyes sans Henry gaze upon
me, filled with a look I have come to abhor. Pity.
I offer up a comforting smile and shrug. Sure, lost my house and
everything in it. Car was found seven blocks away. Chimney saved me from
blowing into the good state of Mississippi, after which I got this blistering
sunburn while sunbathing on the roof for two days. No biggie. Needed a
vacation anyway.
Of course, I say nothing. I don’t want to discuss it. Any of it. But the
questions fly fast and furious.
“Did you ride it out?”
Yes, had to, my job at the newspaper demanded it.
“Did you lose anything?”
Yes, everything.
“Everything?”
Yes, everything but my good looks. The attempt at humor fails miserably.
“Where are you living now?”
Two hours west in Cajun Country. In a potting shed if you ask my mom.
Again, not even a smile.
“What do you think of Bush and FEMA?”
At this point, I’ve had enough. I don’t want to think about Bush, can’t
bear to hear him speak anymore. And FEMA owes me money. More than
anything, I don’t want to talk about Katrina!!
“Where are we heading first?” I ask Henry over the cacophony of
questions.
Henry explains how we are all checking into our hotels in the Bentonville
area for the night and then meeting back in our respective lobbies for a quick
overview of the historic downtown and then dinner. I ask him about his
family — and yes, I’m repeating myself — but the rest of the van seems to
get the idea that the conversation is over. They stop talking to me and I study
my press packet for the rest of the trip.
We arrive at my hotel, a chain but lovely with a stone fireplace in the
center of the lobby. I marvel at rocks; we have none in South Louisiana. Just
mud. I caress my hands over the quartz and swear I can feel the vibrations.
New Age people say I’m blessed, everyone else says I’m crazy, but rocks
have always spoken to me in one way or another. Most of the time it’s to say,
“Take me home,” and I always oblige. My chest hurts as I wonder where all
those crystals and rocks I’ve gathered over the years have ended up.
“There’s an indoor pool,” Irene says, breaking my thoughts. “Wanna grab
a swim tonight?”
I take one look at the luscious pool with its emerald waters and
neighboring hot tub, two sights that would have normally enticed me to
indulge, no hesitation at all, but I want nothing of it.
“I’m not a swimmer,” I lie to Irene.
As Irene heads down the hall to the elevators, I take one last look at the
pool, swallowing hard to dislodge the lump choking my breath. The wet
opera singer waves to me from beside the water.
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Updated 13 Episodes
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