I woke, showered, ate cereal. The office, closed. Precautionary, I thought. The apartment, powerless with no service. I had contingencies. I’d walk uptown and hunker down in one of the hundreds of coffee shops. This would pass in a blink of an eye, I thought.
I dressed, packed my bag, and began the trek. Past Houston.
No cars, lights. Past the park where trees lay strewn about. Up 6th,
a few passersby. I ventured further. No Starbucks, McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts. No
sounds of trains or planes or buses. Past 23rd, I got a signal, and
more texts than I could count. I had gone missing through no fault of my own.
Yes, I’m okay. I’m looking for somewhere to go to work. Are
you crazy, they asked. I didn’t think so. Other texts told of the flooded
tunnels, the 13-foot waves, the disaster-movie scenario of a submerged city. A
misty rain obscured my sight.
A smattering of power past 34th. Stranded
tourists trying to catch cabs off a closed island. Some open delis, bodegas, their
owners selling wares to the unprepared populace. They survived war and famine
to open their shops, a friend said; a hurricane won’t stop them.
I made it to 57th. The roads, closed, with cops
ambling about. I saw the crane swinging in the wind atop a building.
I traipsed about for the day surveying the damage, made my
way to a friend’s around dinner time to recharge my dying electronics. Please
stay, he offered. No, I want to be in my own bed. I departed after dark and walked
down 7th.
Below 34th, darkness descended. With rain covered
glasses, I barely made out some figures until they were upon me. I imagined
them to be zombies eying me angrily. I thought myself the proud idiot, murdered
early in a B movie; I walked faster.
Just before descending into the abyss below 23rd,
a friend texted me, now you know what it’s like to be there before and after.
