The Big Wind

Watching the progress of now Tropical Depression Ernesto as it marches up the East Coast and directly into my sinus cavities and muscles (and believe me, I’m already feeling it) made me recall hurricanes past. Although I’ve never suffered through the likes of Katrina, Agnes or even any of the smaller ones that devastated southern coastal areas, I was living in Boston when Hurricane Gloria blew ashore.

At the immortal age of 24, I was young enough (and hell, I was only a renter with nothing of value, who cared if parts of the roof blew off?) to get into the hurricane party mode. I was more worried about the date I was supposed to go on that night (Was it still on? What if his phone was out? What if the restaurant where we’d agreed to meet didn’t have power?) than any potential damage from eighty-plus mph winds. Rock stations had been playing “Gloria” for days. (Remember that one from the eighties? “G-l-o-r-i-a…” Points for anyone who remembers the band. I don't and can't find it on Google) Anyhow, the eye was set to stare down the city (and pretty much right over my neighborhood) early afternoon on a Friday, so the subways stopped running at noon. But we young intrepid advertising types went to work in our yellow slickers regardless, ate donuts and drank coffee with the rest of the skeleton crew, and generally did nothing until we were sent home with an extra hazard bonus in our paychecks. Once home, my new housemates and I (I’d only moved in a month earlier, newly sprung from the clutches of a horrible relationship) bonded over masking tape and what I was going to wear that night as we drew giant X’s over all of our windows (something my mother, who grew up in Florida, said that we should do), then hunkered down for the storm, playing board games while one housemate’s visiting sister cooked up an Indian feast and regaled us with tales from her last few weeks spent living with the Hare Krishnas because her father kicked her out for being gay.

We were the only house on the block that didn’t lose power. Or cable. Or anything.

The storm was still storming at around four in the afternoon when one of my housemates, Simeon, a camera buff like me, suggested it might be fun to slicker up and go out and take some hurricane pictures. It was foolhardy, I know, but remember, I was only 24. On top of the world, newly given my freedom. And it did sound like fun. And I was getting bored with playing Trivial Pursuit and listening to Hare Krishna tales.

We got some good shots of the wind whipping at the trees. Of the house, a giant Victorian, all taped up like a moving box, lights on and the other housemates waving from the windows. A few dramatic ones of trees that had toppled over and crushed some cars (not owning a car at the time, this seemed more funny than tragic to me).

But I was getting nervous about my date. Can you date during a hurricane? Was it safe? A moot point, because by evening, the winds had died down and only a light rain was falling. Gloria had blustered herself somewhere up into the Merrimack Valley, and she was their problem now. I called his apartment and got through, and his building was also was one of the few on the block with power.

For the life of me I can’t remember now where we had decided to meet, but apparently it went well because there was a second date and then a few more after that. We tried to make it work, but we were in different places in our lives and it simply blustered out, the eye of the storm dissipating as it hit land.

Maybe having a first date during a hurricane isn’t such a great idea.

But at least, if we’d stayed together, you’d have a great story to tell the kids about the day you met. Better than having dal with a lesbian Hare Krishna while playing Trivial Pursuit after an afternoon taking pictures of crushed cars.