Present over Perfect

4901 Words

Early September in New Orleans must be as hot as anywhere on earth.  They say it’s the humidity.  Whatever it is, sweat was beading on my forearms as I sat in front of my favorite hangout on Kerlerec St., the Oasis Bar & Grill.  The bar was not far from what would almost certainly become my former apartment.  With no job, no money, and no prospects, all I had was my mother’s assurance that, “Everything happens for a reason, God has a plan for you, you’ll see.”

I didn’t go inside where it was slightly cooler, even though Jill, my friend and confidante, was tending bar.   I sat outside sweating because the smell of stale beer and the cigarette smoke deeply imbedded in the walls of the bar make me gag in the morning.  I’m not normally a day drinker, but the cold Abita Amber Jill just brought me sure tasted good.  Touching my shoulder gently, she said,

“Del, there is not always a perfect solution to every problem.  Sometimes you just need to move on.”

I hated myself for thinking: more useless advice.  They mean well.  Two weeks ago my “roommate,” as Mother euphemistically called him, died suddenly of a heart attack.  William and I had been together for almost three years. I should be mourning and, for the most part, I am.  But, frankly, I am finding it difficult to grieve while constantly fighting with people I had considered to be my relatives over everything William and I owned.  According to his niece and nephew, William left all of ‘his’ money and belongings to them, including our only car, a blue Subaru which is apparently titled in William’s name even though I picked it out and paid for half of it. 

On top everything, my father, who does not approve of my lifestyle, just cut me off.  He had been sending me money as an inducement for me to leave and stay away from his little north Louisiana town.   Until last week, that is, when he told me to get a job and would not relent even when I threatened to move back home.  His response, “Delbert, you can come back to town.  I don’t care anymore, but you’re not living here.”

We’d had similar conversations before, but I think this time was different. Mother told me that my father had made some bad investments and they simply could no longer afford to send me money. I knew then that the allowance was history.  My mother would give me the money if she could.  She had always supported me, especially as it became more and more apparent that I was not like the other redneck boys in our little town.  Looking back, if not for my mother, I don’t know if I could have made it through high school. She has always been the one I could lean on.

My father’s allowance was never enough to live on–he made certain of that. Which was fine as long as William was alive.  William never wanted me to work anyhow.   But, now with William gone I was going to need a job with or without my father’s money.

So I sat at the Oasis weighing my alternatives. I’m not leaving New Orleans after three years, it’s in my blood.  That much I know.   Since moving to New Orleans I’ve found that few people in New Orleans care anything about someone else’s lifestyle and even fewer care enough to disapprove.  My history degree, with an emphasis on the civil war, qualifies me to be a waiter or a bartender except for the fact that I have no experience or training and not much work history.  I can probably get a job as a busboy or bar back, but neither of those jobs will allow me to keep my apartment.  To make matters worse William’s niece and nephew have a key to the apartment and have already taken most of the furniture.

I never noticed the dog until it was standing there in front of me looking longingly at the remainder of my egg sandwich. I had allowed the sandwich to get cold as I enjoyed my pity party.  “What‘a you want, Mutt?”  I asked him, as if the mutt could understand and answer. 

But somehow, he seemed to understand me perfectly, saying with his eyes and expression. “The rest of your sandwich.”     

“Here buddy.  I don’t want the rest anyhow,” I told him.  With that said, he came closer sat down in front of me, waiting patiently.   I gave him the sandwich which he took gently, then nodded a thank you and started to wander off.   Or, so I thought.  I went back to my beer.  When I next looked up, he was still in front of me standing at an angle more or less looking back at me over his left shoulder.

There was nothing cute or handsome about the dog.  He was about twenty to thirty pounds, mostly brown with some white mixed in, his ribs showed. Yet, he was confident and dignified.  That was my impression as I waited for him to leave.  “Buddy, that’s all I have.  Good luck,” I said and took the last swig of my now warm beer. 

Except, he didn’t leave.  Instead he cocked his head and moved it in a motion that I understood.  “Follow me.”  The message was clear, even though I can’t exactly tell you how.

Without having any conscious thought, I put down my empty beer bottle and followed the dog several blocks across Esplanade.  The dog led me into the Treme’ neighborhood and then behind an abandoned house to a garage in an overgrown back yard.  It looked like, and probably was, a crack house.  Thinking back, I can’t believe I went into that area, much less into the back of that house.

I first saw the little girl.  I would later learn that her name is Angelita.   The girl was Latina probably three or four, ragged and dirty.  At first she was scared but when the dog licked her face and looked back at me, she smiled a beautiful, innocent smile.

I then saw the mother, Izabella, crouching in the corner of the garage like a cornered animal. The dog crawled up in her lap next to the child. From her broken English, I was able to determine that she was asking me what I wanted and telling me that she had nothing.  I had to stop and think.  I didn’t want anything, and I had no idea why I was even here.  “Can I help you?”  The words came out of my mouth.   Where they originated, I have no idea.

Without thinking, I sat down in a broken lawn chair.  I had taken Spanish in high school and college, I understood a little but spoke less.  It took some time for me to convince her that I was not one of the bad guys. In fact, it took me awhile to comprehend her fear that I was going to arrest her.  Looking like I do and dressed as I was, I could not believe anyone would ever have mistaken me for any kind of cop. 

After we jumped that hurdle, with considerable difficulty we were able to communicate. I learned that the child and her mother were from Guatemala.  I couldn’t understand how they arrived in New Orleans.  Her husband had been murdered in Guatemala and, if I understood correctly, her family had gathered together enough money to pay a coyote to smuggle Angelita, and Izabella to the U.S.  Others who traveled with them had been arrested by the “autoridates policiales” which I assumed was ICE.

The dog had befriended them and had helped them to evade ICE.  I was almost certain that’s what she said.  Izabella was probably five feet tall, dirty, and thin.  She seemed to be in her early twenties.  Her dark oily hair was combed and pulled back in a ponytail.  She had a backpack which I was certain contained everything she owned.  The little girl was better fed and cleaner.  I would soon observe that Izabella let the child eat first. Angelita had a grimy pink rolling bag.  I don’t know if anything was in the bag.  I later learned that everything of value had been stolen from them on their journey. 

Eventually, I talked Izabella into walking with me to my apartment. She either trusted me or felt she had no other choice.  I hope she trusted me.  The dog followed.

Mrs. Broussard, my landlady was returning from church as we walked up to my apartment.  The apartment and several others had been carved out of Mrs. Broussard’s big old house many years ago after her husband died.  The property was in need of repair and paint.

“Hello, Mrs. Broussard.  How are you today?”  I asked, as politely as I could.  Mrs. Broussard is not one to make small talk. 

“The rent is due next week, Del.” 

“I know.  You’ll get your rent, don’t worry.”  I replied not wanting to think or talk about such mundane things.  How could she be asking about the rent with William just two weeks gone?

I tried to get away, without success.  I could see in her eyes that she didn’t believe me. Mrs. Broussard was not going to drop the subject.  “How’re you going to come up with the rent?  You’ve been here almost two years, and I’ve never seen you work.”  She wasn’t finished.

“Who is that?” She said pointing at my companions. “Your lease will not allow you to sublet the apartment.”

Arriving at my door, I quickly ushered my new friends inside, including the dog.

From the other side of the door I could hear Mrs. Broussard.  “If you think you’re going to keep that dog there will be a deposit.  Look at your lease.”  I ignored her.  Apparently Mrs. Broussard had forgotten that William had signed the lease, not me.

Not long after, the dog and I snuck out to get some food for my guests.  When I returned with the food, Mrs. Broussard was waiting.  She tore into me.

“Who are those people in my house?  They look like immigrants.  I don’t want immigrants in my house.”  

I’m thinking: it’s not your house. It’s my apartment and is your Christianity different from the one I was force fed as a child?  I wanted to share with her one of the Sunday school lessons from my youth.    I caught myself.  It would do me, a heathen, no good to debate religion with a woman who went to church every day. 

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Broussard.  These are people from my home town.  I’ll be taking them up north tomorrow.”  Never mind the fact that there are no Guatemalans in my hometown and the fact that the nephew had taken our only car.

Again, Mrs. Broussard let it be known that she did not believe me.  “Don’t forget that I have met your mother and father.”  She paused and left it at that.

There was a Baptist Church in the Treme’ neighborhood not far from my apartment.  I’d never been there. I try to stay out of that area.  I knew that its congregation was predominately black.  There was a thrift shop attached to the church. I hoped that they might have some clothes for Angelita and Izabella. I left the dog with the girls and walked to the church.

 I could not find an entrance to the thrift shop, so I went to the church office.  The lady at the desk was a little taken aback when I entered.  Her reaction made me realize that I will need to upgrade my wardrobe if I want to find a job.

Nevertheless she was polite.

“Can I help you young man?”  She asked in a way that suggested she would prefer I left. 

“Hello my name is Delbert Campbell, Jr., and I hope you can help me.”  On my walk over, I had considered my alternatives and had decided to take the direct and honest approach.

The lady remained polite while not offering me a seat.  “What do you need?” 

What I wanted to say was: “Through a dog, God has sent me a young mother and her child and is relying on me to take care of them.”  What I actually said was:  “I have taken in a young immigrant mother and child and I am wondering if you have any clothing I can have for them?”  I couldn’t imagine a church that would refuse to help a homeless immigrant. 

The lady, I assume she was the church secretary, immediately stood up and started through a door that would lead us to the thrift shop.  “Follow me.  What sizes do they wear?”

I can pretty much tell you what size a man wears, but I know nothing about sizes for women or children. I answered: “I never thought to ask.  And, frankly they don’t speak much English.  The mother is about five feet tall and the child is probably less than three feet tall.  They are both thin to the point of being skinny.”   

The lady merely nodded as we entered the shop.  “You’re in luck.  We have some clothes that should fit and we don’t have much call for small sizes.”  In minutes she handed me a bag with two pairs of adult jeans, a blouse, and several tee shirts.  In another bag she put a small pair of jeans and two small dresses.  She also included two pairs of what looked to be new canvas shoes.

“Take these to your people. If they fit, keep them.  If they don’t fit, please bring them back.” 

She then went into another room and came back with some toiletries including some feminine products.  (I hadn’t thought about that)  She asked no more questions.  All I said was: “Thank you. I wish I could repay you.”

The secretary nodded, took me to the door, and went back to her work. As I left she looked up and said: “You’re welcome to come see us any Sunday.  We start our service at 10 am.”

The church was not far from the crack house where I found Angelita and Izabella.  As I walked by, I saw the ICE truck parked in front of the house.  I tried to avoid eye contact, but they stopped me anyway. 

“Have you seen a little Hispanic girl and a Hispanic woman with a big brown dog?”  one of the officers asked me.  He had a bandage on his right forearm.

“No I haven’t.” I answered and continued walking.

The officer continued.  “If you see them, be careful, that dog bites.” 

Could he be talking about the brown dog I know?  Big?   I guess he looks larger when he’s tearing flesh from your arm. 

The clothes fit, not perfectly, but they fit.  The shoes were close enough.  The shoes Izabella wore when I found her had holes in the soles.  I wanted to throw the old clothes away.  Instead, at Izabella’s insistence, she washed them in mywashing machine. 

There was a knock at my door. Without thinking, I opened the door and was confronted by William’s nephew.  I decided to be proactive.  “Can I use our car?  I need to make a trip home.”

“It’s not our car.  It was Uncle William’s, and now it’s mine.”  He replied as I anticipated he would.

My guess was that he was here for more of what was our stuff.  He seemed to think that everything we had was William’s.  I was not about to let him in.  “That car is at least half mine, and I need it.”  I had to move Izabella and Angelita to safety.  I really was thinking about taking them to my mother’s house. My mother could handle my father, and she would know what to do.

“You’re not getting the car, Del.  Now let me in.  I need to get the rest of William’s things.”

The Nephew, I refuse to honor him by using his name, I just call him The Nephew.  The Nephew started to push by me.  I wasn’t going to back down this time, and the confrontation was quickly escalating toward a fight, or at least a shoving match, one I would likely lose.  As I tried to block his entry, He took one more step, and I heard an alarming snarl.  The Nephew stopped dead in his tracks.  “Whose dog is that?  Does he bite?”

The dog, Angelita had named Buddy (probably because I kept calling him Buddy), looked for the all the world like he would.  His mouth was open, his lips curled back, and saliva was dripping from the side of his mouth.  Up until that moment I would have said: no he doesn’t bite.  Instead I said, “Yes he does.  If you touch me he will certainly bite you.” And then, recalling the bandaged arm of the ICE agent, “He’s been known to tear a man’s arm wide open.”

At about that moment Angelita broke away from her mother and came out to see what was going on. Izabella chased her and caught her, but not before The Nephew saw them. He backed up a step before he asked: “Who is that?”

“That’s none of your business. Now get out of here and don’t come back or I’ll sic Buddy on you.” 

“Delbert, I’ll be back with a court order.  You better not sell or move any of William’s belongings.  If you do I’ll press charges.”

As I watched him walk to our Subaru, I knew he and his sister would end up with everything.  They’d already cleaned out our bank account.  I barely had enough money to eat, and now I was feeding three people and a dog.  On top of that the rent is due in a few days. There was no way I could hire a lawyer to fight them.  I was going to lose what little I had.

My mother has always said: “God only gives you what you can handle.”  I reflected on this.  Until now God had given me little to handle, and I had handled almost nothing. To this point I had preferred to let others take care of whatever came along.  The fact that I allowed others to tend my business goes a long way towards explaining my current predicament.  It’s exactly why none of my possessions are titled in my name.  I let William manage everything and now I’m paying for it.  I had to wonder if I could handle what God had given me.  I suppose I could walk away like I have always done in the past.  I tried to tell myself that I don’t truly owe that little child anything.  As I hung my head and my eyes fixed on Buddy who was lying at my feet.  Buddy was looking back, with a look that told me I was not walking away this time.

No sooner than that thought had passed, I heard another knock on the door.  This time I peeked out the window before I answered.  It was Mrs. Broussard. There would be no way to permanently avoid her, so I asked Izabella to take Angelita to the bedroom and stay out of sight.  With the help of some hand signals she seemed to understand.  

“Hello Mrs. Broussard.  What can I do for you?” 

“Delbert, I called my lawyer, and he reminded me that you did not sign the lease.  William signed the lease and, since he died, the lease has terminated.  You need to pack your things and leave. I made a mistake leasing to you people in the first place.”  My belief that most people in New Orleans could care less about anyone else’s lifestyles is still true.  There are exceptions to every rule.

There was no use in arguing.  I couldn’t pay the rent anyhow.  “How long can I have to get out?”

“Tomorrow would be nice.  If you’re not out in three days I’ll have my lawyer evict you.” What a nice Christian lady.  Three days.  The rent was paid through the end of the month.

What’s the use?  “Okay, I’ll get out.”  I told her knowing full well that I had no place to go and no way to get there.  I’ve always heard that the wheels of justice turn slowly and I was planning to put that saying to the test.

 I bought a pizza for the girls and some dog food for Buddy with my dwindling funds and headed for the Oasis.  Jill was working a double shift.  She came right to me with a beer as soon as I sat down. “How you doing, Del?  I heard Mrs. Broussard is throwing you out.”

News, especially bad news, travels fast in our little community.  “Thanks, Jill, I don’t know what I’m going to do.  Do you know of anyone who is looking for help?”  Preferably someone who is looking for an employee with no experience and almost no work history, I thought, but didn’t say.

Jill smiled.  “I’ll keep my ears open. You’ll find something.”  With that said, she left to attend to other waiting customers.  I knew most of them.

Betty, the local gossip, and know-it-all, scooted over next to me.  “I hear you’re hiding a couple of immigrants in your apartment.  I think that’s illegal.”

Try as I might I could not hide the shock.  “Who told you that?”

Betty acted like everyone knew. “William’s nephew, I think he’s going to turn you in.”

“That turd.”  I mumbled under my breath. I would have said something worse if not for the fact that William and my mother were constantly trying to get me to clean up my language.  The only redneck trait I absorbed growing up was the use of inappropriate language.  I knowingly said turd as a tribute to them both. “Turd” is the only cuss word I ever heard my mother say.

The Nephew lives nearby and comes in this bar. I remember thinking: He probably parks our Subaru out front when he comes in.

Jill caught up and came back over to me. She also knew about Izabella and Angelita.  I asked her:  “What can I do?  In my soul I feel an obligation to the girl and her child.  I couldn’t stand to see them in one of the places I’ve seen on TV.”

As we spoke, Jill’s significant other Diablo (I don’t know if they’re married) walked in.  I doubt that is his given name.  I don’t know him nearly as well as I do Jill, but I know a little about him and I find him to be an unusual and interesting man. 

Diablo is a Latino, and he works hanging steel.  Hanging steel is a highpaying, manly, dangerous, union job. It requires him to be away from home sometimes living with co-employees for weeks at a time.

 I also know that he has a secret I bet he keeps from his co-workers.  He is a cross dresser.  I know this because William and I ran into Jill and Diablo at a Decadence Ball.  He was dressed as a beautiful Spanish flamenco dancer and Jill as his male, tuxedoed escort. I also know that they are members of a Mardi Gras Krewe of likeminded people.

Jill motioned Diablo over to the bar where I was sitting.  “Del has a problem. Maybe you can help him?”

I didn’t know where to start or if to start.  He didn’t wait for me: “Del, my family has been in New Orleans for five generations.  Last week I get hassled by one of those ICE holes (that’s what he called them) who’ve been hanging around the neighborhood.  I came real close to busting his chops.  It has happened to several people in my family. I got stopped on a job in Houston, too.  I’m sick of it. What can I do to help?”  Obviously, everyone in the neighborhood knew all of my secrets.

All of this caught me off guard.  I’m thinking that I can hide them for a few days until I can figure out what to do, and now I find that everybody in the neighborhood knows about them. “Diablo, I wish I had a plan. I don’t know how you can help.  In fact, I have no clue as to what anyone can do.”

Diablo truly seemed to care. “Where are they?”

“I left them at my apartment.  I told them that they should stay inside and not answer the door.” I told him. “I read somewhere that immigration officials can’t enter a private residence without a warrant.”

When I reached for my beer, I felt a gentle tug on the leg of my pants.  I looked down to see Buddy looking up at me and nodding for me to follow him.  I was already anxious to say the least, now I’m nearly hysterical.  Buddy wouldn’t be here if something bad wasn’t happening.  I had left him inside with the girls.  “What going on?  Why are you here?” I ask the dog as if he could answer.

I turned to Diablo:  “I’ve got to go.  There’s a problem.”

Diablo grabbed my arm as I was heading for the door, “I’ll go with you.”  Although he didn’t say, I instinctively knew the he was going with me to keep me from doing something stupid.  He drinks a bit and according to some of Jill’s stories, Diablo has had considerable experience with the type of situation I feared we were about to find.  Diablo grabbed a go cup for his fresh beer.  I left my unfinished beer on the bar.

We followed Buddy knowing where he was going–my apartment.  From a distance, I saw the ICE truck parked in front of the house and two officers, one in the truck and the other leaning against it, talking to Mrs. Broussard.  I noticed that Buddy had disappeared. He would soon join me as I hid next door.

The ICE officers had their backs to us as we approached.  They didn’t see me and, more importantly, Mrs. Broussard didn’t see me either. 

Diablo took over.  “Del, make yourself scarce. They can’t go into your house unless you let them.  In three minutes call me on my cell phone.  I’ll answer. You don’t need to say anything.” I guess I didn’t need to know his plan.

I did my part.  I found a place I know next door where I could hide, eavesdrop, and not be seen.  Diablo began to talk to the officers as he approached my door.  Actually the officer began talking to Diablo.  I don’t recall any audible response.  Until the officers ask again, louder: “Who are you?  Do you know the occupant of this apartment?”

Then I hear Diablo mumbling something in Spanish.  I couldn’t make out what he said.  In exactly three minutes I call him and he answers, again in Spanish.  I could now hear him clearly.  I think he said:  “Hello Del.  Where you at?  I thought we were meeting at your place.”  He paused.  “Oh, you’re at Tony’s?  What are you doing there?” another pause. “Who is with you?”  and another pause.  “What girls?  I’ll meet you there.” He says and hung up.

From my hiding place, I could then see Diablo as he began walking toward Tony’s.   Tony’s is in the opposite direction from the Oasis and is also in the opposite direction of the shotgun house where Jill and Diablo live.   He didn’t get far before the ICE officers were in their truck heading the same way.

As soon as the “ICE holes” were gone, my phone rings.  It’s Diablo, this time in English.  “Get the girls out of your house.  Take them to my place.  Take all of their things. Tell no one, not even Jill.  Nobody around here can keep a secret.  Go back to the bar and act like nothing has happened.”

When I returned to the bar, Diablo was waiting for me.  “I understand that you want to take the girls to your home town.”  I guess Jill told him what I was thinking.

Diablo nodded to The Nephew who was busy hitting on what looked like a college girl. Getting drunk on my money, no doubt.  “I suggest you head that way.  I’ll keep William’s nephew occupied.”

I could almost see Diablo’s thoughts. “ICE will be getting a search warrant.”

I was thinking out loud. “And, they won’t find anything.”

“Maybe they will, Del.  My Krewe is planning a party tomorrow night.  Can we use your apartment?”

Jill took off from work the next night for the party at my apartment.  I wish I could have been there when ICE arrived with the search warrant.   I know what Diablo and Jill wore.  The girls and I helped them dress before they left.  I also have a pretty good idea of the other Krewe members’ outfits.   I’ve seen many of them in costume before.  

I understand Mrs. Broussard was livid.  

Mother wants to meet my new friends. She and her church ladies have a plan.  Izsabella, Angelita, Buddy, and I are on our way north.  Meanwhile, The Nephew and The Niece are probably looking for my blue Subaru.  I have my own key.