Psalms of the Forgotten

By J.A. Sloan

Five dysfunctional misfits--complete strangers--are stranded together in a strange place during Hurricane Katrina.  And they will nevermore be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.A. Sloan
• Release date: Nov 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215851647

Book preview

The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Matthews 25:40

Dedicated to those whose lives were touched by the tragic event known as Hurricane Katrina.

Homeward

~1~

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

He was, without a doubt, homeless and on the move . . . walking alone where others would not, a tattered backpack slump-shouldered, and a rolled sleeping bag tucked under his arm.  He had the scruffy look of a hard road and high mileage, the tell-tale hitcher’s thumb, and the slow but steady gait of always going.  With few exceptions, they all look the same.

He was aimed toward the south.  Cars and trucks heading in his direction offered only their engine grind, a whooshing blast of highway dust, and the hot stench of their exhaust fumes; their cozy occupants oblivious to their residual effects on the man’s precarious journey.  Few, if any, considered, Where might he find rest?  Is he hungry?  Would he appreciate a lift?  He was barely visible to them . . . merely walking road debris . . . a rear-view mirror man quickly forgotten.

The man’s name was Tim.  He was Tim Barns, born and raised in New Orleans.  Folks that now knew him called him Hobo.  He moved around more frequently than most of his kind.  Hobo was headed home.

Tim had not been back to New Orleans for several years.  It was a place a part of him wished to avoid, yet another part of him could not.  Whenever he returned, he wished to leave immediately.  And after he left, he thought only of returning.  Coming home was bittersweet.

He’d repeated his homecoming and going twice before.  He didn’t have any expectation that this time would be different.  It was just time to return.  It was time to revisit why he came and why he left.  A time for remembering how he’d become and how he’d once been . . . and who he now was.

Tim had a place for important things . . . his memories and the events of his life that made each of them.  He had them sorted; filed away as either good or as bad.  A few were both, like coming home.  Coming home was for ordering his thoughts . . . and for planning the next stop on his life of wandering.

But being on the road was not the proper place for such thoughts . . . .

When he walked, Tim counted his steps; a way of marking time on the road.  He kept his head down . . . never looking forward or backward . . . to avoid being discouraged by a too-far distant horizon or a too-close beginning.  It was his way of forgetting.  Perhaps, also, his way of remembering.  Tim could never seem to count high enough.

Tim thought of food.  The expired hotdog, a reward for sweeping the I-85 Exit 102A Kangaroo station’s floor in Greenville, South Carolina—his last fixed point of reference—had fallen apart on his first bite and dripped half of its contents on him and the floor.  As a result, Tim now had a huge two-day-old brown mustard and chili stain on the front of his shirt.  He thought it resembled two angry snails fighting.  One of them, the smaller one, was terribly mangled.  But it was okay and sort of cool for now, as far as Tim was concerned.  After all, he was traveling.

He was inclined by nature to cheer for the wounded snail . . . and such were his thoughts.  These were proper road thoughts . . . long miles and slow hours of moving thoughts . . . thoughts that a man on the road to somewhere that only he knew about should have. 

He thought of food again and wished the snail fight had never happened.  His growling stomach reminded him otherwise.  His life was full of much larger regrets and thousands of small do-over wishes.  Still, even half a hotdog right now would do wonders to help push his thoughts in a positive direction.  With or without mustard, but preferably with.  He would be more careful this time.  He could almost taste it.

Since then, Tim’s only nourishment had been a warmish orange soda and six stale saltines compliments of the coast-to-coast hauler legging him from South Carolina through Georgia.  That trucker, a hyper young man, was skinny as a rail and had to be high on something.  He was jittery and talked non-stop nonsense.  This fellow made Tim nervous.  Tim had taken his leave of him at the border weigh-station checkpoint, sincerely thanked the man, splashed water on his face, and then resumed his journey southward.

Displaying his lucky thumb, he was hoping to attract some of it on the interstate.  He anticipated being in New Orleans before tomorrow.  Then he would try and eat something substantial; two hotdogs, perhaps.  Then he would rest.  Then he’d be ready for proper remembering.

Although he looked shabby and worn, he was a young sixty and remained fit; a prerequisite for an extended life on the road.  His long hair and beard were the color of a September cornfield; a dirty blonde’s gray.  In his clear gray-blue eyes, there were years of sad knowing; deep pools of time having seen many things others would not or could not.  They spoke for him without the necessity of words.  Silence was his friend and he traveled with his memories, both to and from, alone always.  He carried burdens, a past never shared, ever searching for a future shedding and salvation for the sins he kept hidden.  He bore a tortured soul.  He was tired.

Hobo didn’t think he smelled terrible but, once he arrived, he’d find a place to shower and make with it a change of his underwear and shirt.  Other than the snail’s stain he wore, he’d kept himself rather respectable on this trip.  And, so far as he could tell, no one had cursed him, not that he could hear, anyway.  It had been a good couple of days.

Tim expected the Louisiana weather to be most pleasant this time of year.  And this made all the difference to him.  It’s quite difficult to maintain a kept up appearance when the weather is poor.  And, ironically, even though the homeless suffer the most in foul weather, folks are more generous when their weather is sunny.

He’d picked up news of a gulf storm that might affect New Orleans in a few days, but he’d seen storms before.  They typically held the promise of better than average weather before and after.  It was perfect weather for a return visit.  He would set his tent solid and sleep through the storm.  This time, coming home was going to be good.  At least until he began to remember the bad, anyway.

At the moment, Tim needed a decent ride.  Truckers—bored and certainly appropriately armed well enough to risk meeting a somewhat-smelly stranger who might suddenly morph into a sociopathic machete murderer—outnumbered potential vehicle pick-ups 100:1.  Pick-up trucks and vans were a distant but equal second.  Cars, usually piloted by lonely old drunks looking for a friend, stole third.  And sporty convertibles being driven by hot single blonds?  Never.  Tim played the odds and only flashed his thumb to truckers.  He could hear them coming.

There wasn’t much to interrupt traffic on I-85 across Alabama.  A pick-up leg here would likely be a single shot all the way home.  He could, perhaps, catch a few winks.  If he was lucky, his next ride might offer him something to eat.  Or a cold drink.  Tim was getting excited.  His long journey was about to end.

Spotting him, a kind trucker sounded his horn a quarter mile out and engaged his emergency flashers, pulling to a stop on the side of the highway a short distance ahead of Tim.  And, once again, Old Lucky hadn’t let him down.

~

Generally Speaking

~2~

Generally speaking, the ride across Alabama and Mississippi into Louisiana was uneventful.  The trucker was amiable and a most pleasant conversationalist, although he was intrusively inquisitive at first.  Tim shied away from the personal questions gracefully enough, though.  It was a skill he’d learned long ago to keep people out of his business.  It was called parroting, and it was foolproof.

Hop in!  So where ya headed?

Thank you.  Where are you headed, sir?  I’m sure glad you stopped.

No problem.  I’m on my way to Houston.  I run 85/65 South to 10 West.  Through Mobile.  After that, I take the 12 around New Orleans.  So what’s your name?

How should I address you, sir?  I saw the name Larry Preston on the side of your truck.  Is this your truck?  It sure is a beauty!

The trick was to ask more questions than you answered and it hinged on inspiring others to talk about themselves, which Tim knew most people were more than eager to do.  As far as Tim’s affairs were concerned, the only things worth talking about were either good or bad, and he didn’t share those files with anyone.

The trucker’s name was, indeed, Larry.  He enthusiastically proceeded to explain to Tim in great detail that he was a proud owner-operator with a new rig and a very sweet contract—a full backhaul twice a week, compliments of his big-rig father who had more road than his eighteen wheels could carry.  Larry had grown up with trucking.  It’s in my blood, he explained at regular mileposts during his ensuing three-hour rambling discourse on the joys of being a trucker; his monologue mixed with the occasional Once I anecdote and Listen to this stories.  He didn’t need much encouragement and Tim rarely interrupted.

Larry only paused talking long enough to spit or re-pack his lip with smokeless tobacco.  He had a supersized bag of peanuts, which he graciously offered to Tim, along with a help yourself, good buddy supply of chilled bottled water.  Yessir!  Atlanta to Houston, twice a week.  Sweet haul.  It’s in my blood.

As the miles flew by, Tim began to relax.  He enjoyed coming home.  Familiar sights, sounds, and smells helped him remember.  He loved everything about New Orleans, except his bad memories.  He stuffed these files back where they’d been and focused his thoughts on the good.  Slowly, he began his remembering.  Focusing only on the good.  To