Orphans Of The Storm

ORPHANS OF THE STORM: A Last Supper in 'The Big Easy'

(NOTE: the following is explicit adult fantasy only! No resemblance, predictions/endorsements of, or other inferences to, persons, places, or acts, real or fictitious, is implied therein! )

I Red sky at morning/"Any ol' port ...":

So - it had finally happened; everyone's worst nightmare come true. New Orleans, Louisiana - the Crescent City, The Painted Lady of the Mississippi Delta, "The Big Easy", had suffered the ultimate, almost fitting, catastrophe imaginable.

Courtesy of the biggest, baddest motherhumper of a hurricane - called Katrina, of all the unlikely monikers for such a fierce, powerful act of nature - and her partners-in-devastation, the Gulf of Mexico and Lake Pontchartrain. They'd teamed up to reclaim the land that the original French settlers had neatly laid out in a bowl-shaped depression near to three centuries ago like a spurned, jealous lover out to even a score by deadly force, separating her from the surrounding land that loved her, and casting her many thousands of residents as exiles from all they took for granted. Like the right-of-way for travel, clean water, electricity, sanitation - and, a ready supply of food. Most all the niceties and necessities of everyday life. Except why did it have to happen now, and to them? Like Dr. John hisself might say: it was the right place, wrong daggone time.

Remy Lamar Julienne II, of the Juliennes on Desire Street, like everyone else who hadn't either the foresight or just plain luck to evacuate the city before the storm had struck and the levees broke, ran these grim thoughts through his mind whenever he grew tired of keeping his hopes up through a combination of daily survival chores and wishful thinking. Huh - wishful thinking, that's what she always accused him of, the tall, handsome, Cajun lad in his late twenties chuckled to himself as he turned his attention to his beloved Charmayne Bouviér Dupüis - she of the Metairie Dupüis - a stunning, slender, dark-eyed, raven-haired, café-au-laít-skinned Creole beauty. Only a few years his junior, her fiery temperament could match his usually confident, cock-sure demeanor. That, and their shared, keen appetites for music, food - and sex, though not necessarily in that order.

Her family were descendants of antebellum plantation owners, landed folk whose blood was mixed with that of their servants, by way of the legendary quadroon balls, though they cleaved to their high-born ancestry. He came from a mix of stevedores who worked the N'awlins docks, greasy-spoon short-order cooks, low-ranking beat cops, and an assortment of common grifters & hustlers. Friends who knew them had predicted they'd mix as well as oil & water, vinegar & honey, silk & sand - but it turned out to be more along the lines of nitro & glycerin.

They'd first met when, fresh out of Tulane with a Bachelor's in Business Management, she had come to his Uncle Bernard's restaurant down on Beale Street looking for her first professional employment. Remy was working the kitchen as an assistant prep chef, but he couldn't help but notice the pretty young gal all done up in Park Lane finery with her condescending airs - "her nose up somewhere's north of her better judgement ", as his daddy liked to say. From the first moment he laid eyes on her, his mouth privately watered.

So he secretly enjoyed her discomfort as his uncle put her to work as the evening shift manager, where he had plenty of occasion to rub up against her whenever she came into the crowded kitchen to snap out the dinner orders at the cook & wait-staffs, then rush back out to flatter the dinner guests. She also seemed to take an immediate dislike to the fresh, cocky Cajun ruffian she'd obviously been raised to consider her inferior, and gave him no reason to doubt this whenever possible.

But Remy had always been a handsome youth, even as a young boy, and constantly had the local jéune fillé buzzing around him like honeybees around clover; consequently he'd acquired a certain je né saís quois of the other sex at a precocious age. He knew whenever an uppity dame like her was simply masking her sexual tension with an affected unpleasantness. He simply stood his ground, smiling, whenever she'd attempt to break his balls over some minor, even imagined, imperfection in one of the dishes. He'd reply with a comeback overly polite and accommodating, till she'd roll her eyes & sneer in disgust, then leave once again. Then still grinning, he'd turn to his appreciative work-mates Paul and Aaron, and announce his standing declaration: "She wants me, and she got it coming!"

It eventually came to a head one particularly busy night when she burst through the doors in a snit over the créme bruleé; he'd merely suggested how & where she could apply the offending sauce to her person. Outraged, she made to slap him hard across his insolent face; he merely grabbed her slender arm to deflect the blow and pinned it against her back, and announced to her as well as the kitchen staff proper:

"Baby bird, you wound way too tight - you need to chill out! You're just like a dollar steak that requires tenderizin' - all you needs is a good poundin'!"

And without so much as a by-your-leave, with one quick motion he cleared off all the implements and food stuffs from the main prep table, clattering to the floor, then hauled her body up onto it, feisty as hell, while he proceeded to divest her of both her fancy cocktail dress and lacy undergarments, loosening his chef's tunic and belt to lower his pants in the process.

Now, rape is an ugly word, and Remy never had any part of that. Instead, his Cajun temper sorely tested and mixed with unrequited lust, it was more like a simple case of ravishment. He'd just never had anyone say "no" before this.

Not that she didn't put up a decent enough struggle, cursing him in language he'd never had guessed her capable of, scratching at him with finger-claws. But he could clearly see her fury and outrage quickly giving way to wanton desire, as her slick wetness was visible after he got her panties off. In a moment of pure inspiration, he quickly grabbed some nearby sesame oil, followed by containers of coriander, sage, and ground red pepper, and applied them in a mixture to her dripping puss, taut, lean belly, and pert-nippled tits, and pausing just enough to inhale the appetizing aroma, dove right in with greedy mouth and tongue to lick her naked body into a lather. Oblivious to the others, she soon began moaning & squealing with delight and pure animal pleasure, pulling off his jeans and boxers in order to grab at his own swollen man-meat.

He thrust himself deep inside her, riding the girl like one of the champion bull-riders he'd seen at the rodeos in the Superdome. They moaned in time, as he came violently inside her, not noticing that the kitchen-staff had cleared out sometime after he began undressing her, and locked the doors behind them, declaring the kitchen "closed early for a private dinner". The dining room patrons must've enjoyed themselves vicariously through the sounds of passion emanating from within, as Remy quickly flipped his meat-girl over and took her from behind, Char bucking & shrieking like a bitch-cat in heat. And so it was, for their own meal that night, Remy enjoyed a sumptuous feast of steamed Clam Creole, while Charmayne gorged herself on some spicy Cajun blood sausage with cream sauce.

XXXXXXXX

After a good talkin'-to by Uncle Bernard, they were both allowed to keep their jobs at his restaurant. As Char had learnt all too well that fateful night, Remy was both a natural-born chef, and connoisseur of the earthier pleasures of life. He hardly ever referred to a proper cook-book, relying instead on both his taste and scent-memory while preparing his dishes - "a pinch of this, a touch o' that" - the way it was handed down to him by his elders at home, in the time-honored Southern tradition. And, judging by the compliments and accolades from the patrons, it seemed as if his was not only the right way, but the best way as well.

Thusly, their romance took root and grew faster n' hotter than a pepper sprout, as both Remy and Char grew comfortable with each other both in the kitchen as well as the bedroom. He was moved up to assistant head chef, and used his increase in salary to move out of his 'rents' place into his own flat near the Ninth Ward district of the city, his Creole lady with him. He managed to get her to loosen-up some, taking her out on the town to the best jazz joints & cabarets, even talking her into changing her clothing style from the conservative, tailored suits she first wore at work to satiny silk camisoles and dressy jeans. She let her hair down in the literal sense, from her formerly prim, upswept style, to better display her dark, wavy mane which was her crowning glory.

He spent most of his free time over the next couple of years butterin' her up, as they continued with what they called their "cannibal sex orgies", only saving them till after the restaurant closed for the night late, after everyone else had gone home. Few wondered why they always volunteered to stay. Remy experimented with different sauces & seasonings for such mouth-watering delicacies as víchyssoise a lá pusseé, while Char obediently lay naked and motionless on the prep table, sometimes lightly restrained, as he took his time in preparing his feast.

Sometimes she would get so hot below after he caressed, poked & prodded her with blunted kitchen implements, testing the quality of her meat, that she couldn't contain herself any longer, and leapt up off the table onto him to tear his clothes off and begin devouring him. Once in a while, whenever they made the mutual acquaintance of some pretty young fillé that they could confide in, she would join them in their after-hours revelry, so that it became a sex banquet indeed.

Oftentimes this would carry on over to their home, where their shared cries of passion and delight would keep their neighbors up all night, so that the officers from the local precinct would be called round to pound on their door, usually with a warning of, "Jesus Christ, Remy - whatty'a doin' in there? Sounds like you're eatin' that girl alive! Keep the ruckus down to a dull roar, will ya? They can hear you all the way out in Saint Tammany Parish!"

But, as it bein' "The Big Easy" n' all, this was generally tolerated in the breech, and everyone got along just fine. Yessir - life was all sunshine an' honey, back in the day, B.K..

Before Katrina, that is ...

XXXXXXXX

Remy broke from his reverie of staring out at the dirty, swirling, debris-laden water just ten feet below his second story apartment window to glance over at Charmayne. She glanced up from watching the latest news developments on the tiny five-inch screen portable black & white TV that was a Christmas present from years gone by now, that he found in the basement storage, and gave him a wan smile. Besides the portable CD boombox, it was their only source of news and entertainment after the main electrical power went out all over the city.

At first none of them truly believed in the dire predictions of how bad this particular storm might be; the city'd rode out many other hurricanes over the years, going back over a century or more, with little other than some surface flooding of the waterfront streets, cleaned up in a few days. Very often some of the braver (some would claim foolhardy) souls would venture to the water's edge to watch the ocean's fury from a relatively safe distance.

However - when the first reports of five-foot swells and whitecaps on Lake Ponch began to appear, and then the 29-foot-high storm surge began to raise its' fearsome head like some monstrous sea creature ready to take a huge bite out of the city itself, there was a mad dash back inland to higher ground and safety - or so they thought. Millions of gallons of green-black seawater cascaded down upon the lower dockside area up to the Ninth Ward itself, followed by a day & a half of continual torrential rains, until essentially the city itself had been drowned.

After the skies had finally cleared, it was plain obvious that the water had risen up to the second, even third-story levels of some of the older buildings, making it all but impossible for any other means of travel asides from small boats or anything else that safely floated. Remy & Char were lucky in that he had asked to borrow his Uncle Clyde's small skiff for fishing on the lake earlier in the summer, and had stored it down in the basement, from where it had floated outside on the rising flood and they kept it tethered to his window, using it to venture out occasionally for supplies.

They had tried to make the best of it at first, even looking upon it as a sort of adventure. Char had remarked that New Orleans now more closely resembled Venice, Italy, so Remy took that as his cue to wear his old straw fishing hat, and along with a striped T-shirt and long pole, began to impersonate one of those Venetian gondoliers. He wasn't above playing the fool for her, even serenading her in mock-Italian, waving to the few passers-by while she lay back in the boat, laughed, and enjoyed the show. Anything to bring about her dazzling smile and musical laughter, like wind chimes in the summer evening breeze.

It wasn't long, though, before the novelty wore thin, and desperation began to seep in. After the rains had subsided, they soon noticed what they first had thought were nothing more than random piles of soggy clothing floating about in the flooded streets, till upon closer inspection, they discovered they all belonged to dead bodies of folks who'd apparently drowned either during the storm or afterwards. This was quite a shock, as neither had seen actual dead people before this. The water itself had quickly become a toxic gumbo of sorts, containing a mixture of gasoline, oil, and other unclassified, muddy debris that had washed out of who knows where.

There were rumors and reports of gators swimming the streets, looking for an opportune dinner, even a seven-foot shark was supposed to've been swept up the Industrial Canal from the Gulf into N'awlins. Random gas fires sent out flames right through the water's surface, resembling what Char had described as a place called "Dante's Inferno", which Remy didn't need translating as a vision of Hell itself.

And all about, constantly, were the occasional cries and pleas for help and rescue from the stranded citizenry - young & old alike. The air - the very air surrounding the city itself took on a new, strangely familiar odor. New Orleans had long been famous for its' sultry atmosphere, composed of equal parts summery high humidity and tropical decay, but this was different, in their young lives, at least. This time, there was the faint, yet unmistakable stench of organic rot - of death itself.

They'd debated back & forth about whether they should've joined the thousands of others who'd taken up refuge in the city's huge Superdome sports arena upon the Mayor's urging to wait out the storm itself and eventually return home. But as the days wore on without sign of rescue, Char had stayed in touch with one of her old girlfriends from Tulane who'd gone there with her boyfriend; she described the scene around her as "something out of 'Lord of the Flies'", which she'd explained was a college-level literary work about savagery and the breakdown of civilization.

Remy remembered the story his great-grandma had told, passed down through the family, about having seen the Angel of Death himself during the great flu epidemic of 1917-18, describing him as having a giant buzzard's body topped by a skull's-head, swooping down upon the stricken city to snatch dying souls away like so many helpless animals, though she had survived. "Death took 'em", she simply explained, as if He was a streetcar conductor, transporting the dead to the last stop on the line. His crazy Aunt Elyse on his mother's side of the family would've declared New Orleans' destruction as divine punishment for being such a wicked, wanton, and sinful city. But then, you had to know the old gal herself.

Rumored to be a beauty in her youth, it was said that because of a disastrous early marriage, her train permanently left its' track, and so she took up indefinite residence in the Hotel Dementia. Tall and dark, she made a local name for herself as a self-styled medium, preying on innocent people's trust, tellin' 'em what they wanted to hear, for profit & her own twisted amusement. Besides periodic busts by the bunco squad and nights in the drunk tank, in her spare time she engaged in debauchery with both the "sportin' ladies" and gents of the red-light district of Storyville. Hell, she even came on to her own nephew once! As she aged and her looks faded, though, she clung to religion like a life preserver, totin' & quotin' from a big ol' Bible, till she ended her days raving in a Shreveport bughouse, a lonely, bitter old shrew.

Still, they viewed their immediate predicament as a test of their resourcefulness. Remy had only a few days worth of food in their cupboards and fridge at any one time, as they both always took most of their meals at the restaurant. As both it and the fresh drinking water quickly grew low, he improvised by tapping into the toilet feed line and the hot water boiler in the building's basement, boiling it on the propane-fueled camping stove to be on the safe side for both drinking and bathing. He even made a couple trips by boat to St. Michael the Archangel church, and found the baptismal fount and holy water still high enough out of reach of the flood level to be useable, mindful that his late Granny Julienne would've declared this such a sacrilege that his immortal soul would surely burn in Hell as penance.

When the shelves of the nearest Winn-Dixie began to be looted clean of most foodstuffs, Remy used his fishing tackle to catch an occasional catfish swimming in the street to prepare a classic Cajun dish, blackened redfish. He even found some crawdaddies with which to prepare a crude shrimp jambalaya, careful to thoroughly clean & boil the critters first to remove as much of the water's toxins as possible.

In the evenings, they watched and listened to the latest news for signs of rescue by the state and federal governments. When this got too depressing, they lifted their spirits by visiting their neighbors' flats in their building - Papa Dee, the large, friendly black man who claimed to be a fourth-generation practicing voodoo high priest; the Súarez family, and Toní Tolouse, the drag queen who was a headliner at the Pink Flamingo down on Bourbon Street. Later, whenever the mood took them, they'd still play their favorite cannibal charades, finding new & unique uses for such things as plantains, carrots, and Hawaiian Gold pineapple rings, making a sexy meal out of each other.

For variety's sake, they'd often dig out his daddy's collection of old vintage LP's of every regional artist that could lay claim to the Big Easy as their cultural home, from both Fats Waller and Domino, to Satchmo, Professor Longhair, Jerry Lee Lewis, Doctor John, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Neville Brothers, Buckwheat Zydeco, even classic Elvis. He'd crank up the volume of the old battery-powered record player they'd found somewhere, and dance & sing the night away, until, exhausted, they fell into bed, to rest up for another day of the same old.

So that - even after all available food sources had long since disappeared - they never lost hope of eventual rescue, 'afore it got too late. If only they'd gotten out before Rita struck in Katrina's wake ...

XXXXXXXX

II Rita, and other "fair weather friends":

Near as she could recall, it was mainly his fault they missed their ride to safety, as when word came down through the neighborhood grapevine one day that FEMA had sent rescuers in airboats straight from the surrounding bayous to round up stranded folk, everybody in the building was more than ready to jump out the windows into one to get the hell out of there. Everybody but Remy, that is. Seems he just had to go back to the restaurant to salvage his precious Calphalon cookware that he'd saved up for months to afford, as his most prized possessions to take with him.