thirty-five seconds

I was in New Orleans last week. It's a beautiful part of the earth, that city. I fell in love very deeply and I want to go back.

When I first arrived, I had dinner with a friend who I don't get to see so much. He's the best kind of egg, and we had a grand time sitting atop a balcony on Bourbon street talking, listening, and taking in the senses from below.

Fast-forward to me being very, very sick for the rest of the week. And me needing to be "on" at 8 a.m. on Saturday for work. This transition takes you to where I was Friday night: the emergency room of Touro Hospital, New Orleans, trying to get some drugs.

I have a lot of stories from this night, but this will be the first.

Three cab drivers I met that night, and how they hit me deep down inside the tender parts of my soul. Right in the spot I needed to be touched, and when I needed to be noticed.

* * *

I had been crying on the phone to my husband because I was so sick and tired. I couldn't stop being ill and I still had so much to do and I had nothing left.

"You need to go to the doctor," he said.

"I don't want to go," I said.

So the conversation continued with lots of support in other areas until we parted. And then I made up my mind to do as he said, and go get help.

The ER. Dammit.

I went to the concierge to find my way. Urgent care was closed, of course. You'll have to go to the hospital, doll. They're so nice in the South. Even when they're telling you how royally fucked you are.

He took out a map and showed me the cross streets.

"Tell the cab driver to take you right here, and to take St. Charles street. You know how some of these guys are," he said.

I had no idea how they are, because I'm from someplace else and we only talk like that in veiled slips of passive-aggressive mysteries. But I was grateful for the map all the same.

To my left I saw four friends pass by and out the doors, including my good egg from the first night. They were off to dinner and a show. Next time, I thought. I'll go with them the next time we're together.

I caught my cab in front of the hotel, a red minivan. I showed the driver the map and asked him to take St. Charles street to Touro hospital.

"Are you sick?" he said.

"Don't worry, I won't get sick in here," I said.

"I'm not worried."

We drove awhile, and it was clear we weren't on St. Charles.

There were mansions and weeping trees that fell heavy with rain. It was just how I felt. Full of lead that weighed down the promise I might have had within.

"Where are we?"

"The Garden District."

It was magnificent. Above ground cemeteries and pages from an Ann Rice novel. Everything around me seemed deep without color, all white and pale yellows. We passed the urgent care, boarded up for the night, or had it been closed for longer? I didn't know if Katrina had gotten this far.

"You know, you are sick and you're not from here. You just don't know when that's going to happen to you."

I shook a little inside and acknowledged with a sigh.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Haiti."

"Do you still have family there?"

"Yes."

Some more silence. And then he said:

"It took 35 seconds. It was like you closed your eyes and then you opened them, and everything was gone."

I cried openly but held back the whimpers. It was just that fast. And then he said:

"Like here. Like the hurricane. You think you have control. Some men, I think, they just get curious and they think they can do it. They think they have control and then they open their eyes and there is nothing there."

I thought about this underneath my own emotions. It has been a month of profound loss. More than I will ever be able to talk about here. But I thought of something in response to this.

"We have control over ourselves," I said.

"Oh yes. We can choose to be good or evil. Every day."

And just as fast as we had left, we were at the hospital.

I wanted him to come back and get me when I was done, but I was fairly certain this wouldn't be a short trip. He told me to call a United Cab because they take credit cards, but he gave me his number if I got in a bind. He said he'd pick me up any time I wanted. I thanked him and left, walking a block away so he didn't have to go the wrong way down a one way. He waited until I got inside, and then he said good-bye.

* * *

Four hours later and I was done with the ER. I had been waiting for my cab for an hour.

The first one had shown up and didn't take credit cards. Apparently, this is something you have to request when you call. I had no idea, but it makes sense now. So I was waiting for my credit card-taking cab in front of Touro. And up pulls a beautiful United Cab with a lovely elderly lady in the back. I held the heavy door open for her and started to climb in. And the driver, a guy younger than me with nothing but gold for teeth, an straight-brimmed Reds cap and black tattoos everywhere looked at me in confusion.

"Are you my cab?" I said.

"Uhhh, no."

Of course you're not. Because this is where I'm going to wait for the rest of my life.

"Do you take credit cards?"

"No."

I sighed, told him I was waiting for a United Cab that took credit cards. He wished me luck and drove away. I stood in the warm wind and waited. 11 p.m. I was so exhausted. I thought about calling my first driver but something didn't seem right about it. I felt like I was trouble.

A catering van had pulled up in front of the ER entrance, promising hot wings, corn on the cob, various fried things and soda and coffee. Amazing, I thought. People waited in line as though they were expecting it. I turned away and watched some nurses smoke and a guy dance and sing aloud to himself.

"HEY!"

I looked at the catering van and saw the United Cab driver with the Reds hat.

"I'll give you a ride."

My hope shot through the sky, and I walked quickly toward him. I promised him that if he gave me a ride, I'd run inside to the cash machine and tip him well. He said it wasn't a problem. He had gotten stiffed for $140 on credit card trips before and he didn't like to do it, but he didn't want to leave me stranded. His order came through the catering van window.

"I'll buy you dinner," I said.

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Do you want cheese on your broccoli?" asked the catering van owner.

"Whatever's easy," he said.

"Do you want cheese or don't you?"

"Sure," he grinned all gold.

I stuck out my hand and told him my name.

"I'm Cedric," he said. And we shook. He commented that a) He had never had a woman buy him dinner before and b) My handshake was so strong it hurt his arm. This was particularly hilarious because the physical advantage did not lay with me. About the dinner, I said there was a first time for everything. That's something I really believe in.

We stood there and talked while his order came through. About being nice to people and why it's important. He had a wonderful way about him, and he teased me about my handshake some more, and punched me lightly on the arm to let me know he was just foolin'.

And then my cab pulled up.

Cedric told me he would still take me if I wanted to. I said I didn't want to stiff the other cab, and walked over to make sure he had the credit card machine. Sure enough, the new driver held up the swiper. I felt like I was in Tron all of the sudden.

"Bye, Cedric!" I yelled.

He yelled and waved good-bye. I'm glad I got to buy him dinner. It felt good to make Cedric smile.

* * *

I settled into the deep seat of my final cab of the evening. The driver was silent, except to ask me which way I wanted to go. I asked him to take Magazine Street. So up we went, looking at all the beautiful people just beginning their night. It was 11:30 now, and there was still so much life around. I breathed and took it all in, thinking of Cedric and my first driver whose name I never got. There was everything else in-between that I haven't shared yet. An adventure. I swallowed it all and decided it had been a good night. I was on the other side of that evening's tears. We pulled into the cul-de-sac of the hotel, and I gave him my credit card, that which had delayed my arrival by an hour and a half.

"Which one of these is your first name?" he asked.

I set him straight. I guess they're both strange names.

"Where is that from?"

"It's Swedish," I said.

"You're Swedish?"

I never know how to answer this, being an American. No, I'm not Swedish. I'm no more Swedish than the way the letters scramble together. My great-grandparents were from Sweden. But me? I'm so far from anyplace not Midwest, it's immeasurable.

"Yes, I'm Swedish."

"Is that why you're so beautiful?"

I snorted and blushed and laughed my obnoxious laugh.

"No," I said. "I'm beautiful because of my mother."

"Is she Swedish?"

I bellowed and signed the slip.

"Why are you so beautiful?" I asked.

"From my father," he said.

I laughed and thanked him. It was a good answer. We all look like Christmas to someone.