Honey, will you re-marry me?

NAR
New Orleans, LA. The bowl shaped city sped toward Southwest Flight 335. High above, I could sense her anticipation. From below, I hoped she could sense mine. Straining to see out my little window, I tried to identify everything below matching it with images still etched into my memory. Which body of land is the 9th ward? Which waterway is Lake Pontchartrain? Which overpass housed the stranded?

I wasn't alone in those thoughts. In the somber silence of our descent you could hear everyone's. The wheels flexed their metallic muscles jarring everyone in to their upright position. About the plane, I prepared myself for a real estate convention.

Like any convention city, Downtown New Orleans was alive and bustling. Streets were clean, businesses seemed thriving and service people wore a constant smile. It was easy to stay focused on the business at hand with thousands of Mr. T's walking around in layers of flickering bling-bling and neon Realtor pins. Distractions to the contrary were few. But like Smoky sang, the smile on New Orleans face was only there trying to fool the public.   

Cedric
Cedric was my hotel doorman. He towered over me. Dressed in his black suit and white shirt he exuded distinguished southern gentleman. His skin was the most beautiful pigment of brown. His smile was infectious; his dark eyes had that hot chocolate on a winter's day warmth to it. As he opened the door when I arrived he said "ya'll have a nice stay".  I felt obliged too succeed.

After unpacking, I went out to sample the night air. Cedric asked if I needed a cab. I said no and asked him how he was doing. His response was scripted. "Fine Sir. It's a nice evening." I asked again. "How you doing for real? You know, with life and all that."

Cedric turned fully to face me. Hurt, pain, fear, resentment, gratitude, confusion, love and grace poured out like water from a New York City fire hydrant. We talked for hours. There was no black and white. No northerner and southerner. No doorman and guest. Just two men sitting out on a hot, humid Louisiana night, taking part in that human etouffee that is so New Orleans.

Cedric said he had a blessed life. He lost everything but the ring on his finger his daddy gave him. He's fixin‚ to put his life back but with his family safe, nothing else really matters. He's moved on past the tragedy. He found closure.

New Yorkers never seek closure. We bury emotions in humor, self deprecation, tantrums and bravado. It's why we're in perpetual therapy. I have firsthand knowledge. In 1983, atop the WTC, I proposed to my wife. We took pictures from Windows on the World of New York at night and made a vow. 25 years later we'd return and recreate that moment. I'd propose again. Ask her for the gift of another 25.

In 2001, that dream vanished along with the two towers. Our marriage didn't suffer. Our psyches did. It's not behind us, just buried.

Across the fields of mourning, Light in the distance

The Plimsoll Club atop the World Trade Center Building in New Orleans is where the Trulia Cocktail Party took place. Twenty minutes after my arrival, the party screeched to a halt. Trulia wanted our attention. We were motioned to take seats and endure what appeared to be a blatant buzz kill. How wrong I was.

Trulia's COO Sami Inkinen took to the stage and introduced Arthur Sterbcow, President of Latter and Blum. Arthur sat with Sami and a Charley Rose style interview began. Arthur spoke of Katrina. It was the first real mention of her name since I arrived. He detailed the destruction of 24 of his 28 offices and the displacement of hundreds of his agents who lost everything. Mired in despair, Arthur faced his demons. He returned to his ravaged city and took a full-page ad out in the Times Picayune. There was no business. No homes. No people. It didn't matter to him. That ad was a torch to light the way back home for others.   

Other firms buckled and let their people go. Not Arthur. He paid everyone's salary. He moved all his agents to Baton Rouge and gave them a new opportunity in his other real estate company. People come first in his world. His agents. His managers. The displaced residents who are going to need his help when they return. Today Latter and Blum is back in full swing and having an amazing year.

As the interview came to an end, Arthur pointed to the panoramic view from that top floor of the WTC. The lights of New Orleans sparkled below. "Not long ago" he said, "there wasn"t a flicker as far as the eye can see." Arthur thanked us for coming to his city on behalf of every cabbie, every server, every single resident of New Orleans who most of us will never comprehend how deeply grateful they are for this convention.

Closure
I pressed my face against the glass window of the Plimsoll Room. For a moment it was 1983. Lori and I were 110 stories up at Window‚s on the World. Soaring high over Manhattan. Our entire lives in front of us. Here I'm only 9 stories up. Lori's back home with our four kids. A good portion of my life is safely tucked away in my past.

I've never been to New Orleans. I never met Arthur Sterbcow before. Neither realized what an impact they both had on me. I raised my cell phone and snapped a few pictures. Just like I did in '83. I emailed them along with a short message. Honey, 24 years ago we made a vow to return to the WTC and renew our vows. Believe it or not I'm fixin‚ to make that possible. Just like we planned. Will you re-marry me?  Send.

Arthur was surrounded by peers when I approached him. I grabbed his arm and turned him toward me. It was rude but the moment demanded it. I said "Arthur, you need to hear what I have to say." I told him about 9/11. About Lori. Our vow. About the sadness plaguing me since that day when my city died and came back to life. Unlike him, I never fully assuaged my demons. Not until now. Arthur did it for me.

Concluding I said "Arthur, I came to New Orleans to attend a convention, because of you I will return home with closure. Thank you man." He embraced me. In a manly way. I wept. In a manly way. Arthur doesn't know it yet, but he'll be returning to the Plimsoll Room one day as my best man.   

Marc Davison
OnBoardLLC
New Orleans, Nov 2006

Comments

[Athol Kay]

Great post.

[doctorj]

What a wonderful post! I have tears streaming done my face. Thank you for understanding my beautiful city. Maybe it takes a New Yorker to understand the heartbreak and the determination of tragedy. We are compatriots of pain and rebirth. Thank you for "getting it" and thank you to NAR for coming to New Orleans and helping her rebirth continue.