Aftermath

I’ve spent all the summers of my life so far in a little town on the Jersey Shore on what I now know is a barrier island.  My mom’s house is situated half way between the ocean and the bay on a three block wide piece of land.  For forty-something years I’ve felt a seismic shift in my consciousness and physical being when I smell the salt air, and I roll down my windows when I get close to the beach, even in the rain. 

On this recent visit to my summer home town, I was stopped by a National Guardsman in grey fatigues standing next to a matching fatigue-painted Hummer.  He reminded me of Madeline Kahn in High Anxiety when her pantsuit matched her Lincoln Continental.  He asked to see my papers—a copy of a tax document and a letter from my mother saying I had her permission to visit the house.  He checked my ID and waved me on. 

As I drove down familiar streets, nearly every house or business on both sides of the road had an 8-12 foot mountain of refuse on the curb consisted of all the major appliances, couches and cabinetry, rugs and flooring, all the contents from the basement, the insulation, and all the walls from the first floor of the house.  Except for my mom’s house. 

Friends had texted me photos of my mom’s house after the storm—friends who’d siphoned gasoline from one car into the other and braved the ominous smell of broken gas lines to survey the town before the National Guard declared Marshall Law and instilled a curfew to deter looters-- who were stealing by truck in the day and by boat at night.  Before the cacophony of dump trucks and helicopters grew to drown out the gently lapping waves at the beach; before homeowners 10 blocks south of us returned to their houses to find them gone—vanished-- just an empty lot of sand-- my friends let me know that my mom’s house was okay.  A good 7 steps up to the first floor porch, we had cleared the 4-foot flood-line by about 15 inches.

But I still had to see for myself.  The basement and garage would be a shitshow.  So once the gas rationing calmed the frenzied masses, I filled my car with cleaning supplies-- and donations for relief workers-- and headed down.  Mom’s house was fine.  I was overwhelmed with a mixture of gratitude and survivor guilt.  Yes, she would need a new furnace, water heater, electric panel and air-conditioning unit, but we were lucky-- very lucky.  As the town whirled with the buzz of construction workers and generators, I worked all day by myself to empty the basement.  A construction worker named, Bob,-- wearing leather gloves and rubber boots-- swung by to pump out the last 8” of water from the basement.  Around me men were doing similar jobs.  Strong, virile men were hooking up dehumidifier ducts as big as hoola-hoops.  They lifted great gobs of sodden insulation with front loaders while other men hacked at walls and floors with crowbars.  This must have been what it was like when gold mining towns were being built, or Las Vegas.  There was a barn raising feeling to the town now, everyone working at a common goal to get the community back on its feet—and I could sense us sweating together as I peeled off layers of clothing.  But as dusk turned the blue sky pink, an odd thing happened. 

All around me people had lost so much.  Their hearts ached.  They were exhausted and worn.  And yet, as the generators switched off and construction workers removed their gloves, all I could think of was---who can I make out with? 

I was aware of how wrong this was, this feeling of surging desire, but I couldn’t contain it.  “Maybe Construction Bob will make out with me,” I thought, as I ambled over to my car to check my hair in the side view mirror.  I may have been wearing rain pants over my jeans, snow boots and 2fleece tops, but I rocked it.

When his truck pulled up, the sky had darkened to denim blue.  No street lights had power, no cars could be heard and the air was perfectly still.  Curfew was in an hour.  “There’s time,” I thought.  And yet, Construction Bob did not linger long enough to let the post-apocalyptic aphrodisiac grip him and propel him towards me.  He did not seem to share my yearning to connect with someone on a deep, primal level.  He loaded his pump and left.  And with him went the only chance I would have to feel the skin of someone who knows what it’s like-- to be alone together on the outskirts of surreality.  Remote, removed and alive.

After he left I stood there for a few minutes.  Now I would have no one to make out with.   Then I remembered, I would still have to pass through the National Guard’s checkpoint on my way out of town.  You know what they say-- any port in an aftermath.

No Drinking, Texting, Driving

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I’m grateful every time I see or hear a “No Texting While Driving” public awareness campaign on the radio or television.  I have a friend who puts hers in the glove compartment when she drives.  I usually have mine on the passenger seat-- face down or in my purse-- and make a point to set my GPS before I start driving, occasionally pulling over to the side of the road if I need to make a call or adjustment.  But it’s hard to resist.

The PSAs remind me of the no drinking-and-driving campaigns of my high school years and the no littering campaigns before that.  It’s one of the many subtle, or I should say not so subtle nods to a bygone era that Madmen pays homage to when, for instance, Don Draper shakes out his families’ picnic blanket scattering trash on the park’s lawn before walking away-- or pours his pal a scotch before sending him home in his car.  My parent’s generation used to call them ‘one more for the road’.  We called them ‘roadies’.  Thank goodness the majority of today’s younger generation doesn’t fathom getting behind the wheel intoxicated any more that we would think to toss a bag of litter out the car window.

I was talking to my mother about this the other day when she told me a story.  She was just out of college, in the early 1960s, when she and her merry band of friends decided to take a weekend road trip down south to visit some other friends—a young couple who had just married.  Five of them were going—cars were enormous in those days—and everyone had an assigned job.  A different passenger was in charge of snacks, maps, entertainment, and drinks, etc.  I interrupted Mom’s story, “Was there anything non-alcoholic to drink?”  “No,” she said, “We drank the whole way down.  And sang.  The entertainment person had a list of car games and songs for us to sing.” 

“And the driver drank?” 

“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly.  I cringed.  Mom continued, “but you didn’t ask me what my job was.” 

“What was your job, Mother?”

“Decorations,” she said.  I had to laugh.  We both did.

“I taped up crepe paper all along the top of the car and blew up little balloons…” 

“On the outside of the car?” 

“No,” she said, “the inside.”  I pictured my mom arriving an hour before departure time in order to secure a decorative trim of twisted crepe paper along the upper corners of the car ceiling, small balloons bobbing along, grazing their heads as they sang.

“Good work, Mom,” I said, “and did you sing?”

“Of course.  We all sang the whole way.  In fact, at one point I remember my friend telling the driver to pull over.”

“Because the singing was so bad?’

“No, he said he was too drunk to sing, so he had better drive.”

“Good Lord,” I said, “Did you let him drive?”

“Of course.”  I covered my mouth and shook my head.

“I know,” she said, “We were idiots.  We’re lucky to be alive.”

“I’ll say.  We were idiots, too.  We’re all lucky.”

There must be a million stories out there--serendipitous idiots doing ridiculous things.  Thankfully, designated drivers and community garbage cans are a permanent fixture of our landscape now.  But I think about what else we’re doing now, cluelessly, that will turn out to be completely idiotic.  Certainly, there’s plenty I’m aware of, but what will shock me?  What stories will I recount for my adult son that will leave him agape and shaking his head?  I’ll be glad when texting-while-driving becomes a thing of the past.  I hope they come up with a device that hobbles texting or turns your phone to dust while your car is moving.   Until then, keep your wits about you and be en garde.  There are idiots among us, still.