It has come to my attention as of late that Noah was a very silent man. The only time we ever hear him say anything is after the flood when he’s hungover and cursing his son for walking in on him in his birthday suit. So, though he does the will of The Lord throughout the whole story in pious silence, the only time we hear him say anything, it leaves one with a poor impression. Was it the lad’s fault he happened in on his father in his nude stupor, before such a remedy as hair of the dog? Perhaps it is a story of the odd situations hangovers can get you into in the first place.

It was New Year’s Day 2002 around noon, and I was still in my bed–my eyes had not yet peeled from the previous night’s over-indulgences when the phone rang. On the other end was a Jehovah’s Witness trying to give me comfort four months after a national treasure had been laid low. He pointed me to one of those passages wherein Paul discusses how the Lord will protect us is the darkest times etc. At that moment all I longed for was the dark, given the sensitivity of my eyes. Yet even in that circumstance, I still had the ability to make a Jehovah’s Witness long to be absent my company. Lying on my stomach, eyes not yet open, my free hand fell off the edge of the bed to the floor groping for my trusty Bible. “I have a passage for you, try Luke 21:5-6 or Matthew 24: 1-2.” These passages, I felt, directly addressed the national situation at the time. He seemed to disagree. The conversation that ensued was shorter than you might imagine. It is odd to me that Witnesses have a reputation for not desiring to end a conversation. I have always found the opposite to be the case. Apart from that, he did say he would like to meet me at the park on Napoleon and Magazine. I told him I’d be there Saturday at 2:00.

It was chilly that Saturday, the rains came hard, and the bow of God was not to be seen in the clouds. When I came to the park I saw no one sitting at the designated bench. I decided to wait at the bar across the street, in keeping with my Catholic identity. I stood outside the door and crouched under a huge Dixie Beer sign, keeping an eye on the vacant bench. Torrents continued to fall, and it seemed that Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t even keep to Postal standards, much less those to whom they witness. I gave myself the limit of half past two to make sure I wasn’t the one who theologically finked, and then I would leave. No one ever showed.

As I was counting down the final minutes, a ruffled old black man came out of the bar. He staggered a little and popped his umbrella. Then another younger African American (or perhaps Afro-American, depending on his age) walked by. They both greeted each other with a zeal that did not fit the gray wet weather. By this time, Magazine Street had become Magazine River and the older man said the to younger, “You can’ be walken out there with no umbrella, here take this un’.” So the young man took it with much gratitude and walked on. The older man hopped on the bus when it came, and I hopped in my car feeling I had won a doctrinal TKO.

It was that man that I was thinking about Friday as I sloshed through the rain. Around five in the morning in the twenty-sixth year of my life, in the second month, on the twenty-first day of the month, it was on that day that the all the fountains of the great abyss burst forth, and the floodgates of the sky were opened. The rain seemed to come down as if in one huge drop–a drop not just wide, but very long. I was on my way to the auto shop to pick up my car, and had to zigzag my way through the neighborhood behind Carrolton in order to avoid overly flooded roadways. All of the streets were absolutely deserted. My umbrella had blown off its stick and I just caught it in time to be able to hold it by the skeleton of the covering for a while before it gave out. When my umbrella finally did go, that was when the old man popped into my mind. I thought it might be nice to have someone come by and give me an umbrella, someone, like Noah, who is better at action than word. I was standing on a portion of the sidewalk that was in the process of being taken over by water when I looked into a trash pile that was floating away and saw a piece of thick cardboard. I grabbed it and flipped it to the dry side, putting it over my head. On that side was a very large replica of a renaissance rendition of St. Peter, someone who seemed to be better at word then action, most of the time. But he did me a service this time, so I can’t complain. As I put it over my head, I turned to the porch to see two cats sitting beside one another, staring at me. I turned the corner the wrong way to avoid the newly-formed lake that used to be an intersection. No one was to be seen down any of the four ways to the stop. I finally turned the right corner to the auto shop, two stray dogs ran by, one beside the other. At this point I questioned myself at last. “What the hell am I doing out here in this deluge?”

Jack pulled the voltage meter off the battery, “No . . . it’s not charging.” The sun was actually shining on Thursday when I got to work with my battery light on. I had Jack check it and see if it was charging or not and I got my answer. “Well if you go by Auto-Zone and pick up an alternator for it, Carey and I could put it on after work, around five. We don’t mind. It should only take about thirty minutes. We’ve got to wait for the UPS truck anyway.” I scanned his face. Jack is not one to lie, but I know cars well enough to know that a job that “should only take about thirty minutes” is easily a two-hour job. What’s more I get off at four, not five and it’s dark by seven. So the choice was before me: stay an hour late, then add two to that, and get the alternator put on for free. Or pay a hundred and fifty bucks labor and sleep late on Friday morning guilt free, and maybe even in the nude! The choice seemed so obvious, yet I paid for my sloth.

By the time I reached the shop I was soaked through. Then I had to drive the car down the flooded streets to work. I was glad for the new battery, as I was in need of some serious arc-ing for the ark-ing I was doing on the way. The water was above the hood on at least one occasion. For the remainder of the day the squish of my socks under my feet was like walking on wet mushrooms and my displeasure, aroused by work in general, was intensified by the damp clothes.

When I got home that evening my mind was a bit scattered. Mostly I wanted to get out of my clothes, which had been a scarlet letter reminding me of those oh-so-sensual extra moments of sleep I enjoyed that very morning, tossing and turning between warm dry flannel sheets. I stripped to the skin and prepared to shower, it being a designated bathing day on my weekly calendar. I stepped into the kitchen and put water to a slow boil for shaving, a technique I recommend to all. As I was in the kitchen, I noticed that my fake tile floors were perspiring like a plumber’s backside in July. This happens whenever there is a long period of rain. I quickly turned the fan on to get some air circulating and ran a mop over the floor. I started wondering if it might also have had something to do with those pinto beans I got at Suda’s Salvage Grocery. I soaked them all day and then had to boil them for hours two days before. I wondered at the unique properties of beans that would not cook properly, a line of questioning not unknown to products purchased at Suda’s. As I pushed the final passes of the mop over the kitchen floor, I reflected on how nice it is to live alone. It gives one the space to be able to boil water and mop in the nude without having to worry about anyone questioning your sanity or sanitary practices. In that peace, I forgave Noah for cursing his son, and realized that privacy is a cherished item, especially in the nude.

Phillip G.

Literature