I drive slowly up a narrow dead end past a low
contiguous building partitioned into cramped motel units rented out as
apartments. Residents are sitting on
stoops, doors flung back to the afternoon heat.
The air is heavy, building for a thunderstorm. Turning the ERV around will be difficult. The woman we’re looking for, the one who made
the 211 call, waves us in. She’s heavy
set, rises with difficulty from a metal dinette chair, her breathing labored. She has a Britta faucet filter new in the
package, and the promise of a nephew to come install it for her. We give her six cases of water, then two
more, insurance against the heat. Neighbors
gather, we hand out two, three cases, then another two, replacement filter
cartridges, some recycling bags, still more water. A crowd forms.
Maybe I should attempt to attach the woman’s filter. The interior of her unit is dark,
impenetrable seen from outside under blazing sun. The ERV blocks vehicle access to half the
complex. Available shade is a narrow
band the length of the building scattered with white resin chairs, plastic
cups, foam coolers, empty water bottles, crooked riding toys. I give her a filter pitcher, a hedge against uncertainty. The pitchers are in short supply, a last resort,
highly desirable. Some neighbor women push
forward for their pitchers. Eight
addresses remain on our emergency call list.
Distant knots of people back-fill our return access to the street. I hand out the last two pitchers, swing the
doors shut. Turning the ERV around isn’t
as difficult as I feared. I raise a hand
as we pass, residents reassembled side by side, birds on a wire sheltering from
the relentless afternoon sun.
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