The aftermath of a major hurricane is like the Wild West: the rule of law only extends as far as the lawman’s eyes. And even then, only if he can catch you.

The driveway snakes up the lot from the beach, a sprawling lawn suddenly cut by a tree-line a quarter-mile past the mailbox. This tree-line is good because it provides cover, cover that would be necessary regardless of our intentions: trespassing is trespassing. Trespassing wasn’t the real worry, though; it was all of the damn copper. This house, along with 85% of all of the structures in town, was lifted off of its foundation and violently torn apart by the surge, then redistributed across half the town and back into the gulf when the waters receded. Left behind, though, were the massive concrete foundations, or “slabs,” with small metal pipes jutting out into the space where perhaps a kitchen or a bathroom used to be. Thieves would strip the pipes out of the foundation under the cover of darkness and sell them to local construction companies at a reduced rate. As a result, patrols around the empty lots next to the beach had been stepped up.

We switched the headlights off when we turned into the drive, and every now and then the tires would dip off into the yard. The Driver leaned over the wheel, concentrating all of his energy on the darkness stretching out in front of us. Sitting in the passenger seat up front, I can identify with the struggle; I’m actually surprised he’s managed to stay along the driveway at all. Despite this rockiness, we reach the tree line and pull the truck between two oaks. The front of the car lifts up, followed by the back, and we pull it to the northwest corner of the slab. We were the first here, by plan, to dig the pit out for a fire and get it set. We used the space directly behind the slab, and grabbing some shovels from the bed of the truck, quickly set to digging. It doesn’t take long, and then we’re getting the tinder done under the chopped wood we brought from The Driver’s house. When it’s all done we walk back up the driveway and take a look from the road. Satisfied that we can only see the fire because we’re looking for it, we walked back, set down our two camping chairs on the concrete overlooking the pit, and waited.

Less than an hour later the slab is full up.

A truck blared The Carter III, its driver and two others standing in the bed and prepping their keys to shotgun Keystone Lights. Cans are already accumulating across the concrete and out into the yard. The Driver walked off to find someone, anyone, willing to share some pot. I walked down the driveway and stood twenty feet from the highway, looking down the coast line. The yellow lights that line the docks of the harbor shined on a few shrimpers and double-masted sailboats, the ones whose owners were smart enough to move them inland before the storm hit last summer. Stilts popped up from the lots around this one, waiting to hold houses safely out of surge’s reach. Across from the harbor was the outline of City Hall and the Library, gutted but still standing, waiting on permits to go through so the refurbishing could begin. I walked back to the party.

The music stopped when the blue lights broke through the treeline, and I ran through the brush with the few dozen other lucky souls who hadn’t driven that night. When I hit the railroad tracks, I turned right, and followed them the two miles to Menge Avenue. Lining the tracks, the whole way there, were more slabs, waiting for houses and thieves and bored degenerate teenagers. Waiting for purpose.

Typical-S

-JT