That time of the year there was always something stirring in the gulf but it seemed like it always hit Florida and with the ass pounding that New Orleans just took who would think that another major one was on it's way. Anyway, at that time I was just flying by the seat of my pants. My radio wasn't picking up much on the trip coming across the desert and I had bigger things on my mind such as my radiator exploding or the engine seizing from the watered down gas I had purchased in the backwater towns I drove through. Or even worse, would my ancient fake identification hold up at the border check?
When I crossed the border at
Brownsville (my first time in the good old USA in
almost two decades - the border guard barely looked
at my ID - so much for the vaunted post 9/11
security) the news radio stations were hysterically
forecasting the imminent land arrival of Rita, so I
was about the only vehicle headed in the northeast
direction. By then it was to late to turn back - I was
just going to have to take the chance that "RB"
hadn't evacuated from the island.
Texas is one big goddamn state and it took
me almost another eight hours to get to Galveston.
The reports were that the main evacuation route for
the island was via Interstate 45 that ran out of the
north of end the island through Houston, so I opted
to come in on a county road on the west end. The
place was like a ghost town when I rolled in and the
winds and rain were really starting to pick up. I
could barely keep the tiny GEO on the road. I met
two cop cars and one sheriff's vehicle on my way
into town and neither of the three paid a bit of
attention to me although the sheriff gave me kind of
a weird look as I passed by.
One of those "What the hell is he up to?" and What the hell, it's his funeral!"
looks, followed by a shrug of the shoulders to his
partner. The city of Galveston itself is not a very
large city and incredibly easy to navigate in,
especially when most of the city has evacuated -
news reports had the majority of people's asses
stuck on the freeway - or is bunkered down. With
the aid of a coffee stained ancient Rand McNally
and the address from the letter - whoever had
penned the letter had been kind enough to give me
"RB's'" address - I found the place in less than ten
minutes.
He hadn't moved up the food chain much in
the last thirty years that was for goddamn sure but
I'm sure it beat a prison cell. I was parked in front of
a ramshackle garage apartment that was located in
an area that was going to be fifteen feet underwater
if the hurricane stirred waters of the gulf breached
the seawall which was only two city blocks away.
There was a dim light burning upstairs and a
window a/c rattling on the side of the shanty. The
garage door was halfway open so I grabbed my six
cell flashlight, (handy for both seeing things in the
dark and beating people over the head with) bent
under the garage door, and found myself standing
behind a battered Ford van from the early eighties.
I flicked the light on and looked at the Texas plates.
Handicapped and expired. Shining the light through
the windows showed me that "RB" was subsisting
mainly on generic cigarettes, Hardees burgers,
Snickers bars, and Old Milwaukee.
Slowly I creeped up the short flight of stairs
and wound up on a short landing that was so shaky
and termite infested it felt like I could fall through it
at any second. I gently placed my ear against the
door. Nothing.
I went into sort of a football stance
and rushed the door, intending to break it down with
my shoulder and not realizing that the door was
open and slightly ajar. I hit the door, shot straight
through into the apartment, and rolled ten feet
inside, finding myself at the foot of a wheelchair.
There sat "RB" in all his glory. With a bullet hole
right straight between the eyes. Other than the bullet
hole, the wheelchair, and short twenty or thirty
pounds, he looked remarkably almost the same as
the last time I had seen him.