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.
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