Hurricanes

Hurricanes are finicky. Anything less than a category 3 and the most seasoned of coastal residents won’t bother pulling in their patio furniture. Hunker down folks, weathermen eager to make names for themselves- sensationalize the projected impact. But in the spirit of caution, gas tanks are filled and motors hum with the same impatience as the driver waiting behind the man loading extra canisters into his truck bed.

Nonperishables and bottled water are relocated to the homes of chaotic shoppers; stockpiled in tiny mountains- wherever room allows. Store managers place handwritten signs on the entrances. NO WATER. NO BREAD.

Men race against the heavy clouds to mow their lawns. Children- filled with excitement at the prospect of school closures and disappointment at their storm snack heist, thwarted by mothers making their last call for laundry.

With preparation and traditions completed, we wait for Mother Nature’s fury.

We listen for the sky to crack open like the cold ones the adults throw back. The rowdier crowd taunts fate in the streets. Anchormen adorned in bright yellow, interview the least intelligible of the crew. Uninvited arms thrown aggressively over their slickers dare to knock them over before the wind has a chance to. Slurred words covered in heavy accents of the drunk toss out interjections and gesticulate wildly, grenades spill over their long lime green necks like a storm wall. Party in lieu of preparation.

Most of us fall asleep, waking to something about as severe as a spring shower hopped up on amphetamines. Downgraded to a tropical storm between your midnight pee break and dawn. You curse the weatherman with biblical accuracy but give thanks that it wasn’t as bad as predicted.

And then there are those…

The ones that start with a vacuum sealed quietness. Conversations siphoned out of neighbors who only communicate through eye contact and deep sighs now. The sickening calm before that you hear about doesn’t do the internal panic you feel any justice and nauseating angst swells and sloshes around the pit of your belly.

The room with the least windows fills with relatives- eyes blood shot and hanging on to every word of the meteorologist. His tone is now solemn. Hunker down folks and this time we do.

The storm is upgraded. Gusts become gale force howling in full bravado while shingles are pried backwards like fingers clutching in desperation to their homes.

I hurl again.

This time in the toilet and on my fingers that hold it. Yellow bile and a lone pepperoni sway in the bowls violent waters. Having nothing left to give in offering, I lay, sweaty forehead to forearm on the damp seat. The smell of Bourbon Street and regret waft from my porcelain god.

As useless as beach front property during storm season, my legs give way. My heart, recently lodged somewhere between my ass and stomach, manages to drum ferociously against the front of my skull.

I need salt. Pickle juice would do, but my jowls clench at the thought of any liquids traveling down my gullet and my salivary glands are pushed into overdrive.

Embracing full exhaustion, I allow the endless stream of stringy spit to run out the side of my mouth on its way to the pot.

Buy one get one free the bartender shouted over the loud music and crowd. Even that hurts now and I grimace at the thought. I was on my third free- compliments of a stranger who wanted me to loosen up and feel the city. My gaggle of idiots and I whewwwww in unison, raising our plastic cups filled with red juice and liquor into the air.

Suddenly, the old advice about taking cover in the bathtub during tornado warnings becomes very useful and I army-crawl through a trail of my own filth to the tub. Being found wet and passed out in the tub is a better prospect than on the floor with tidbits of undigested bar nuts sprinkled throughout my hair and the crotch of my sweatpants-soaked heather grey. I’m too embarrassed to check the back. The shower runs hot.

The aftermath, another weight on an already overloaded nervous system is just as taxing as the storm. Time to survey the damage. No room for rest as you mentally begin to process the totality of it all. You count fingers toes and limbs…all are intact.

Shell shocked yourself, you still muster the strength to check on your neighbors. You both stare with a zombie-like gaze as young people dressed in fatigues ride in military truck beds down your street.

Not sure if the odor is coming from spoiling food, you or your neighbor. Neither of you mention it, but the mouth breathing confirms it. You’re lucky to have gas units in your homes but haven’t received clearance to use the water yet. Everybody stinks. It’s ok. You hear the revving of chainsaws nearby in the not so far distance, working against time and sunset. Tattered homes cower to shield their nakedness.

The storm rode you hard and hung you up wet. And you look every bit of it too, but no one cares to notice. You come together as a community and pool the resources you selfishly hoarded a few days ago- an intimate bond forms that can only be understood by storm survivors. You do your best to chip in and patch the patchable and cover what is not.

It is during these events that you see the best in humanity, and you rely on its decency- knowing someone is coming to save you.

Not this time though. Old enough to know better I braved a self-inflicted Category 40. Severe in its onset, but recoverable. That brings me comfort at least while I lay against the tub sick as a dog and that’s giving dogs a bad name.

Even the animals know how to seek shelter in the opposite direction of a hurricane. I chose to empty 6 cups of the famous drink and run right into the eye. Does that make me a storm chaser? I half-giggle/half-groan at the thought before my eyes become too heavy to remain open.