Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Wednesday Morning.

It was now my fifth day of being marooned by Katrina, and things weren't getting any easier. One way that I coped with the stress, aside from losing myself in TR's life story, was to sleep in. I figured, the later I slept, since I didn't have any place to go, the less I focused on the heat and chaos. I was putting myself in "suspended animation," or a kind of reverse hibernation. What I wouldn't have given to be in the Artic just then.

I got up around ten o'clock and went to the window. I could see the floodwater had covered more of the tombs and now was covering everything but the tops of the cars parked outside. I was fairly certain that was about as far as it was going to go from the reports that Kathy was giving me, but the sight of that cemetery underwater was chilling.

By now I had run out of clean shirts so I went through my bag and pulled one out of the wad of dirty tee shirts. I grabbed a teacup of water out of the bathtub and brushed my teeth. I'd had it with looking homeless, so I decided to wash my hair. I grabbed the ice bucket and dipped it into the tub. Bending over the sink I spilled just enough to get wet. I grabbed the tiny bottle of shampoo and gave it a whirl around my head, and finished up with a quick rinse. I felt some guilt over using water this way, but my self-esteem was taking enough of a beating from wearing dirty clothes, having no bath, and depending on others for my welfare.

I'm not accustomed to being in such a dependent state. I put myself through college, went on to graduate school, earned a Ph.D., set up and ran my own business, and took care of my family. I was the guy that others depended on, but here I was depending on the hotel to shelter and feed me, and was waiting for the government to free me. I didn’t want to ask for any more help.

With dirty clothes, but wet, mostly clean hair, I went down to the lobby and inquired, once again, if they had been able to put their hands on a corkscrew. Of course, they had no corkscrew, and probably thought, "What's with this guy who keeps coming by everyday to ask for a corkscrew?"

I went through the chow line and overheard people at the next table talking. I wasn't sure that I heard them right so I apologized for eavesdropping, and asked what they were talking about. Sure enough, the hotel had privately arranged for ten buses to drive into town and evacuate us and the guests from the nearby Holiday Inn. I could barely contain myself. I asked them where to get tickets.

I raced, I mean raced, down to the lobby where a dozen people lined up for the front desk. I asked the last person if this was the line for bus tickets and she said that it was. I didn't trust that the news was true, but waited in the barely moving line, terrified that I'd get to the front only to be told that the tickets were sold out.

Finally, I was standing in front of a clerk with a German accent. "Is it true?" Yes, she assured me. "Well, what's the deal," I asked? Ten air-conditioned buses would be in front of the hotel tonight at six o'clock, and they would take us to Houston Hobby Airport, at which point we could individually arrange our way home. The cost per ticket was $45, and we should line up on the street at five o'clock. The only conditions were that if you didn't get a ticket before they sold out you weren't going, if you lost your ticket you weren't going, and finally, if you tried to rush onto the buses when they arrived and cause a ruckus you weren't going. I could live with that so I plunked $45 down in cash and got my prized ticket.

I was leaving this hellish situation in an air-conditioned bus and I was barely able to speak. In another seven hours there would be an end point and that gave me the strength to cope until those buses rolled up.

As I stepped away from the counter I secured my ticket. It was small and red, like one of the old-fashioned movie tickets, which meant I could put into the deepest recess in my wallet. I walked around the rest of the day with my hand in my pocket on my wallet.

Relieved but fearful that it was too good to be true, I caught the elevator back upstairs in order to grab my camera, book, and some water. Since the local people had been moved out of the hotel, the elevator wasn't nearly as crowded and didn't make so many stops. When I got to my room, I thought about closing the drapes to keep the room from getting so hot, but didn’t as I'd be leaving town in just a few hours.

Before leaving the room I called Kathy and she was so relieved that she broke down into tears. I told her she could call off the rescue, that I loved her, that I couldn't wait to see her, and that I would call before I left for Houston.

I then phoned Southwest to arrange a flight from Houston. I was about to take one final tour around the Quarter and spend the rest of the afternoon in my reading spot. However, as I collected my things I started to worry that maybe we wouldn't get to Houston in time for the early morning flight I’d just booked. What if the buses were late or the traffic was bad or what if a million other things happened to delay us? I rang Southwest again and changed the flight to the afternoon.

Satisfied that I had done all that I could to get myself home, I hit the superheated street for my last few hours in New Orleans.