Waterlogged Records

“Definitely my record collection,” answers Tim after great consideration.

Tim is a youthful southern grandfather. Tim is a man who longs for his vinyls which now lay waterlogged in an abandoned cement room. Tim is a survivor of Hurricane Katrina.

He sits at a metal table in a school gymnasium which has been converted into a volunteer shelter. He sips what appears to be sweet tea, but his breath smells much too potent. The air surrounding us is thick with heat and though the screen doors are wide open, the forecast will not offer a breeze. I am slick with sweat, but Tim wears a green coat--he is accustomed to this temperature.

The yelps of the saccade bugs rudely puncture both our conversation as well as the sweltering haze. Mimicking an arrow shot underwater their fierce shrieks disturb the trapped heat, stirring the humidity, and forcibly shocking life into this fibrillating city. Instinctively I slide my chair closer to Tim to hear him over their roar. As I lean my body in, Tim takes a sip of his harsh liquid and looks to his right. Following his gaze I find a slim man who smiles warmly and introduces himself as Anthony.

Anthony tells me that the hurricane floated his business away. He draws a map on a napkin in blue pen depicting where the levees broke and where he stood for days in knee deep water. To the soundtrack of the unrelenting screams of saccades I learn that Anthony lost his car. I learn that Anthony lost his dogs and his business. Anthony also lost his home.

Inquisitively I ask, “Anthony, what do you miss the most?”, naively expecting a response relating to a sentimental item, such as an old photograph. My eyes grow wide in his silence, and their watery blue hue disregards the discomfort of sunlight reflecting off of my sweaty arms. Distinct goosebumps still manage rise through the salty wetness as Anthony replies, “my wife”.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have asked”.

In this moment, Anthony begins to comfort me while I should be comforting him. The saccades do not grow silent, and the heat does not subside which would have lessened the moment’s intensity. Rather, their sounds bravely fill the silence with a hot rhythm creating tangible music that will never become waterlogged.