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!”