Dispatches From the Edge_ A Memoir of War, Disasters, and Survival - Anderson Cooper [68]
“I’m legally blind,” she tells me, “and they won’t let me take my service dog with me.”
On the corner, Los Angeles police officers are fanning out, trying to get everyone on the block to leave. It’s been three weeks since the storm, and the mayor has announced that everyone has to get out of the city. Forcible evacuations, some are calling it, but the truth is, they aren’t really forcing people out.
“It’s just temporary,” a police officer says to Ms. Connie.
“No, no, dear,” Ms. Connie says, slowly standing up. “I don’t mean to be a hard case, but my dog goes where I go, or I don’t go.”
Normally, I wouldn’t intervene—I’d just stand back and observe—but in this case it doesn’t feel right. I’ve just talked to some National Guard troops who told me they have changed their policy and are now allowing people to take their pets on board the evacuation helicopters. I tell the police officer that the policy has changed. He goes back to talk with his superiors.
Ms. Connie lives alone with her dog, Abu. Her husband died years ago. Both he and Ms. Connie were traveling preachers. She invites me inside her home. In her living room there is a large hole in the corner of the ceiling, damage from Katrina.
“This is my skylight,” Ms. Connie says, chuckling. Though legally blind, she can see just enough to move around, but not to clean. The apartment is a mess. A thick layer of dirt and dust covers everything.
“I don’t trust law officials,” she says. “They can’t make up their minds.” She isn’t sure what she would pack if she were to leave, and she has nothing to pack her belongings in. The suitcase she used in her traveling days is broken. On the refrigerator is a hand-drawn sign in smudged ink: JESUS IS LORD.
“I’m not sure where I will end up,” she tells me, “but God knows where I’ll end up.”
The police officer returns and tells Ms. Connie she can bring Abu along.
She believes it’s a sign. The time has come to go. “I believe the Lord gives you guidance and will give you guidance, if you listen…”
“God is still watching over New Orleans?” I ask.
“Absolutely, absolutely,” she says, smiling. “Will she rise again? Absolutely, absolutely.”
AN OFF-DUTY HYATT HOTEL manager reeking of booze takes us on a late-night tour of his Shangri-la. The Hyatt is where the mayor and his staff were holed up throughout the storm. It’s within running distance of the Superdome. Cleaning crews have been busy disinfecting the lobby. It looks immaculate. The smell of mold and garbage is nearly gone. The manager takes us on a ride to the top floor and opens up the Regency suites for us to see. The whole side of the building, the outer wall of glass, is gone. The hotel won’t be back in business anytime soon.
“Do you want to see the phone where the mayor called the president from?” the manager, asks, a plastic cup of beer in his hand.
“No, that’s all right,” I say, deciding it’s time to call it a night.
“I can get you into the Superdome,” he says. “I’ve been there three times already. These soldiers and police are so disorganized. It won’t be any problem.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I’ve already been.”
BACK AT THE Royal Sonesta Hotel the booze has stopped flowing. I give a producer some cash and ask her to organize a beer run to Baton Rouge. Each night, we’ve been collecting around the empty hotel pool—small groups drinking, unwinding. It’s quieter than at the daiquiri bar, and the crowd is mostly CNN personnel. The gatherings are important—a reminder to each of us that we’re not here alone.
The hotel’s power comes and goes. Tonight it’s off; a fire in the electrical supply room has apparently shut it down.
“I guess we’re back in crisis mode,” a handyman says to me as he picks up a flashlight and casually strolls down the hall, his stooped stride anything but a sign of crisis mode.
I introduce myself to a man at the bar. He’s a local resident who’s been