The Handbasket to Hell
Michele just rang me.
"I'm sure you heard about last night," she said. That's never a good way to start a conversation.
"No."
"Oh. Well. You're in the Quarter. I thought you should hear about it from me before the diluted rumors get to you. I'm okay, by the way…"
NEVER a good way to start a conversation.
So Michele's working the back bar at Monaghan's last night. Around 5am, and in the span of less than a minute, a man came in, shot his estranged wife at the front bar, wounding the man sitting next to her as well. She fell to the floor. He continued pumping her with rounds as he backed out of the door.
He remains unapprehended as of this afternoon.
The woman died in the ambulance. Her barstool neighbor is in critical condition with two shots in his pelvis and abdomen. No one else was hurt.
This woman - this girl, for she was just 23 - has children with this man. Said offspring will always have to call him 'dad'.
As in, "Thanks, dad. Nice going."
A week or so ago, again in Monaghan's, the same man came in, picked up his estranged wife and threw her against a wall. He was arrested for that, and got out on bail late last night. Apparently he went straight to find a gun and shoot her.
I mourn for humanity.
Michele is still in shock, and shock is a rational, functional place to be. "I expect in a couple of months I'm going to start freaking out about this," she said levelly.
She described the after-scene in the bar in this way: after the crying had stopped, there was the nervous, inappropriate laughter - the kind that is necessary to get through witnessing something like that.
"Sorta like us in Pennsylvania after Katrina?" I asked.
"Pretty fucking much, yes."
I'm going to visit her at work tonight and I hope she can keep it together.
"I'm sure you heard about last night," she said. That's never a good way to start a conversation.
"No."
"Oh. Well. You're in the Quarter. I thought you should hear about it from me before the diluted rumors get to you. I'm okay, by the way…"
NEVER a good way to start a conversation.
So Michele's working the back bar at Monaghan's last night. Around 5am, and in the span of less than a minute, a man came in, shot his estranged wife at the front bar, wounding the man sitting next to her as well. She fell to the floor. He continued pumping her with rounds as he backed out of the door.
He remains unapprehended as of this afternoon.
The woman died in the ambulance. Her barstool neighbor is in critical condition with two shots in his pelvis and abdomen. No one else was hurt.
This woman - this girl, for she was just 23 - has children with this man. Said offspring will always have to call him 'dad'.
As in, "Thanks, dad. Nice going."
A week or so ago, again in Monaghan's, the same man came in, picked up his estranged wife and threw her against a wall. He was arrested for that, and got out on bail late last night. Apparently he went straight to find a gun and shoot her.
I mourn for humanity.
Michele is still in shock, and shock is a rational, functional place to be. "I expect in a couple of months I'm going to start freaking out about this," she said levelly.
She described the after-scene in the bar in this way: after the crying had stopped, there was the nervous, inappropriate laughter - the kind that is necessary to get through witnessing something like that.
"Sorta like us in Pennsylvania after Katrina?" I asked.
"Pretty fucking much, yes."
I'm going to visit her at work tonight and I hope she can keep it together.