Today’s soundtrack: (static)Today at 9:02am: Ironing my shirt, then deciding not to go to work. (Right decision, it turns out)



Four-Eleven P.M.

The laptop is my constant companion and good friend because when I stare at it, it always stares back. Even when the light bulbs on either side of it flickered and died, the laptop’s illuminated LCD announced its unwavering dedication.

Frowning at the lamps, I shut my good friend down and stood to investigate. My apartment was still brightly lit from the skylights, but the clocks on the microwave and stereo had abandoned me, and the A/C appeared to be taking an unauthorized break.

Opening the front door to my apartment, I was greeted by pitch-blackness; the hallway lacks skylights. I locked my apartment and felt my way down the once-familiar hallway, which was suddenly creepy in its complete lack of light.

“Rain?” I heard Yuka call, from her doorway.

“You too, huh?” I said. We went downstairs to find the diner was lit by nothing but fading sunlight.

Sticking my head out the front door of the building yielded a strange sight: In every direction, every storefront of New York that I could see was dark. The traffic lights were out, and drivers began making their own decisions at intersections.


Ex-Static

Ever since 9/11 I’ve been carrying a small, battery-powered transistor radio with me everywhere I go, pre-tuned to 1010 WINS. I turned it on to hear what sounded like a reporter crumpling a large plastic bag.

I fiddled with the dial to find all the other stations were also playing static. After slowly going through all the stations I finally found WCBS was still on...but they were talking about sports or some other bullshit.

Five minutes later they finally mentioned something about a blackout. Two minutes after they announced power was out in all of Manhattan. Queens. New Jersey. Connecticut. Detroit. And fucking Toronto.


I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream...

Sitting in my apartment with Yuka, pondering terrorism and the lack of electricity, I knew right away what we had to do: We would have to finish all the ice cream immediately. I mean it’s gonna melt, and this might be the last nice thing I do for myself.


Like Gloria Gaynor

After successfully transferring all the strawberry Haagen-Dazs from the container to my stomach, I began centralizing all my candles, matches, canned food, camping stoves, gas canisters, and backstock of bottled Gatorade. Shady came home soon afterwards and broke out the weapons. My roommate and I have a reputation for what you call being paranoid and for what we call being prepared.

Yuka went down to her apartment to sort her things out while Shady and I made ready our jump bags--all the essentials, passport, radio, socks, assorted survival supplies, etc. Ever since 9/11 we are well-stocked for both sit-tight and let’s-get-the-fuck-outta-here situations. I am psychologically prepared to roam the darkened streets of Manhattan blowing mutants away with a shotgun. Unfortunately we don’t have any so I have to make do with a serrated combat knife and the strong desire to eventually collect Social Security.


To Mock a Mockingbird

It starts getting dark by the time Mike shows up. “What’s that?” he asks, spying our jump bags.

“We just packed some essentials in case we have to bolt,” I explained. “You should do the same.”

“You’re right,” says Mike, pretending to look worried. “Let’s see. I’ll need a hairdryer, some hair gel, some exfoliant....”


Cannabalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers

As the news radio tells us, the subways are all out, cell phones are out, traffic is at a standstill, and the streets of Manhattan are flooded with stranded commuters. As the sky gets dark, we’re outside the building waiting for people to show up. Both Shady and I know people who work in Manhattan for whom we would be the only place they could go.

I’m waiting for Lam, but he never shows. Shady’s brother shows up, exhausted from a two-hour trek from midtown. Mike’s fellow photog Tommy comes by, looking like hell.

Tommy was taking the subway from 110th Street when he said the train slowed to a stop and all the lights went out. After sitting in un-air-conditioned pitch-blackness for 15 minutes, he said it began to get very hot. Eventually a conductor led everyone onto the tracks, at which point people used their cell phones as flashlights. They emerged from the long-closed and abandoned 103rd Street station, after which Tommy walked to our place, which took three hours due to the pedestrian-clogged sidewalks.

The radio reports rescued subway commuters are coming out of the sidewalks like C.H.U.D. Crawling out of manholes, sidewalk grates, you name it.


Microeconomics

The sidewalks are jammed with people walking in every direction, and the foot seems mightier than the wheel. With no working signals, car traffic is starting to get dense, hectic, and agitated. Cars are jammed bumper-to-bumper and door-to-door at all angles. Me and the fellas sit on the stoop and watch them go nowhere.

If we had any brains we woulda done what these people did: An enterprising family starts buying crates of Poland Springs at the grocery, and carries it ten feet to the curb--where they sell it to people stuck in traffic for double the price.

The grocery gets hip to what’s going on and starts raising the price of batteries, which are rapidly selling out. Nice to know people are there for you in times of crisis.

Logan shows up soon afterwards, covered in sweat and dirt; he too was in the subway. “In a situation like this, there is no place I’d rather be than at you guys’ place,” he says, asking if we have any weapons. Shady pulls a machete out of a box and puts it on the table.


The Pros of Being a Con

By 9pm the radio is saying nothing new, our apartment is hotter than Thailand and we’re starting to get hungry. Shady and I bring the camping stove and a large pot filled with water up to the roof, and he begins cooking enough pasta to feed all eight of us.

I look over the edge of the roof at a completely darkened Manhattan. The only two buildings with lights on are City Hall and Central Booking, both of which have backup generators.

“That’s so fucking unfair,” says Shady, referring to the illuminated jail cells of Central Booking. “The prisoners have electricity.” I wonder if they have A/C, and briefly contemplate getting myself arrested.


The Stars at Night, Are Big And Bright, Deep in the Heart of...Er...Chinatown

One strange benefit of a citywide blackout is that for once, I can see stars in the sky. Normally the light pollution renders them invisible, but now they peek down at me cheekily. Almost like they’re bragging, the little bastards. “Look at me. I’m a gaseous ball of energy many solar systems away, completely independent of Con Edison.”

Looking down the street I see occasional pinpoints of orange light: People here and there having cigarettes on their fire escapes. An anti-smoking sniper could have a field day out here.

Other than that, the city is creepily dark. Headlights from the occasional passing car are all you get. We make the requisite zombie-movie jokes, then Shady goes back to cooking the pasta.



Dodging Chicks

After downing the chow, the lot of us are sprawled out on the dark sidewalk in front of the building, ‘cause inside is hot. It’s still pitch-black and occasionally a few people walk by with flashlights. Police are nowhere to be seen.

“Who wants eggs?” we hear Mike yell from the window, and all of us instantly leap to our feet and sprint to get underneath an awning as Mike starts pelting the sidewalk. He almost gets Shady but a half-dozen eggs later he’s out of ammunition.

“Motherfucker,” we yell up.

“Warrrrrrrriors...” Mike starts screeching, clinking two bottles together. “Warrrrrriors...come out to playyyyyyyyyy....” (I think you have to be older than thirty to get the reference.)

Five minutes later we’re back on the curb, but a well-placed water balloon sends us back under the awning.

“Motherfucker,” we yell.

“Warrrrrrriors....”


Ghetto Dessert

Yuka and Ryo take off on their skateboards, and somehow they come back twenty minutes later with four cups of ice.

“Where the fuck did you get that?”

“Deli on Houston. Freezer is connected to car battery,” Yuka explains. “We gonna make kagiori.”

“Kagiori wa nani?” I ask.

“Shaving ice,” she explains.

Five minutes later Ryo comes down from the kitchen with a shitload of bowls and some plastic contraption that has a crank in the top. He loads the ice into it, starts cranking, and ice shavings come out. Yuka doles this into the bowls, douses each with some type of syrup, and all of us have a makeshift dessert. It’s fucking delicious and more importantly, cold.

Which is just the opposite of my bedroom. As I find out an hour later, trying to fall asleep in this heat is a miserable experience; although my bedroom is completely dark, it feels like the sun is in my hallway, floating next to the answering machine.

Another weird thing is that it’s quiet and eerily still. No subway rumbling underneath my building. This, I think, is completely barbaric.