My First Hurricane

“Heed to local precautions and warnings,” he said, and he meant it.

I should have listened to that statement with all of my heart.

I didn't think I’d need to evacuate. I asked locals, and they spit out mediocre stories of Irene, which sounded like less of a commotion than a Colorado snow storm. Half the people were staying. I had nowhere to evacuate to. I looked forward to the excitement of a storm.

Key Foods closed early Saturday, so we tried Jubilee. The bread and imperishables were gone, and besides, the line was around the aisles and out the door. We would come back tomorrow.

On Sunday, we accumulated a few supplies from a less-than-crowded Key Foods (evacuation A zone was long gone at this point). Cookie crisps, macaroni & cheese, salsa, chips, soda. Later, we watched football and ordered delivery wings. We talked to the people we cared about far away and reassured them that everything would be alright.

On Monday, we waited for the storm. We smoked cigarettes outside, listened to the news, walked to the water and told our friends the weatherman was full of crap. At sunset, the hurricane started playing games. The news of water kissed my lips, seducing me to the streets. I lived at 200 Water Street, at the intersection between Fulton and Water, near Pier 17. We went outside. The rain was light. The water was about an inch high across the street from my building. No one was outside. Looking back, I saw the calm before the storm. I remember the ecstatic happiness, we have the city to ourselves.

We decided to walk the two blocks west to grab some beers. It took us about 10 minutes to return to my apartment. At this point, the water was to my ankles, so we ran. We knew danger was near.

We ran inside. The doormen were frantic. There were several people in the lobby (and one dog) who wanted to get upstairs as soon as possible. They told us no until the water broke into the lobby. “We all have to get upstairs!” a girl with dyed ebony hair shouted. They told us to wait. We started exploring options.

Within two minutes the water was well past our shins, and the building staff started realizing that the water was coming no matter what. “Okay,” the aggravated Russian said. “Follow me, and stay close.”

We followed him, needless to say, around the back entrance, where none of us had ever been. Down the concrete stairs, and it didn't look like the luxury rentals that we paid an arm and a leg for.

When we filed through the maintenance hallway, we soon realized that we would be “swimming” to our entrance. Trash bags floated in the basement like ruptured balloons in a swamp. The current was so strong that I felt like a goldfish being flushed down the toilet. And still, it got deeper as we got closer and closer to the only way back to our homes. The guy with the dog was pulling his submerged golden retriever through the wreckage that smelt of New York sewer waters. My heart beat out of my chest as three of the men couldn't open the door because of the current. I felt like I was surviving the Titanic, except the ship was New York City, and I didn't have a Jack to save me. I wasn't a Rose.

And suddenly, the city had us to itself.

Reaching solid dry concrete was like reaching air after you've dived too deep in a pool. The relieving escape when waves have been rocking you back and forth too deep. We walked up the eleven stories and when I ran into my apartment, I scooped up my dog. “Nadia, I won’t leave you again, I promise,” I told her. The eye of the storm screamed at our high rise windows.

As I was looking out above the street lights, the power went out. Our building swayed back and forth as Water Street turned into a literal Water Street. I called my Dad and told him it looked like Venice. The cars, like little boats, submerged. The buildings little islands in a beautiful city. I wanted to take a picture, but New York City was too dark for that. It was the first time I’d been in the real dark in the City.

The people that didn't evacuate wanted to converse. There was no panic, but rather a sense of celebration. Twenty-somethings smoked in the hall. Music blared from the lofts. The sixth floor, in the lounge, was a congregation. Our 11^th floor group all descended to try to get news. I brought Nadia in her New York purse.

The lounge was lit up with candles. We all looked the same, privileged kids with high expectations, rich over-sized adults with so many dreams, yet no cares in the world. Playing pool like there were still lights. Drinking beers like there were still resources. Dancing like we were in Venice.

I told Frank that I had to leave. It was too loud for Nadia. She was a cherished addition to the party, but she could get lost, or hurt, and she was confused. I told him he could still play pool, to go to Brad’s. He said he’d walk me upstairs. I got into my New York apartment and set Nadia down. Frank lit up a cigarette. I reached into my purse for mine, and I realized that I left them two doors down in Brad’s apartment. I told him that I would be right back.

I smoked a cigarette in Brad’s apartment. I wish I would have never done that. Near the end of my smoke, Frank entered. I put my cigarette out and we went back to my place.

I wanted to go to bed, and so I called Nadia. I called Nadia. “Nadia, come here boo boo. Nads, come here love na night time.”

She didn't come.

I called again, this time with more urgency. “Nadia! Come here baby! Where are you? Come on baby!”

She didn't come.

The flashlight touched all the places she would go. Under the bed, under the covers, on the couch, in her house…She wasn't there.

“Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia…Nadia!”

I wanted more than anything to be able to turn on the lights. I lost the one thing that mattered to me that I brought to New York City and I started to feel the panic set in.

We ran into the hall, calling her, scouring the floors for the thing that mattered most. Knocking on every door, frantic. “Did you see a little Chihuahua with a pink collar? She was just here.”

“You go down, I go up,” I said to Frank. “And make sure you write down what every apartment says, or if they even answered.”

1216 – Didn't see her, gave me an additional flashlight

1215 – No answer

1214 – No answer

1217 – No answer

1212 – No answer

1211 – No answer

1210 – No answer

1209 – No answer

1208 – No answer

1207 – No answer

1201 – No answer

1206 – No answer

1202 – Didn't see

1204 – Didn't see

1205 – No answer

1203 – No answer

The notebooks are full. Did we miss a door?

There’s a thirteenth floor, then a fifteenth, then a sixteenth, then a seventeenth, but there’s an eighteenth. What about the nineteenth? Oh, and there’s still the twenties…21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29…

Is she below us? What about the 2^nd floor, or the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth? She’s not on the 10^th? Where is she? Oh my God, where is she?

There’s the 30s. She must be on the 30s.

30. 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38?

Why can’t I find her?

Maybe someone found her and decided to evacuate.

Once the phones work, they will call the number on her collar.

I listened at every door.

Do you hear that bark? Are they barking for her? Do you think she’s in here?

When is the power coming back on?

I left my apartment door open. Nadia knows her way home. Do you think she went back?

And I’m crying on the floor on the halls. No one, but maybe Sandy, hears me, and she laughs. I don’t want to believe Nadia is a victim of the storm.

“Where are you Nadia? Where are you? Please come home!”

Loving a Stranger

There is still conversation between you and me.
Even if it's in my head, it's what you would say.
But somehow, I still can't "get it."

"Why don't you love me anymore?"
"I do, I'm just so busy and I'm not ready."
"Love me."
"I do."
"Kiss me."
You do.

But somehow you can''t be mine forever. Not ever even anymore.

"When will you be ready?"
"I don't know, Courtni. It's not that easy."
Never.

I'm mad at you for letting me believe forever even existed.
I'm mad at you for being everything to me and now nothing means anything.
I'm mad at you for not letting it all be easy, like it was supposed to be.
I'm mad at you because you should be here, or I should be there, and we should be together.
I'm mad at me because it was my fault too.
I'm mad at me for never caring about myself.
I'm mad at my mom for helping me feel that way.
I'm mad at human emotion, because I should be over you by now.
I'm mad at my computer for holding your Valentine, and I'm mad at me for watching it a million times. I'm mad at the magazine, because no matter what I accomplish, you still are a part of it, and you shouldn't be.
I'm mad that I didn't have a smoothie waiting for you after you passed the BAR exam. I'm mad that some random people helped you celebrate.
I'm mad that you live in your grandmas's duplex without me.
I'm mad that I sobbed at your grandppa's funeral and I couldn't take my eyes off of you at my own grandma's funeral.
I'm mad that I have this picture in my head, of us, and a baby, our baby, and that he probably won't exist.
I'm mad that you cried when I was moving to New York and how it didn't mean anything at all.
I'm mad that we both exist, yet I'm not with you and you don't see how universes and sunsets and harmony exists for us. Only for us. For us.

Hello?

Sometimes the night disappears in the blink of an eye. Or rather hours go by while you are staring at something; minutes are only measured by a hypothetical clock. What is a second? A minute? A lifetime?

And have you ever had eyes so sleepy and awake at the same time? I just wonder if everyone thinks about as much as I do. There is loss. There is sadness. There are what ifs. There is nothingness. There is maybe. There is no. There is why. Why? Why? Why?

Have you ever had a body so sweaty cold and so shivering hot all at the same time? I hate the way my new bed smells and I hate the thought of going back to my old bed. There is no home. I have no one to call, really, although everyone keeps saying it because we are supposed to and besides, we are the only ones any of us have.

And Paris gleams across the globe, trumping New York with its glamour, its historic grandeur, with Chelsi. Who am I without them? Who am I without my Chelsi, without my recovered mother, without my not so recovered father? Who the fuck am I?

Really cute that I moved to New York. Dreams, huh? Nothing exists. I want to dress up as invisible for Halloween.

I dream. Sleepy dreams, not awake ones. I dream that I’m in my real bed, and I only have a few more days to be there, so I better wake up. I dream about my idiotic waitressing job, and trying to smile at the ignorant people that I fake smiles for. I dream about my mother, and everything that makes me scared, and she is a skeleton and sometimes I am too.

Once, I was dreaming, and the phone rang. I answered it, and he answered. “Hello?”

It was just the same, creamy and raspy, and mine and everything, and maybe, all at the same time.

I woke up immediately. It’s funny how you can’t forget sounds, smells, feelings. The tears were just as fast. I hate having his voice around me these days.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

Is anyone out there? Why isn’t this all the way I wanted it to be? What am I even supposed to do?

What's Black and White and Red All Over?

A newspaper, and my face

I woke up at 5:36 AM. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went outside to smoke. I wanted to write, but the cold air reminded me that it was fall, and I forced myself to go back inside.

Six days ago, I fractured my face. It was a Wednesday, like many others, and I had a few too many cocktails. The 600 square feet that I was currently sharing with my roommate and two other “drifters” was dark, and when I tripped on the four inch tall pull out sofa, my cheek caught me on the metal edge of the poorly padded couch arm.

A softball sized bump appeared and Carrie-like blood sent me to the emergency room at three in the morning. Seven and a half hours later, I returned home. I haven’t been the same since.
Six days ago, I stopped drinking. When my dad asked me why, I told him I was sick of it. Even in Manhattan, the city that never sleeps, I was tired, and I couldn't take my partying lifestyle anymore. So I stopped. I just stopped. 

Physically, it hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be. I am not craving alcohol like I do when I put down cigarettes for a day or two. I don't have the shakes and I’m not experiencing any hot or cold flashes. Psychologically, it hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be either. I don't want to go out and drink. I chose to stop, and I'm glad I did. Mainly, I’m just bored. I find myself with many hours that used to be filled with toting around a wine glass, that now are so still. I grasp at anything that I can to keep my nights occupied.

Emotionally, it hasn't been as easy. My mind is becoming sharper and sharper while I have more time to think, and my thoughts often rest mourning things I have lost, things that could have been. I am ironing, and I remember when my mother taught me how to press my father’s dress shirts. I tear up because I want that time back. I hear familiar laughter in the hall, and want to be in college again. A whiff of cologne smells like yesteryear's  love, and I wonder what he’s doing now. I yearn for a day that's not today.

Memories pop up unexpectedly of the worst periods of my life – harsh words thrown down the stairs in the middle of the night, a loved one sobbing on their knees in agony, watching her car drive away as a familiar voice begs her not to go. I cry because there is a book inside me that I know needs writing. I cry because I don't know if I'm strong enough to write it.

And sleeping – sleeping is the worst. As darkness falls, I am alone with myself. My insides won’t shut up and I remember how the alcohol used to hush the worry. When I do sleep, I have horrible dreams. And dreams that are the opposite of horrible, the dreams about the best times of my life. They seem so real, and these anti-nightmares are worst than their nemesis. With a nightmare, the terror stops as soon as you wake up. You can take a deep breath, realizing that it was all in your head; you are okay. With a dream that is the opposite of a nightmare, a dream that was too good yet no longer true, you wake up and realize that time in your life is gone. The loss and longing is the reality versus the illusion.

I know things will get better with time, and that the only person who can change any of it is me and me alone. I know this, but for now, I'm just getting used to feeling again.