Sandy

I, Solipsist.  Where were you when.....the Challenger exploded?  .....9/11? ......the Black President was elected?  We chain ourselves to history with exaggerated tales of what we did and how we felt when events far greater than our meager, insect selves transpire far beyond the ant house.  We cling to it because we want to matter.  We want to be safe in the moment, threatened in hindsight, and greeted with open jaws and wide eyes when we spin our tale in the future.

I have to admit: I had a pretty good hurricane.  I can check the box for being in the storm, and I'll have the opportunity to embellish the wind's howl and light's flicker.  I won't admit to being scared, mostly because I wasn't, but also because I slept better that night than I had in at least the previous month.  I'll tell anyone willing to listen about watching the live feed of images on various websites showing that many of my citizens were having a far worse time of things.  I come away with only praise for BBC's Sherlock.

For all the pant-staining induced by the storm itself, it is its wake that inspires true fear.  We sit up in our foxholes, life and limb intact, then stand to survey who in our ranks was not so fortunate.  With Irene, it was the fellas Upstate.  This bitch Sandy will give steady work to every appraiser in Jersey for the foreseeable future and, closer to home, tore a worm-hole into the Big Apple that will not soon be repaired or forgotten.  And here in Brooklyn, or, at least "Brooklyn", we get to raise the All Clear flag.

This I saw the day after, chasing the drowned carousel or Superfund waterway spilling onto its neighbors.  Beyond the clutter in the bike lanes, there was not much disturbance in the force.  So I turned in a Big One, overindulging in marijuana and losing at dice in a not-entirely-cold backyard to some bar in Williamsburg.  Had that been the extent of My Storm, I would not be writing this.

Because the next day I looked from light to dark and saw that this was more than just a place of residence.  Lower Manhattan was without power, but the bridge was open and I'd just shilled out $30 for a new wheel on my Schwinn Varsity.  I went with one friend inside the dark belly of the beast and all we found was electricity.  Ever rolled through Mulberry Street and not seen a single soul?  Ever only been able to distinguish the street signs in the Financial District because of the full moon?  Ever stepped into a candlelit dive bar and known it was ready right then and there to be filmed for a Gangs of New York prequel?  Lower Manhattan was like Williamsburg in the early 90s, but with a massive police presence.  All the pencil pushers and post-fraternity jabronis fled to higher ground and neighborhoods like Soho, the East Village, and TriBeCa were......authentic?  Authentic!  Yes! Yes they were!  I have spent tens of thousands of dollars on international travel and rarely been so rewarded as I've been the past two nights with my bicycle and a trusty companion.

And as I write the power is back on, the subway is gradually coming back and a massive relief effort is underway.  I'm left to wonder if it was all a dream and, if not, then I'm quite confident I'll have one of the better stories when school resumes and we all tell each other What We Did During The Storm.