Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Late Night.

Now what? Now what? That's all I could think. My mind wasn't able to generate any other thought, nor any answers. The one thought, the one target that I'd been fixated on was the arrival of those air-conditioned buses. I was going to be free of the heat, the humidity, the uncertainty, the deprivation, the strangeness, and the captivity. That all just came crashing down, and every single hope I had lay in little pieces at my feet. I barely had the energy to step over them.

I walked back over to Steve and the guys. "What are you going to do?" Steve asked me.

"It looks like the only choice is to go back into the hotel and hope to God that they find those buses. How about you?" I asked.

"I guess we'll all have to go back home, but how are we going to know if the buses show up?” Steve said.

"If one of you gives me your phone number I'll call you when the announcement comes," I said.

"Really? You would do that?" asked one of the others.

"Sure," I said.

He wrote his name and phone number on the back of one of my business cards that I'd handed him. His name was Mike. With that, they walked off into the dark and I stood there wondering what Steve's homecoming would be like. How do you walk back into your girlfriend's apartment, and face her after walking out and leaving her behind just a few hours earlier? With not much else to feel thankful for at the moment, I thanked God that at least I wasn't in Steve's shoes.

I picked up my bags, which now seemed heavier than when I brought them out, and trudged back down Royal and into the hotel lobby. It was an unbelievable sight: a mass of exhausted, strung-out, sweaty, and extremely frustrated people slumping on the few couches or sitting on the floor. It was difficult to walk without stepping on someone. I maneuvered my way through a narrow path and sat down on the last few steps of the mezzanine stairs. There was a little movement of air between the floors that kept me from feeling too claustrophobic.

A thirty-something woman sat a few steps up from me, crying. Through her tears she said, "Damnit. They should have known better. They should have gotten those buses in here sooner. They should have never let this happen."

I turned and said, "I know. It's awful, but you have to just reach deep down inside yourself and grab another handful of patience. That's all I'm trying to do." That was true too. I was grabbing deep for patience I didn't know I had.

A long line of people waiting to get new room key-cards passed me and stretched to the front door. I decided to wait, so I stayed on the steps turning my face to find any moving air. The woman behind me was still sobbing.

Dave walked into the middle of the lobby and announced that they had finally discovered that the buses had, in fact, been on the bridge at 7:00 p.m. when he spoke with them, but they had been seized by the National Guard, under the authority of martial law, and sent to the Superdome. Further, "We're going to keep trying to find more buses and if we do we will make an announcement over the P.A. system for all of you to come down. It doesn't matter if it's 2 a.m., or 4 a.m., or whatever time, we'll keep trying, so be ready to go at a moment's notice." What? I couldn't believe it. OUR buses had been seized that we had paid for? That wasn't fair, but fair was a concept from the "old world" and didn't work here.

Once the commotion began to die down, Dave announced that the hotel had just a couple of cases of bottled water left, which they were going to distribute. We were to go see a designated hotel worker to get our one bottle of water. He was just to my right, so I jumped up, took the few steps towards him, and got my bottle. I sat back down and tried to sniff out the moving air.

The best word that I can think of to describe the scene in there is this: wilted. Everyone, everything was just wilted. There were no more straight lines including people. When people stood up they slumped. When they sat down they leaned. I was wilted too.

After half an hour the line was more manageable so I joined in. How many lines had I been in over the last several days? How many days had I been here? I couldn't remember. This was my new normal. It was the world of "Mad Max," the "Road Warrior" come true and it was now my world.

After getting a new key card, I got back up to my room. I found a chair and propped the door open. I was more worried about suffocating than I was about someone coming in the room while I was asleep. Opening the door didn’t circulate any air, but having it open did make me feel less boxed in. I called Kathy, who by now was frantic to hear from me. Since my cell phone didn't work and I had been out on the street, it had been over seven hours since we’d spoken.

She couldn't believe the story I told her, in that she had called the "800" number for the hotel and had been told that we had left hours ago for Houston on the buses. It was easy to see how they got that wrong in that the call center was located in Canada. I assured her that, indeed, I was back in my room. She broke down in tears.

Kathy told me that my brother Brian had somehow networked his way to our late stepfather's niece, Carol, who lived in Baton Rouge, which is where I needed to go. It was only a little over an hour drive north of New Orleans, but it might as well have been on the other side of the country as far as my ability to reach it.

My brother, Mike, who lives in California, told me the night before that he wished he were there with me. My other brother, Steve, was doing what he could. Our son goes to school with George Lucas's son and Kathy even called his assistant, Sarita, to see if he could do anything to help. She said she'd see what she could do.

My nephew, Blake, told Kathy that he'd been thinking of different plans that sounded kind of crazy, but that might work. He was thinking that he and a couple of friends would drive their truck as close to New Orleans as possible. They would then drive dirt bikes on back roads into the city, find me, and spirit me out of town. He also thought maybe they could launch a boat and come down the river, land at New Orleans, find me and motor back up to where they left the truck. Either way, they were prepared, he told her, to shoot their way in and out if necessary. God bless all of them.

Before hanging up, Kathy said, "You're such a sound sleeper, I'm just afraid that if they do make an announcement, you'll sleep right through it."

"Don't be silly," I assured her. "The P.A. system is really loud and there is a speaker in each room. If they find more buses there's no way I'm missing any announcement."

By now, my facade of "I'm fine," had broken down. I told Kathy, "Honey, you've got to find a way to get me out of here.” It was the first time that I had let her know the depth of my longing to come home. "I don't want to be here anymore." She said that she knew and that she was working as hard as she could to make that happen. After realizing that I had likely scared her to death, I half-heartedly told her that, really, I was fine. I told her I loved her, she did the same, and we hung up.

I went over to the mini-bar fridge, opened it and did something I never thought I'd do: I grabbed a Bud Light, twisted off the cap, and drank it. I called Brian to see if he could drive down and find a way he could get through. He said that he'd thought about that, but had been warned by the State Police that he knew in Arkansas not to try that, as there were roadblocks on every road into New Orleans. I said, "Look Brian, I'm out of Heinekens, I just drank a Bud Light, and you know that means that I'm desperate.” We both got a laugh out of the absurdity of that. I told him I'd call him tomorrow to let him know where we were with the buses.

It was now well past midnight. I moved over to sleep in the other double bed by the windows. I thought if there was any transfer of air from the room to the hall it might be there. I tried again to open the windows, but one hundred twenty-nine years of paint held firm. The white sheets stuck to me when I turned over.

I thought about taking a chair and breaking out one of the windows. No one would have blamed me for such a desperate act, but I decided against it. Not only could glass falling from fifteen stories really hurt someone, I was far to "well behaved" to do it. One more night in that room, I thought, and that window would have to go.

Sweating like a pig, worrying about missing the P.A. call for the buses, exhausted from living in "Mogadishu" in America, and not feeling one scintilla of air movement, I slowly fell into another fitful night of sleep.