Today as I took the girl to school, I spotted a pile of furniture on the curb, on Iberville just past Jeff Davis.
Flooded furniture. The flood was three years ago. And it struck me the houses here are like patrons at a party where poison punch has been passed. They stand for a while. Some fall. Those that don’t fall eventually disgorge their guts onto the sidewalk. Some take longer than others. I bet in 2015 we’ll still be hearing of the occasional house that finally had its contents removed, ten years after the flood.
I stayed home from campus today to work on the house and my mind. I’ve borrowed a ladder from Michael. I still have Joe’s ladder, but it’s actually too long for this job. I’m unsticking the painted-shut windows on our upper floor. I can’t abide windows that won’t open. We’d have never bought this house if the windows had been painted shut. The weather’s too nice now for AC.
Because I was home, I got to see some more furniture piling up on another curb, at the house across the street. I didn’t get a good look at who was doing the work, but they came, emptied the apartment, swept it out, changed the lock and left. It looks as though Trinetta’s been evicted. I wonder if she knows yet.
(Same landlord as two years ago, different tenant.)
At least I got the rest of the windows unstuck.
Update: We saw people picking over Trinetta’s stuff. I expressed concern, but the guy working on the apartment said it was OK. “Is she dead?” I asked. “Yes!” he said. But I don’t think he meant it. That seemed to be a misunderstanding born of the language barrier. Apparently Trinetta already moved out and just left a bunch of stuff behind. So I guess she’s not evicted. But still — that’s a lot of stuff she left behind. Something seems off.