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| The
avenue was streaming with traffic and pedestrians despite
the temperatures. I then walked up past the Plaza (which
has been standing in its present structure for ninety-five
years). I never look at that fountain without thinking of
the legend of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald,
in their drunken exhilaration, drenching themselves in its
cascading water. On this particular Thursday its mist offered
a sweet relief even at the sight of it. |
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Walking
past The Plaza and the Pulitzer Fountain. 3:00 PM on Thursday.
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I
was back at my apartment by 3:30, and at this
computer at 4:05 or thereabouts when the screen suddenly
went dark and the desklight dimmed and the fan on my desk
slowed to stop.
The first thought was that it would be temporary. I went downstairs
and heard from Mark the doorman that it was a power outage extending
to Canada and Detroit and far south. I knew then, having been here
during the 1965 blackout, that we might be in for a long wait for
restoration.
I also knew, from the 1965 experience, that it was inconvenient but
that people are generally very good to each other in these crises.
I also had the passing thought –something I heard expressed
frequently in the next twenty-four hours: terrorists. However, the
previous experience mollified my fears: a certainty that everything
would be all right.
I don’t have an air conditioner. When
I first moved in here I couldn’t afford one. Then when I could,
I found I was away most weekends and so didn’t need one, and
the machine takes up a lot of window space. I’d rather have
the light. So I have fans. And when it’s been very hot, I open
my terrace door and open the windows and turn on the fans. It has
not been unpleasant. However, Friday night I didn’t even have
the fans. But it didn’t bother me. It was just hot.
I was alone when the current went out, and the hallways were pitch
black. There were emergency lights in the stairwells although they
had only six hours of power.
I found a flashlight. It had no batteries. I had no idea what size.
The third deli I went to had the right batteries. I was not prepared
and already in the dark before the sun went down.
I took the dogs out. They wouldn’t move in the dark hallways,
even with the flashlight, and were uncharacteristically afraid of
the stairs, so they had to be carried, up and down four flights.
The neighborhood was lively. Many in the
stores buying water and batteries. At seven I went down to the Promenade.
I’ve never seen it so jammed. Hundreds, maybe more, all came
out for the cool breezes by the river. The benches were full. The
dog runs were full, and walkways were mobbed. There was a very strong
sense of neighborliness in the air, and even a good time.
Back at the apartment, as it began to get dark I was feeling disoriented,
feeling strangely isolated, strangely vulnerable. I wasn’t
fearful, but I was very conscious of my being solitary in this uncertain
moment. In 1965 I was married and friends and family came to spend
the evening with us. We put out candles, drank wine and became a
(very good) party. Thirty-eight years later, no friends or family
within easy reach. No cell phone, no water, no toilet and just me
and the dogs.
I read a book by candlelight, entertaining myself with the notion
of what it was like when candles were the only source of light in
the dark. I quickly found that it is very inconvenient as an alternative
light source, and there is no romance.
The doormen had pizza, I’d noticed. So I went out about eight-thirty
looking for pizza. The side streets were dark except for the many
stoops and doorways where people had congregated, often with wine
and cheese by candlelight. The passing cars and police cars frequently
broke the darkness. There were no streetlights but the traffic on
the avenue was, like the pedestrians, proceeding with great caution.
The avenues were busy. Wherever you saw candlelight, there were crowds.
It was a full moon (as it was in 1965 also). In the bars they were
drinking and smoking. The mood was upbeat and festive.
Back home, however, I felt that strange isolation again. I was thinking
about those who lived on floor high above mine (the fourth), especially
those who would not be able to walk thirty or forty flights up or
down; especially those who were by themselves and with no way to
communicate with anyone else. |
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The
scene on Park Avenue South. 5:15 PM.
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Friday
morning I awoke about eight o’clock. Very
warm. Still no power. There were New York Timeses in
the lobby, which was a very welcome surprise. People on the
sidewalks were carrying containers of coffee (and feeling
very buoyant) from a luncheonette five blocks away on First
Avenue. I thought: that’s what I need, and I went over
there. They were serving breakfast – without electricity.
Plastic forks and knives; paper plates. The coffee wasn’t
very good. But it was coffee. Hope.
Back at the apartment I sat by the
window and read the paper. I took
the dogs out for their walk. I dropped my flashlight
on the stairs (while carrying the d’s) and
the light plastic number smashed to smithereens.
I reproached myself for not being more careful,
reminded once again of the truth – I’m
a klutz.
It was a beautiful Saturday, but I was feeling depressed. A different
kind of depression. A sense of dread coupled with the newly acquired
reality that I was “alone” in this life, at this time,
and maybe always. The catastrophe of 9/11 also left the residual
notion that we are quite helpless in the tide of history. And indeed
there now are times, at least at this age of mine, when it seems
entropic.
However, all grimness aside, it was a beautiful Saturday. I heard
the West Side had power. And the buses were running and fare-free.
I went over to Zabars, figuring we on the East Side would be getting
our power back soon also.
It was four o’clock when I took the bus across
79th Street. It was thrilling to see neon lights in
store windows. It seemed like the greatest gift bestowed on all of
us. Over on Broadway, New York was the bustling town that it is.
The stores were full. The ATMs were working.
On the busride back, as we traveled east, out of the Park and onto
Fifth Avenue, a teenage girl very loudly said to her two friends: “now
we’re on the DARK side of New York.”
They all laughed but then the same girl said in a far less caustic
tone: “this day sucks.”
I knew what she meant. It was that feeling again. It came back as
soon as we returned to the unlighted zone. Back at the apartment
I put everything in the (warmed up) freezer and lay down for a nap.
It was five o’clock.
I was awakened at 6:30 by my phone ringing, for the first time in
more than twenty-six hours. We were back online. I was relieved but
there has remained that residual feeling, lessening but nevertheless,
its impact felt. |
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