Mornin in New Orleans

I sleep with my window open because I’m not afraid of spirits. When you stay in New Orleans, people say you’ve come to the city of haints. But, I think that’s superstitious bull. It’s just the breeze, just the breeze. Just an endless southern draft coasting through you, cream off the Mississippi.

On Thursday night, I propped my window open and slipped into the pocket of my bed, bones crunching, exhausted. Two hours to witching hour and the winds were already picking up, waking spirits from their graves. This was expected in August when the hurricanes stirred and blew the living wits from your halfway dissipating summer gloom. I couldn’t sleep. I had that feeling when you’re so tired that the pea under your mattress pokes and prods you in places you never knew existed. The wind was poor company, warning of tomorrow’s trials. No rest for the poor. Error, TGIF not found. 

In a wink it was morning and the kind that perches in your lungs with thick, mildewy fog. The heavy winds reached through the cracks and tapped on my skin. Get up, they said. It’s past five. So, I obeyed, yawns protesting. I had no choice in these matters. Having a room with a window to slit at night was expensive for a twenty nothing nobody. And one job barely paid the rent. Two jobs just about cut it. Cut your sleep in half. 

The morning news said to stay home, but I was strapped into the driver’s seat texting my boss on the freeway, apologizing in advance for fucking up his coffee order. The winds weren’t joking. Rain tackled my camry from all sides, blurring surrounding cars till they looked like shooting stars. I packed a windbreaker to wear over my blazer, although I knew Makeup would ask me to take it off and brave the weather raw. What did I need comfort for? I was just an intern. 

Jonie, the cameraman, was pissed at me the second I arrived on set. Where the hell had I been? I drove slow, my worn tires slipping on road paint and sediment. Jonie snapped his fingers and shooed me away, disgusted. I dug my notes from my bag and bent over the pad to keep the rain from soaking my work. The ink smudged anyway. 

“Farah! Coffee!” The order echoed and found me unwell. I squirmed and scurried to the man in the suit. Oily hair, chunky, glistening lips. Superiority flexed in the shoulders. I handed my boss his cup, offended by his smell. He took a sip.

“Goddammit, Farah. You had one job. Toss this.”

Not even 6 am and I’ve fucked up. I poured my mistake on the ground and watched it contaminate the rainwater, swirling under my drenched lacquer shoes. I can take it. One day, I’ll be throwing the cups. But for now, I had to find Jonie and tell him I was ready for standby. 

“You look like shit.” How I loved my coworker’s compliments! Jonie was especially kind. “You can’t go on air like that,” he scoffed.

“Good thing I never have to.” I was only a backup for emergencies. Sitting on the backshelf with the unused peanut butter. I took my place by Jonie’s elbow and spoon fed him the notes.

“We’re looking at a category 3, so make sure you get a shot of the trees, catch the wind.”

It was a big day at ONO news. Crew running around, carrying props and various machines. My boss tickling everyone’s nerves with strategic discouragement. All of us marinating in rainwater, except for the lucky bastard execs sheltering under their tarp tents. You’d think that we were the hurricane the way we decimated our surroundings, scuffing up the riverfront dirt. The day was so big that I nearly missed Jonie’s gasp, distracted by the morning buzz. His shout snapped me out of it:

“Emma’s out! Her car broke down. We need a backup reporter in makeup pronto. Ten minutes till we’re on air people! Move!” 

Oh god. I was backup. Backup was me.

“Farrah, that’s you! Wake the fuck up and get moving!”

I was not awake. I was not moving. Jonie shook my shoulders and induced grand mal epilepsy. Still not awake. Still not moving. He slapped me across the face. I started. 

“I need help with my hair!”

Ten makeup artists swarmed me like an anthill, brushing my cheeks with red dust and pulling the strands from my head with the grace of rust on a bike hinge. I was aflame. Just as I predicted, the windbreaker was ripped from my chest and I watched it blow away, tossed into the air. So long, field hockey windbreaker, you were good to me. Crew handed me a measly umbrella and I played tug-of-war with the wind. I was losing. They kicked my behind with a boot and I stumbled in front of the camera, spotting cue cards in the corner but barely making out the text through the sheets of water streaming from the sky.  

“On air in three, two, one…”

I must have looked like the famous New Orleans haints. Transparent, wicked, dead for hundreds of years. I couldn’t hear myself. 

“GOOD MORNING NEW ORLEANS!”

Jonie made a signal with his hands that said why are you shouting, stop fucking up my show. I saw my boss roll his eyes and storm away. I took the hint. 

“I’m here with ONO news reporting to you live from the banks of the Mississippi. We’re looking at a rough few days as Hurricane Olivia makes it’s way over to us from the Caribbean”

I was a disgrace. I’d never had so much spit dribble from my mouth and it tasted unusually dry like munching on sand. God, I felt like a neanderthal. The umbrella was yanking my shoulder from its socket and a fresh wave of rain found its way under my collar. My bra was sticking to my back and hiding from the camera, burying under my skin. I wanted to be my bra. Why couldn’t I be my bra? Keep going, nimwit. They’re watching you. 

“Expect wind speeds exceeding 110 miles per hour and make sure you lock up that patio furniture. We’ve seen some flying tables already.”

But then a branch skirted smack over me, barely missing my head. And I did the unthinkable. I yelped at the top of my lungs and it came out like this: AYYEGHHGGHGOOO. Jonie had Satan behind his eyes and he turned red as rhubarb. Clearly his lectures on professionalism didn’t stick with me. But, I couldn't help it. Debris and projectiles were slashing me from left and right and I knew I had long since crossed the line of looking stupid. So, I rolled with it. I gripped my mic tighter and surrendered the umbrella to the wind. Louder now: 

“Latest m-m-meteorology data has the eye heading for us at around 3 o’clock this a-afternoon and shelters are making space for anyone out there caught in the rrr-rr–ain!!!”

Mascara drooped from my eye sockets and my voice was cracking in competition with Hurricane Olivia. I looked a proper fright. Haints beware! But amongst it all, my inhibitions floated off with the wind, the rain washing me of my last inkling of pride and composure. I was a pathetic intern, soaked to the bone, clownish, broke, battered by the forces of mother nature. And so what? Nothing could stop me now. There was no lower to sink. Rock bottom was my new home. I let it all out. All the late nights and early mornings, all the coffee cups tossed in my face, and all the insults I’d kept half-swallowed in my esophagus. The wind howled and so did I. 

“STAY INSIDE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STAY INSIDE PEOPLE!”

It’s not that I intended to go off script. It’s more so that an intense spiritual moment found me and, suddenly, I was called to appease my intrusive thoughts. Like the Nirvana of acting out. At least, I didn’t break into song. 

“IT’S TREACHEROUS OUT HERE. TREACHEROUS. GATHER YOUR CHILDREN, STOCK YOUR CUPBOARDS, AND STAY HOME.”

Possession is the best term for it. Possession. I blame the haints and the spirits. At that moment, I was not myself, I admit. But, boy, did it feel lovely to just be honest for once. To tell the world how I really felt. 

“AND.. AND… YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE?? YOU SHOULD BE SCARED. THIS IS NOT OKAY AND WE WILL NOT BE OKAY. IT. IS. NOT. SAFE.”

I knew Jonie was a second away from screaming cut and I saw a crew man run from the corner preparing to tackle me to the ground. My final seconds on air were ticking away. But I had to have one last lick of freedom and unleash my hysteria.

“AND I HATE THIS JOB, NEW ORLEANS! I HATE THIS JO—”

The mic was wrestled from my fist and a string of expletives braided themselves from Jonie’s tight lips. The set roared around me and I was at the center of its rage. Flying papers, cameras whipping about, stomping and storming, seeking to engulf me. There was no question of my fate. Yep, I was most definitely fired. 

—---------------------

Hurricane Olivia passed with some flooding. Nothing we’re not used to. I spent the remaining windy days in bed, nursing my recently-terminated, butt-hurt ego and worrying about bills. When my asshole boss called I almost didn’t pick up. I figured he was calling to legally harass me now that we weren’t bound by contract, or at worst, sue me for endangering his career. But, I picked up anyway, because I was in need of a bit of self-immolation. 

“Come back,” he said. 

And I said: “......huh……?” But trust me it sounded more feisty. I gave it to him good with that HUH. 

“Come back, to work with us. Our ratings are through the roof.” He seemed reluctant as he sighed loudly through the receiver, sounding like a slobbering dog.

But what he didn’t realize was that I had outgrown ONO news. I made my choice and it was final. No sir, no going back now. I was too good for them. I had too much goodness in me. No way, no way. Absolutely not. I have too much self-respect. I refuse to torture mysel—-

“We’ll pay you triple. We haven’t had as many views since you went viral. We need you. People are begging you to come back.”

Readers, I thought long and hard about it… for three seconds.