Soggy at the Edges, Mardi Gras Goes On

Our quickness determined our hourly wage. I signed a contract for $600 upon completion of my float. By day five I was down to $6.50 an hour. All morning and afternoon we labored among thousands of paint-filled plastic Mardi Gras cups. At lunchtime, the Red Cross lunch wound through the disaster area. Mexican men in paper masks emerged from the surrounding soggy houses and we'd all line up together for small, wet hamburger steak. After sunset I'd clean up and ride my FEMA-subsidized motor scooter home through dead, powerless neighborhoods. Every night my dreams would explode in primary colors outlined in black, as if painted to be seen from 40 feet away. One weekend, alone in the den, I imagined I was almost finished. Until Monday when my boss sighed and touched his eyebrows with both hands, saying, "I feel bad making you do this over, but I just haven't had time to teach you..." With those words, I was brought down below minimum wage. "No problem," I said, not wanting to be demoted to blocking in stars. He grumbled some new color suggestions and walked away. I left work early, depressed. Depressed about our city's being destroyed, then criminally neglected, but more depressed about what it might turn into if the government pays too much attention. Depressed about making a waiter's wage (sans tips). Depressed that I wasn't invited to be in the 9th Ward Marching Band though I'm one of the few musicians still living in The Nine. For the first time, I contemplated leaving. Then, at one of the city's few stoplights, I noticed the streetcars. Only five people onboard, including the driver, but "Look!" I cried out to a black guy framed in the window of the white utility truck beside me. "Something normal !"