Thursday, September 22, 2005
no, not one
A few weeks ago I was eating dinner alone at the Barbecue House, waiting forty-five minutes for an experiment to run so I could get home and wind down, stressed out from a hard week at school and depressed as hell watching people on the news wade through the toxic wasteland of New Orleans. I had revealed my own self-absorption when I started worrying about my chances of attending graduate school at Tulane next year, and I still didn't know what to do with all that self-disgust. I was fed up with all of us talking smugly from five hours away, nothing constructive or even sympathetic. So close, yet so far.
Six locals in the sunny restaurant had been interviewing a family from New Orleans through the steam coming off their Brunswick stew: whether they knew if their house was still standing, when they would get to go back and see, what they would do in the meantime. A woman with a loud political southern accent showing engagement rings to a sorority girl motioned to the television in the corner saying, "You know, watching all this, I almost feel selfish talking about diamonds in here."
I shook some more hot sauce into my stew and tried to think of something nice to say.
As the family rose to leave the woman said to them, "I'll give you a great deal. I get calls from people from all over the south who've heard about me from friends."
The sorority girl agreed emphatically, "Oh yes, she's the very best!"
The family smiled politely and walked out the door, driving off in their minivan to god knows where. I stared at the diamond hawker bitterly through the fizz coming off my third refill of Diet Coke and walked, pious and complacent, back to the lab to finish my procedure. That night I spent hours in Taylor's studying rather than going home to unwind, drinking down the dark roast like it was the Eucharist blood, sucking on my pencil like unleavened bread.
But it didn't cover my sins, nor hers, and my studies have done less than her diamonds for the people of Katrina.
Six locals in the sunny restaurant had been interviewing a family from New Orleans through the steam coming off their Brunswick stew: whether they knew if their house was still standing, when they would get to go back and see, what they would do in the meantime. A woman with a loud political southern accent showing engagement rings to a sorority girl motioned to the television in the corner saying, "You know, watching all this, I almost feel selfish talking about diamonds in here."
I shook some more hot sauce into my stew and tried to think of something nice to say.
As the family rose to leave the woman said to them, "I'll give you a great deal. I get calls from people from all over the south who've heard about me from friends."
The sorority girl agreed emphatically, "Oh yes, she's the very best!"
The family smiled politely and walked out the door, driving off in their minivan to god knows where. I stared at the diamond hawker bitterly through the fizz coming off my third refill of Diet Coke and walked, pious and complacent, back to the lab to finish my procedure. That night I spent hours in Taylor's studying rather than going home to unwind, drinking down the dark roast like it was the Eucharist blood, sucking on my pencil like unleavened bread.
But it didn't cover my sins, nor hers, and my studies have done less than her diamonds for the people of Katrina.
