Johnny White's

"Open" blinked the green neon sign, barely visible through the hellacious rain. Everything was a haze as we stumbled across the cobbled street to Johnny White's. Just as we crossed the threshold into the dingy bar, a crack of lightning split the sky along with a symphony of bone-jarring thunder. The blinking neon sign flickered out, along with the rest of the streetlamps along the sidewalk and the dim bulbs in the barroom. Although it was crowded, wall-to-wall with people seeking shelter, there was a moment of almost religious silence while we absorbed the viciousness of Mother Nature's attack.

The owner went upstairs to his office and brought down a battery-powered radio. It was one of those standard items that everyone in this area owned. He twisted the crusty, dusty knob until he found WWL - the only station coming in halfway clearly.

The only sounds in Johnny White's were the idiot crackle of radio static, the roaring wind and rain, quiet worried whispers floating through the humid air, and the occasional clear phrase from the radio. "...Category 5...25 foot storm surge...pressure still dropping..." Each phrase struck us dumb. There was no way that this could be happening.

Johnny was quick, though. He glanced around at the faces crowding his bar, grabbed a few able-bodied folks, and they got to work. Together, they pried the huge, antique Jax and Dixie beer signs from the walls where they had hung as decorations for years and squeezed them into the window openings in case the glass broke. The bartender filled up every sink, pitcher, and empty bottle with fresh drinking water. Other people pitched in by rounding up all the lighters and matches they could find and lighting the candles in the wrought-iron wall sconces.

People from all corners of the area were here together. The older couple who owned the art gallery around the corner, Dave and Roger. Bianca, fresh from her shift at Rick's. Simon, caught on his way to Central Grocery for some last-minute shopping. People who would probably never cross paths in their everyday routines who, by virtue of the gathering storm, ended up together in this little dark bar.

The radio crackled some more, this time with more dire news. "...worst-case scenario...eight feet below sea level...possible levee breach..." Bob Breck's voice had gotten them through countless storms before, his predictions more reliable than those from God himself. They heard the tension in his voice for the first time ever, and the sound galvanized the people in Johnny's. They all read the same sentiment in one another's eyes as they glanced around the candlelit room.

With nothing but the flashes of lightning coming in through the cracks and the dim flicker of candles, Johnny reached up to the top shelf where he kept the good stuff. He produced a bottle of Single Barrel Jack Daniels, coated with a thin layer of dust. A few quick flicks of his trained wrist lined up a row of shot glasses along the brass-lined bar. He splashed a shot into each glass, one for everybody in the room, and the small glasses were sent around. Johnny lifted his glass and everyone followed suit. "Here's to you, Katrina. Come and get us...we're ready."