Afterglow

“We do not have any refrigerated items. NO ICE. No cash back. No debit available. We hope to have more deliveries. No time yet. Credit card is working. ATM is working.”

So… no Heat ‘N’ Eeeet Corndogs, then. This handlettered sign stood outside my Publix for about four days. The first time I saw it, the “ATM is working” part was crossed out with “ATM is down” written underneath. At last check—it’s been a week, now-- the debit lines still weren’t working. This, then, is a state of natural emergency: A total reversion to cash transactions. It's anarchy.

My local Publix served as my Surreality Barometer. I cannot tell you how bizarre it was to walk into a grocery store and not find any groceries. People were driving as far as two hours away in a vain attempt to find ice. The aisles were almost completely trashed. Ore-Ida Steak Fries, gone! Spam, gone! The entire supply of Sociables, gone!

You know what did remain? Every conceivable variety of Dinner In a Box (“Turkey included!”) I have never attempted to eat one of these myself, although I will admit, in a moment of morbid curiosity, to cautiously taking one off the shelf just to see what was involved with this “meal” that was apparently supposed to spring, fully trimmed, from a box the size of a Beta tape. I put it back when I saw that the directions involved the words “Reconstitute gravy in separate bowl. DO NOT EAT UNTIL FULLY BAKED.” The entire population of Orlando was picking through daily life sustained only by Tic-Tacs and what had been salvaged from the Entenmann’s cart, but they were not going to resort to freeze-dried chicken and dumplings (“Chicken included!”)

And yet I kept going back to the grocery, day after day, wandering around the beer section on the expectation that the Frozen Foods Fairy had come along and magically replenished the Lean Cuisine supply. You know how you open your refrigerator, find nothing edible, then return five minutes later expecting to find the situation somewhat changed? I was doing the refrigerator thing on a scale of 60,000 square feet. Only on Wednesday, when the WonderBread had returned unto us, did life as we once knew it resume.

Disney World opened as usual on Satruday morning, which means I no longer keep casting nervous glances at the sky waiting for it to split open to reveal a seven-headed serpent, but some attractions remain shuttered. The top of the Cirque du Solis tent was ripped away, but, sadly, none of the clowns were sucked out of it.

Trees are down, everywhere. Flipper’s apartment complex lost several huge ones. The root systems ripped up the blacktop and overturned ten-inch-thick curbs. One crashed through a second-story window, which must have sucked on an unimaginable scale. (That’s one way, I suppose, to get your quarter-inch window opening.) Woodchippers are going on a twenty-four hour basis. In addition to a small explosion of babies in nine months, fifty percent of which I suspect will be named some derivative of “Charles,” we are going to have a shitload of mulch around here for a very long time.

Flipper actually couldn’t leave her complex for a time (I mean, her apartment complex; she may have other complexes that she can’t leave, such as the ability to sit down in front of an F-1 race and actually know what is going on, but that’s something I do not have the strength to address at the present moment) because all these enormous trees had toppled over and were blocking the driveways. And at the same time the little teeny baby trees outside my apartment displayed their Charley-related distress only by waking up the next morning looking kinda bendy.

I have definite questions about the manner in which this particular Act of God was conducted. A tornado, I can handle. I know tornados; tornadoes whip through on a whim, ripping this up and leaving that stand like a grandma at a Moonlight Sale. But hurricanes? I was under the impression that if a hurricane decides to flatten an area, it will stay flattened. Orlando was only selectively flattened. It's very weird. One fence section down, the fence section next to it standing there going, “What did you have to drink last night?”

I did, however, sustain some structural damage. Once Charley had blown through I made the swift, emergency-situation decision to go to the bathroom, and once I stepped up to the toilet, there in the dark, I discovered that I was standing in a puddle not of my own making. Rain had leaked in through the vent fan. I actually had to get a towel and bend over the toilet and mop it up and then put the towel in the laundry basket. Then I had to lie down for about an hour. It was horrible.

The Millennium Bellemobile actually pulled through quite well. I fretted over her, if darkly (in addition to her peeing problem, the light in the gearshift has now flickered out, so if I want to back up after sundown I have to open the driver’s side door to get the overhead light to go on) so when the hurricane warnings came up, my sister suggested that I park under a very large tree and conclude the situation in a humane manner.

My genius Non-Peeing Solution consisted of, essentially, diapering the sunroof. One former shower curtain (mold scissored off) thrown over the roof, held down by slammed front doors. One brand new shower curtain spread over the seats. One brand new replacement shower curtain in the shower. (That’s my Charley deductible, $6.47 worth of shower curtains. DAMN YOU, CHARLEY!!!!) As long as the emergency lights stayed on to keep the parking illuminated, I peeked out the window at her, and the Bellemobile stayed stoically un-crashed into but reasonably dry.

The trouble came the next day, when the back squall of the feeder line storms came through. At that point the drains and sewers threw up their hands and were all, “Screw it,” and the section of the parking lot directly in front of my apartment flooded about seven inches.

This was somewhat beyond the capacity of the Crocodile Hunter beach towel that so bravely de-Charleyed my bathroom. There was nothing for it but to move my car to higher ground. I put on a bathing suit and a pair of Official John Kerry For President flip-flops, trotted down the stairs, surveyed the waters, took off the shoes, gritted my teeth against a flaming aversion to All Things Icky, waded out into the swirling leaves, and, barefoot, backed the Bellemobile to an area of the lot that was much drier. In other words: I moved two parking spaces to the right.

Once the waters receded I realized that if I was going to be rendered powerless, internetless, cableless, and Sociableless for significant period, I wanted some damn spectacular destruction for my trouble. I threw a cooler and about fourteen Betty Crocker cakes into the back seat and drove the long way to Flipper’s (some women, in crisis, turn to their God; some to their worldly goods; some to their men. I bake.) Store signs everywhere were (and remain) cracked, half-hanging, and bent, lending the neighborhood a… a particular je ne sais quois, a certain kind of crackhouse, turf-war air, and many streetlights are still dark. A 7-11 was rendered 7-11less. The arches of the McDonald’s I frequent are now totally flaccid and bunched up to the side. Thus doth God smite the Slurpee and the Egg McMuffin.

I live very near a major Orlando thoroughfare, one that for the entirety of my residence here has been under construction with absolutely no discernable progress. Cranes come, cement mixers go, and yet entire intersections remain cordoned off. And when Charley came through, he destroyed school roofs, transformers, and entire airplanes-- by God every last one those @*&^dam orange barrels were completely untouched.

A real nice hurricane, all in all. Let’s do it again sometime. While I am living in Colorado.

(Thanks to all you fellow Floridians for comment-ing in! Great to hear you're okay.)