I’d heard a radio report that there was looting but when I asked a police spokesman whom I didn’t know, he denied it. When I asked Mike, he hesitated and — maybe I’m imagining this — decided to trust me. He told me there had been one instance he knew of: Frank the barber had been robbed.

I don’t get my hair cut at Frank’s — I go to Nick at Majestic Barbers — but I go to Frank to get my watches fixed. (Frank Oliviero has many talents.) So I recognized him when he walked out of the police station after filing a report. “How you doing,” he said, giving me a smile.

Frank said he’d been robbed of $300, over 800 batteries and a new shipment of watch bands — and invited me to walk with him to the shop to have a look. Before we could go far, Carmen Concertino stopped the city bus he drives, which was empty, and insisted on giving us a ride.

Carmen lost a car and motorcycle in the flood. “I’ll drive you around town,” he said, “show you what’s going on.”

A private bus tour.

So, I got lots of inside stories.

But it cuts both ways. When you’re trusted, you don’t want to abuse that trust. Having lived in a community so long and feeling part of it and defensive about its shortcomings, I wasn’t as aggressive as I would have been in other places.

Because there had been no water or sewage service for days, FEMA brought in trailer trucks and handed out cases of water and food. I kept thinking how defeated I would feel if I had to take handouts. I couldn’t bring myself to interview the people and ask what it felt like.

I knew what it felt like. Lousy.

There had been TV crews all over town, but I didn’t feel excited. I felt they were gawking at us.