As I Was Saying
Power to the People
By Alan Williamson
Post-storm power outages are different in Florida. Sure, they begin with the familiar crackle, pop and plunge into darkness. In other parts of the country this would be a signal to light that nice candle your aunt Adelaide gave you for Christmas. In Florida – there’s no sense in sugar coating it – the power going out is a signal to kiss life as you know it goodbye and prepare yourself for a slow but steady descent into madness.
First, you will have to renounce all worldly possessions and creature comforts – even the small ones like clean underwear and cornflakes with milk. Then, you will be forced out of your home and onto the streets where you will join other disaster zombies forming lines the length of several football fields for a bag of ice, a tank of gas or a flight to San Diego.
I was once on a line so long, I kept a journal of it.
Dear Diary,
It’s day three and we seem to lack the forward motion one hopes to experience on a line. I suspect it has stopped completely or is even moving backwards. I’ve made a commitment to follow this through to the end, but if it’s going backwards is the end really the end, or is it the beginning of a line I’ve lived through on my way to yesterday?
Most people (me included) are troopers for a few days. We help neighbors, join the hunt for food and water, pull old books and board games out of retirement to fill the powerless hours. But there comes a point, even for the best of us, when our built-in, shock-proof stress detector calculates that we’ve endured way more than our fair share of hardship.
“I can’t believe those condos out at the beach have power and we don’t,” I grumble to my wife, insinuating conspiracies at the highest levels.
“They’re on a different power grid,” Sherry explains sketchily, no doubt conserving energy.
I’m tired of conserving energy. I’m ready to storm the palace gates.
“Can someone explain to me how we can live in the richest, most technologically-advanced society in the history of the world and still be without power ten days after a storm?”
“It is starting to get aggravating,” Sherry concedes, hinting that her limitless patience may have an expiration date after all.
For the record, my patience ended three days before when we reheated two cold turkey franks over some sterno and pronounced them “dinner.” (In a blind taste test, Sherry and I both picked a flashlight over the turkey franks as having superior flavor and visual appeal.)
Somewhere along the line, when I least expected it, something revitalizing happened. I discovered how resourceful, unselfish and compassionate I could be – a real leader of the masses in times of adversity. Had you been by my side during those difficult days, you would have heard me say this:
“Here’s another 60 gallons of bottled water Mrs. Obermann. I’ll have fresh batteries for your portable TV within the hour – I make them myself from a kit I got off the Internet.”
And this:
“Out of gas, Sean? You drive, I’ll push – there’s a station about a mile up the road.”
And this:
“Hey Stevie, stop crying. Climb up on my shoulders and let’s see if we can get you closer to that breeze that’s passing through.”
Around the same time – give or take an hour – I also discovered how cranky, self-pitying and sarcastic I can be: the Child King with a craving for pizza rolls and cable TV.
Had you been there in my weaker moments, you would have heard me say this:
“Are air conditioners, TVs, stereos and household appliances now simply novelty items to be enjoyed on those rare occasions when the Power & Light gods are feeling benevolent?”
And this:
“Who’s going to reimburse me for the episodes of ‘Modern Family,’ and ‘Parks and Recreation’ I’ve missed?”
And this:
“I’ll start shaving and bathing again when this neighborhood is lit up like a Vegas casino!”
Like I’ve been saying, prolonged power outages are a uniquely transforming experience. They bring out the best and the worst in people – often simultaneously. As for me, I’d much rather turn on a light than curse the darkness. In Florida after a storm, your best bet is to reach for the flashlight first. I keep mine handy next to the turkey franks.
Alan Williamson is an award-winning writer with 27 years in the field of true fiction (advertising). A practical man who knows that writing for a living is risky going, he has taken steps to pursue a second, more stable career as a leggy super model. Alan can be reached at . © 2011 Alan Williamson.