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Friends and neighbors lost everything, even loved ones.
The Dunnavants were lucky but broke.
As Katrina roared up the Gulf of Mexico, they evacuated their tiny pink duplex to a nearby school stuffed mostly with what they described as cranky elderly people and tempestuous children.
``It was like a concentration camp,'' said J.T. Staten, a 78-
year-old retiree the Dunnavants have cared for since May. ``When the storm hit, you couldn't calm the place down.''
But it was safe.
They returned a few days later to find their tiny home had escaped serious damage, except a few downed branches and some missing pieces of tin roof.
``I couldn't believe it,'' said Sam Dunnavant, 31, a commercial painter. ``I was sure everything would be gone.''
As hours wore into days without power, water and phone, the Dunnavants learned that losing nothing is sometimes worse than losing everything.
``At least they get help, a cool place to stay, some water,'' said Sam Dunnavant, who spent their last money on hurricane supplies and will be out of work for months. ``It's like we don't
exist.''
Newspapers and television stations provided breathless coverage of the devastation in New Orleans and other storm-
ravaged cities along the Gulf. Those communities were beneficiaries of military intervention, millions of dollars in aid and even televised fundraisers with Hollywood celebrities.
The Dunnavants hadn't been offered a bag of ice by Friday.
The situation was more critical for Staten, who has a laundry list of heart-related ailments and sipped the last puffs from his portable oxygen tank the night before.
``In this heat, it's near impossible to even get a shallow breath,'' he said.
The Dunnavants burned a few gallons of gas in a failed trip to an aid station that had run out of oxygen tanks. When they tried to fill one of Staten's prescriptions, the pharmacy didn't have
power and couldn't verify his Medicaid coverage. They couldn't afford to pay cash for the pills.
One more heartbreak, another wasted gallon of gas.
With the closest open gas station 60 miles and a five-
hour wait away, they decided to stay put.
Mostly they watched trucks of relief workers, tree trimmers and power companies rush to nearby Pass Christian, which looks like a swampy landfill of pulverized apartment buildings, gutted
retail centers and crushed Southern mansions.
Boredom And Despair
The Dunnavants fill their days outside, sweating, laughing and fighting. But always waiting.
Sometimes they pass an hour or two with mundane adventures to take their minds off the boredom and despair.
On Thursday, they went fishing from the edge of a road that vanished into floodwaters from the swollen Wolf River.
Not even a bite.
The next day they tried to siphon the remaining gas from their Chevrolet Spectrum. Neighbors had promised to replace the gas with more if they could use it to drive to Mobile, Ala., for
supplies.
Sam Dunnavant ended up sick and dizzy from the fumes, a nauseating payoff for another failed endeavor.
Squabbling often replaced tedium.
``Tensions are really high,'' a teary Susan Dunnavant said after a brief spat with her husband about where to put debris. ``People just aren't supposed to be around each other like this every
day. We are at each other's throats.''
Staten spent the day toggling between lovable coot and crotchety crank. He was part tyrant and part marriage negotiator, if only to make his own life more bearable.
One minute he threatened to kill a kitten that approached his rusty wheelchair, the next he used his rough, whiskey-
warm drawl to soothe an irate Susan, who calls him Papa.
``You two can't do it all today,'' he told her. ``You've got months of this, not days.''
He might have cooled a fight for the moment, but it was an uneasy peace since she had run out of medication to treat her depression.
``I've really tried to keep it at bay,'' said Susan Dunnavant, 43. ``But I don't know if I can hold it off much longer.''
The Dunnavants would have been stunned to see all the relief and devastation just a few miles away along the Gulf of Mexico.
From their home, past thousands of downed trees and dozens of roofless homes, relief seemed more abundant.
Police guarded devastated neighborhoods by the water as military vehicles traversed the sandy roads and helicopters buzzed the shoreline. A handful of residents sifted through soggy debris, a
few sobbed.
Even hurricane victims in the hardest-hit areas of Mississippi felt largely ignored compared with the assault of supplies and money going to New Orleans and other large cities.
``It seems like everything is focused on them,'' said Doug Street, who lost everything when storm surge blew through his luxury Long Beach apartment. ``I mean, New Orleans has legitimate
needs, but what about us?''
Cheap Beer And Chips
A mile away, Ben's Chevron was a tiny outpost of humor and joy in an area with little of either.
Katrina had torn off the roof of the convenience store. Candy bars became a mush in the afternoon sun, but chips, soda and beer were salvageable.
Store clerk Ann Nguyen got an idea: Open up and sell everything cheap.
One customer wanted two six-packs of beer, which should have cost $9.
``Six dollars,'' she said. ``And today's a sales tax holiday.''
``It's almost enough for you to forget about how bad things are,'' said Joey Hanson, 16, a regular customer who came to help Nguyen.
As Nguyen worked into dusk, the Dunnavants prepared dinner on the grill: potatoes, onions, some chicken and a hamburger patty.
They talked of a radio report that a local hospital filled its stairways with bodies of storm victims after the morgue flooded.
Staten's belly was covered with mosquito bites that glowed like Christmas lights. Susan Dunnavant slathered him with bug repellent the night before, but there's only so much someone can do to
ward off southern Mississippi mosquitoes.
``My life used to be real enjoyable,'' Staten said to no one in particular.
Dinner came and went with little conversation, just complaints of fatigue.
Staten sat in his wheelchair next to his tiny, sun-scorched Chevrolet to block glare from the sagging sun.
Staten wondered how much more misery he could endure, or even wanted to.
``There just ain't much of me left,'' he said. ``I got no breath. I'm weak.''
He lit a filterless cigarette and took a couple of quick puffs. Soon the Dunnavants did the same, and the trio of smoldering cigarette tips danced like fireflies in the night sky.
``Well, Papa, you ready to go to bed?'' Susan asked.
``Yup,'' he grunted.
Guided by candlelight in their home, she pushed him in the wheelchair up the pathway to the front door that glowed a pale orange.
``The world don't owe me nothing,'' he said as waves of amber candle softened the features of his face.
``I know,'' Susan said.
``I've had a good life,'' he said. ``But this is enough.''
Reporter Baird Helgeson can be reached at (813) 259-7668.