"EVERYBODY LOVES A MELODRAMA" . . .

Excerpts from my journal, dated 8/14/03 . . .

10:10pm
I'm writing by candlelight, feeling like I imagine Laura Ingalls Wilder would have felt while studying for her teaching examination, or like some young English lady would have felt writing precious secrets of love and laughter after a night of fashionable London events. No such fun tonight.

***

4:14pm
The power went out. It wasn't even the hottest day of the summer, and certainly the humidity was way down -- much more bearable than it had been in the past several days. D had left at 11:30am; Hooch took off at 3:30pm; Judge was out for the day. I was alone, not very motivated to keep working, just enjoying the stillness and planning my evening. I had just completed a major personal transaction -- bought a new laptop AND made awesome reservations for our second major foray up to Foxwoods.

As I sat at my computer, I saw the lights flicker and the power blew in and out, in and out. I felt the electric waves bellow around me, in and out, in and out, like a weird warp zone. Then it went out completely. My computer screen zapped. The lights fell dark. The air blower stopped. There was silence. And true stillness. In my brain, there was confusion. And wild, uncontrollable fear.

Was it not just three weeks ago that I had read the government was expecting major terrorist activity before the end of the summer? Was it not just two nights ago that I witnessed a lengthy conversation about 9/11 that made all the scenes flash before my mind's eye again? Was it not just last night that I had a nightmare about 9/11?

All this, whizzing through my brain in one second or less. The human mind is an amazing machine.

***

4:15pm
I grab my bag, wallet, sunglasses. I look dramatically, even longingly, at my desk and the morbid thought sneaks in unbidden . . . will I ever sit here again?

Out in the lobby, it's still fun. It's still just a power failure. Damn GSA, everyone says, for going for the lowest electrical bidder! No wonder the courthouse is always sweltering in summer, freezing in winter. No wonder the power goes out on a merely warm, gorgeous perfection of a day. Damn GSA. I don't feel better because of the banter, but there is outward control. Damning GSA gives me outward control.

Then one of the Court Security Officers picks up a radio transmission: the Manhattan courthouse is out too. THE MANHATTAN COURTHOUSE IS OUT TOO.

Outward control be damned. I'm standing in the lobby of a federal building watching the CSOs and U.S. Marshals hit high gear. There is no outward control.

There's no yelling. No screaming. What, you think this is 9/11 all over again? Why in the world would you think such a thing? Why in the world would I think such a thing? No, there's just tension. I sit on the lower step of the internal grand staircase and watch our guys -- our protectors, our lifesavers, if need be -- kick into action. Retired cops -- no spring chickens themselves -- scurrying around in an orderly fashion.

"Lock the doors. LOCK THE DOORS."
No one can get in for the rest of the day, no matter what. No one can get out unless they let you out.

"Check the back gate."
"Who's stuck in the elevator? GET HER OUT."
"Manhattan courthouse is down. I repeat, Manhattan is DOWN."

Do I cry? DO I stop a focused CSO and ask what the hell is going on? Do I know if it's safe to leave, go outside? Am I allowed to go outside? Is it morally right for me to leave knowing that these guys would go down with the ship if they had to?

"Go. GO. Make an early day of it. Go NOW."
I don't even remember who said that to me. I was thinking too many things. If I go, will I see you again, my friend? Am I an ass for being so scared and feeling so melodramatic? What if it's more dangerous outside than it is inside?

"They got us this time. They've hit us now. This is it."
I hear a coworker mutter this as I make my way out the door. Outside, on the steps of the courthouse, I adjust my eyes to the glare of the bright sun, and look up. There goes a plane. Does it know what just happened?

***

4:30pm
My car. Solace or source of information I don't want to have? I tune into the news station reluctantly. It's like a car wreck. I have to see, I have to know. I discover that all of Manhattan is down. I discover that most of the NorthEastern Seaboard is down. I discover that Cleveland, Detroit and Ottawa are down. Ottawa?!

Great, so it's not just the courthouse. Do I feel better?

***

4:40pm
It's slow going when no traffic lights function. I feel generous. I'm still morbid, though. If we're going to suffer again, I might as well let a few cars in front of me, right? Why the heck not . . .

The talking heads are yammering incessantly.

"This doesn't appear to be an act of --"
He doesn't know what to say. Don't say it out loud and it won't be true.

"This appears to be a natural occurrence."
Slight emphasis to try to be convincing.

"We don't know what happened. I mean, it's a gorgeous, dry, warm day, just like --"
She cuts off. Don't say it out loud and kick up the muck again. We're just getting over it, remember?
"Just like a summer day is supposed to be."
Good. Good recovery. That's why they pay you the big bucks.

"We are seeing plumes of smoke from the 14th Street power station."
And? What are you suggesting?
"It does not seem to stem from an . . . explosion or anything. They are saying this is normal when the power fails."
Okay. If you say so. I am so willing to believe you right now.

"I am seeing hordes of people walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and uptown towards the George Washington Bridge. It reminds me of --"
Another graceless cut-off. Somebody please fill the dead air time.
"Of, of, of, of the start of the, you know."
"Of the New York marathon?"
Co-anchor to the rescue. Thank you. Thank you.

Is it stupid that I'm crying in the car? Is it stupid that I'm driving extra-slow because I can't concentrate on the road? Is it stupid that my hair is flying into my face and all over the place because I have all the car windows open and I'm driving on the highway and my cell phone won't work so the only way I feel connected to the world is to see and hear it through open windows? What made me like this? When can I stop being like this?

***

5:15pm
I arrive home, through a gridlocked but eerily silent neighborhood. My mom's car is in the driveway. Of course. The garage doors run on electricity. Thank God -- one family member accounted for. Morbid thought: at least I still have one parent.

I rush inside, then mom and I rush back out. We're going to Manhattan, to my dad. We're going to check on him. We're going to bring home some of the huge amounts of cash reserved for the ATM machine. We're going to check the inventory and the refrigerated medicines.

It's slow going. Nothing new on the radio, except they're not afraid to use the T-word now, now that it's apparent that it's not applicable.
"Authorities do not believe it was terrorism."
"They don't think we were attacked by terrorists."
"Washington does not believe this was an act of terrorism."

Oh. Good, then.

***

6:40pm
Dad is fine. The inventory is fine. The cash is ferried to my car. Jeez, now I really have to focus on getting home in one piece.

Dad's employees -- all good-natured teenagers from the neighborhood -- will stay with him until the power comes back on and they can lower the security grate, or until they can figure out how to lower it manually. Are we beyond the years when looting was commonplace? Is my dad in danger? Will he be coming home tonight, or is he going to have to sleep with one eye open on a folding chair inside the hot pharmacy?

***

7:00pm
Mom and I hit the road again. We pass die-hard trekkers hiking the West Side Highway to get to the Bridge. We pass hitchhikers in the Bronx, still wearing their suits, but having lost the fire to walk all the way home.

Otherwise, the streets are empty. Back in our neck of the woods, the town cops stand at crucial intersections idly, picking their fingernails, wondering why they have to be there when there are hardly any cars left on the roads, glancing balefully at our car as we roll by.

I'm exhausted. I'm tense. I'm relieved. I don't think any planes have gone down or buildings have fallen. I don't think I've breathed in invisible poison gas. I don't think I've heard anything explode into nothingness.

***

7:40pm
We're home. We sit with Gran for a simple, cold, but satisfying meal. Thank God for kimchi, the ever-present epitome of Korean comfort food. Thank God for so many things.

***

10:55pm
The house looks so romantic, with candlelight flickering off all the newly-painted walls. I take a moment to look in the mirror. Candlelight is flattering. I'll allow myself just that.

I'm not scared anymore. I'm too sleepy to be scared now. I'm sheepish at how scared I was earlier. Dad's home. They're all asleep. I will be soon, too.

Rumors abound that power will come up in increments, starting at about 11:00pm. Five minutes.

Five minutes until our garage doors will open. Until we can open our fridge. Until the lights will glow on me instead of flattering candlelight. Until I can email my friends again. Until I don't have insight into what Laura Ingalls Wilder's nights must have been like (booooooring). Until our CSOs don't have to usher us out the courthouse door. Until the courthouse isn't put on lockdown. Until I stop shaking my head at myself for being such a worrywart, a doomsayer, a fraidy-cat, a nervous Nellie.

But do you blame me? Weren't you right there along with me?

***

Friday, 8/15/03, 10:20am
I woke up and checked my clock. Yup, it's flashing. 12:00 . . . 12:00 . . . 12:00. Good. I trudged to the bathroom, took a shower, put in my contacts, got dressed, and started to put on my makeup. Just when I'm about to smear my eyeliner again, the phone rings.

Cheech tells us that Manhattan is still out. No subways. No power. No Metro-North. The thought strikes me: if Manhattan is down, can we be down too? I mean, I'm walking around a fully-lit and powered-up house, about to plug in my hairdryer, but if the Manhattan courthouse isn't functioning . . .

Sure enough, our emergency notification line tells me that "the Courthouse is CLOSED." Why, thank you! I'll just put my hairdryer away now . . . A quick call to Hooch, and we hoot and holler about our unexpectedly long weekend. I change back into comfortable clothes and wonder what to do with the rest of my day, in a world that's only half-functioning.

So for now, I sit here at my computer at home, alternately typing and staring idly out the window into our gloriously sunny back yard. And I have to wonder, what was I thinking?! What was the big freaking deal? Why did I cry yesterday? Why was I upset? Why was I so scared? Why did I say a constant running prayer that didn't get an "Amen" until I woke up this morning?

***

8/15/03, 11:13am
Everyone's accounted for. Of course, everyone's accounted for. It was just a blackout. We're all coming back up on power, slowly but surely.

Cheech turned around and went back home -- Montreal can wait for another weekend. C spent the night with M in the teeny tiny hospital bed -- now he's wearing her maternity clothes. NRL got home okay, taking refuge at a friend's apartment until her hubby could find her. JAhn and JKA reunited at about 9:00pm. Everyone found their parents, their spouses, their friends and loved ones.

Of course they did. It was just a blackout.