Meeting Jimmy

Paul and I went Downtown tonight -- you know, our old stomping grounds before we moved back to the 'burbs. Ate a huge dinner and did a little shopping. We were just starting our 10-block trek to our car when a man hopped onto the curb next to us, barely out of the way of a passing car.

"Man, some rude drivers here," he said. Paul and I nodded. In the years I've worked downtown, I've seen everything, including a near-physical altercation between a Lexus driver and a school bus driver when neither refused to yield the right-of-way at a tight intersection.

"Oh, I'm sorry, are you guys from here?" asked the man walking next to us, slinging a backpack over one shoulder. "Yeah," we replied, assuring him we weren't offended. I sized him up out of the corner of my eye. He definitely wasn't one of the myriad panhandlers who make friendly (and occasionally pushy) conversation with passersby.

"I'm from New Orleans, and, man, we've got some bad drivers ... but most people are pretty friendly."

"You're from New Orleans?" I asked. I'd met a couple of N.O. residents post-Katrina, but their homes hadn't been in hard-hit areas and they were just in Memphis on vacation. "Did you move to Memphis after the hurricane?"

"No, I'm in Arkansas -- it's the fourth place we've lived."

His name was Jimmy, and he managed to distill the past year of his family's life into the next four blocks we walked together. His wife had been hurt in their house in the hurricane. The two of them, along with their 7- and 14-year-old daughters, were rescued off their roof. His wife spent three months recovering in a Houston hospital. Then they were transferred to housing in San Antonio. Then Austin.

And when the FEMA money and the Red Cross money slowed to a trickle, Jimmy moved his family to Arkansas to begin rebuilding a life. He'd spent a decade in the military, serving tours in the Persian Gulf and in Iraq. He had a bachelor's in business administration, which he put to use managing restaurants. And he'd just been hired to a restaurant on Beale Street called Alfred's.

But he still didn't have a car. Alfred's let him off work early tonight, and the person who drove him from West Memphis, Ark., to Memphis wasn't available to drive him back home. He'd tried getting a ride from police (they couldn't cross the state line), Greyhound (a $9 ticket), and the Red Cross office a few streets away (they were closed). He'd tried to walk over one bridge, but it's not open to pedestrians. He looked frustrated.

Paul and I exchanged a glance, and I dug a $10 out of my wallet. "I wasn't asking for help!" he said firmly. I could tell he was proud of his new Beale Street job, and I didn't intend to patronize. But I didn't see any sense in him walking eight miles just because his ride had left him in a lurch.

Jimmy asked our names again. "God bless you, Paul and Kate," he said, and we pointed him back in the direction of the Greyhound station.

I didn't say any of that to get a pat on the head. It's just that it's easy to forget there are still plenty of people out there trying to start over. Being in news, I know the stories change every day, and today's murder-for-hire will be forgotten in the wake of tomorrow's prostitution bust -- or whatever. Katrina was more than a year ago -- a lifetime in the news cycle.

Plenty has been said about those who lied about being in the hurricane so they could get government assistance. Even more has been said about those accused of schlepping their way along, relying on FEMA funds and refusing to look for work. But not much has been said of those who lost everything and yet have made some serious strides toward putting their lives back together, even if they're not there yet.

Thanksgiving is a good time to remember all we've got. I've got a home, a husband, and my health. I even have niceties most people don't -- I'm posting this from my laptop, and my husband is watching ESPN on digital cable. I'm ashamed how much he and I take for granted, but I'm sure we're not the only ones.

Maybe Jimmy was the universe's way of kicking me in the butt. If he can lose his house, all his clothes and belongings, watch his wife spend months in the hospital, and still have the presence of mind to find a place to live and a way to support his family, then I really have no right to complain about needing to mop the floor or the lack of intelligent programming on TV.

... Just food for thought.