Thursday, August 21, 2003
Escape from New York - a blackout story
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis
Ciau, Bruno:
Thursday’s blackout that you heard about at breakfast time in Melbourne occurred here at 4:11 PM. I was concluding a discussion with a company lawyer when he announced: “My lights just went.” “So did mine…let’s hope it is not what we fear, “ I affirmed, and we parted abruptly.
My office mates were already out of their cubicles, looking for a battery-driven radio. One was found, and the best reception turned out to be at the east windows of our 21st Floor , overlooking NY harbor and Pier 11, since 9/11 a busy ferry terminal. People were pouring out of the buildings on Water Street, and the New Jerseyites could be seen racing to the ferry line
As the puzzled radio people slowly determined that this was an eight state brownout (ha!), involving 50 million people, my colleagues quickly called home and departed. I had chosen to stay until the crowds thinned, just until before the dark, and look for a #1 bus at its origin, the Battery. That was on the offchance that electricity would be restored, sparing me a 24-floor climb at home. The radio people sounded upbeat, and Mayor Bloomberg offered hopeful thoughts about our ability to cope. Indeed, at seven PM one elevator in the building was restored and I rode down in comfort.
The street scene was less hopeful.. The Battery was mobbed, but someone opened the back door of a bus, and I squeezed in, happy to find a standing spot, but feeling guilty for not paying the fare (actually, the MTA supplied the service free). The vehicle took off promptly, passing the resigned people waiting at the next two stops, only to be held forever, or so it seemed, at South Street Seaport, moving two inches at a time. It was getting dark, but the streets were full of wandering people, ghosts or suddenly surfacing silhouettes backlit by car beams. A few lonely cops directed traffic, making the journey faster, but the dark was spooky. We seemed to be moving through strange territories. People kept rechecking their cell phones, to feel safer. Exchanging confidences was natural. Our lead communicator was a woman who sat forward, peering intently through the dark, occasionally shouting out a street name while we conjectured about our location.
When we reached Astor Place, I started inching forward, offering apologies. Upon exiting, Union Square looked strange, sort of like the broken city landscape in the post-apocalyptic disaster movies of the 1980s. Some people had a fire going on the sidewalk, one could envision a small animal being roasted. A shabby peddler offered cigarettes from a suitcase, in broken cartons, any brand for five dollars. Only upon reaching the orderly, emergency-lit W hotel, and seeing the diners at Olives feasting by candlelight, I began feeling at home.
At the corner of East 17th Street and Irving one saw chatting groups on the left, around a bare-chested figure lit by a motorcycle beam, pouring drinks. It was Tony Macagnone, owner of Sal Anthony’s. He waved, and offered white wine or ice water, which he had been pouring since 4:30, treating neighbors. That we are a neighborhood was evident at every doorstoop. People gathered and offered remarks, sidewalk squatters apologized for being in the way.
At 3rd Avenue there was another crowd waving tall beerbottles, at Tivaru.. As I stopped to explore, the immense bouncer offered to treat me, and fetched a Bud. I thanked and suggested the mention of his largesse in print, which he waved off, in horror. But the beer was a welcome treat for the impending climb of the 24 floors to our aerie, in the company of a tiny candle, supplied by the building’s staff – the emergency lights in the stairwells had faded out.
Next morning the building’s hallways and stairwells were in total darkness, not a sound emerging. People were listening to their emergency radios and waiting for the electricity to return. The Mayor no longer sounded as hopeful, the 90 degree heat was becoming obsessive and we decided to escape, cats and all, to the North. Albany area had had electricity since before the nightfall.
Walking to the garage on Avenue C, one got to observe how people coped. The water supply in the building towers exhausted, many had to fetch drinking water from the fire hydrants, opened to a trickle. The supermarket in Stuy Town had a line of shoppers outside; only four shoppers were allowed in at a time, to shop by flashlight. Any markets that were open had to accept cash, calculated the old-fashioned way. At pay phones queued people whose cell phones had died. Most small shops were closed, except for the three 99-cent stores, offering flashlight batteries, sodas and water on card tables in front of their doors, at regular prices, to their honor. I took along two bottles of elegant Dasani water, two for $1. Having arrived at the garage, I realized that the attendants laboring in the dark deserved them more than I did. That seemed like a good idea, and I u-turned, on empty 14th Street, to fetch a bagful more, some of which went to the perspiring cops, directing traffic while standing in the middle of crossings on First and Third Avenues, and the rest to my building’s lobby, where the janitorial people had been on duty since the previous day, helping both the able-bodied and infirm. That made us feel better about escaping hot New York while everyone else was sweltering. Although, one must say, that was a risky task, and I loudly cheered the first traffic light of the route, at Bruckner Expressway and Bronx River Parkway.
Bruno B. is the author’s schoolmate, a retired executive who lives in Victoria, Australia.
Ciau, Bruno:
Thursday’s blackout that you heard about at breakfast time in Melbourne occurred here at 4:11 PM. I was concluding a discussion with a company lawyer when he announced: “My lights just went.” “So did mine…let’s hope it is not what we fear, “ I affirmed, and we parted abruptly.
My office mates were already out of their cubicles, looking for a battery-driven radio. One was found, and the best reception turned out to be at the east windows of our 21st Floor , overlooking NY harbor and Pier 11, since 9/11 a busy ferry terminal. People were pouring out of the buildings on Water Street, and the New Jerseyites could be seen racing to the ferry line
As the puzzled radio people slowly determined that this was an eight state brownout (ha!), involving 50 million people, my colleagues quickly called home and departed. I had chosen to stay until the crowds thinned, just until before the dark, and look for a #1 bus at its origin, the Battery. That was on the offchance that electricity would be restored, sparing me a 24-floor climb at home. The radio people sounded upbeat, and Mayor Bloomberg offered hopeful thoughts about our ability to cope. Indeed, at seven PM one elevator in the building was restored and I rode down in comfort.
The street scene was less hopeful.. The Battery was mobbed, but someone opened the back door of a bus, and I squeezed in, happy to find a standing spot, but feeling guilty for not paying the fare (actually, the MTA supplied the service free). The vehicle took off promptly, passing the resigned people waiting at the next two stops, only to be held forever, or so it seemed, at South Street Seaport, moving two inches at a time. It was getting dark, but the streets were full of wandering people, ghosts or suddenly surfacing silhouettes backlit by car beams. A few lonely cops directed traffic, making the journey faster, but the dark was spooky. We seemed to be moving through strange territories. People kept rechecking their cell phones, to feel safer. Exchanging confidences was natural. Our lead communicator was a woman who sat forward, peering intently through the dark, occasionally shouting out a street name while we conjectured about our location.
When we reached Astor Place, I started inching forward, offering apologies. Upon exiting, Union Square looked strange, sort of like the broken city landscape in the post-apocalyptic disaster movies of the 1980s. Some people had a fire going on the sidewalk, one could envision a small animal being roasted. A shabby peddler offered cigarettes from a suitcase, in broken cartons, any brand for five dollars. Only upon reaching the orderly, emergency-lit W hotel, and seeing the diners at Olives feasting by candlelight, I began feeling at home.
At the corner of East 17th Street and Irving one saw chatting groups on the left, around a bare-chested figure lit by a motorcycle beam, pouring drinks. It was Tony Macagnone, owner of Sal Anthony’s. He waved, and offered white wine or ice water, which he had been pouring since 4:30, treating neighbors. That we are a neighborhood was evident at every doorstoop. People gathered and offered remarks, sidewalk squatters apologized for being in the way.
At 3rd Avenue there was another crowd waving tall beerbottles, at Tivaru.. As I stopped to explore, the immense bouncer offered to treat me, and fetched a Bud. I thanked and suggested the mention of his largesse in print, which he waved off, in horror. But the beer was a welcome treat for the impending climb of the 24 floors to our aerie, in the company of a tiny candle, supplied by the building’s staff – the emergency lights in the stairwells had faded out.
Next morning the building’s hallways and stairwells were in total darkness, not a sound emerging. People were listening to their emergency radios and waiting for the electricity to return. The Mayor no longer sounded as hopeful, the 90 degree heat was becoming obsessive and we decided to escape, cats and all, to the North. Albany area had had electricity since before the nightfall.
Walking to the garage on Avenue C, one got to observe how people coped. The water supply in the building towers exhausted, many had to fetch drinking water from the fire hydrants, opened to a trickle. The supermarket in Stuy Town had a line of shoppers outside; only four shoppers were allowed in at a time, to shop by flashlight. Any markets that were open had to accept cash, calculated the old-fashioned way. At pay phones queued people whose cell phones had died. Most small shops were closed, except for the three 99-cent stores, offering flashlight batteries, sodas and water on card tables in front of their doors, at regular prices, to their honor. I took along two bottles of elegant Dasani water, two for $1. Having arrived at the garage, I realized that the attendants laboring in the dark deserved them more than I did. That seemed like a good idea, and I u-turned, on empty 14th Street, to fetch a bagful more, some of which went to the perspiring cops, directing traffic while standing in the middle of crossings on First and Third Avenues, and the rest to my building’s lobby, where the janitorial people had been on duty since the previous day, helping both the able-bodied and infirm. That made us feel better about escaping hot New York while everyone else was sweltering. Although, one must say, that was a risky task, and I loudly cheered the first traffic light of the route, at Bruckner Expressway and Bronx River Parkway.
Bruno B. is the author’s schoolmate, a retired executive who lives in Victoria, Australia.
# posted by Wally Dobelis @ 4:49 PM 
