Hurricane in Hoboken: My Story

Sorry, I’d tell another disappointed visitor on the Hoboken House Tour, the Yankee Ferry wasn’t open today. It was Sunday morning, I was doing a volunteer shift for the Historical Museum, and the nearby house boat’s owners were too busy battening down the hatches before the coming storm. (I’d never used the term “batten down the hatches” in its literal sense before.) Should we believe the hurricane hype that had built up the past few days? For Irene last year, I followed Hoboken’s suggestion to get my car off the street, and voluntarily evacuated to Clifton, New Jersey, a half hour inland. I returned two days later to a flooded basement in a darkened building, a tree limb dangling from the power lines outside my window. But, you know, not too bad. Back to work the next day.

So this year, with Sandy bearing down, I had a mix of worry and skepticism. Preparation-wise, I bought bananas, peanut butter, and grape jelly. Filled several containers with water. It would get me through the recommended 72 hours, anyway. And come on, I’m within walking distance of a million restaurants, bodegas, drug stores. I’ll be fine. The car was nine blocks from the Hudson River so that seemed OK too.

Late at night, my upstairs buddy Patrick and I moved the trash cans inside, as advised by the city, and brought our neighbor Andrea’s bike out of the basement and up the stairs. Just to be on the safe side.

MONDAY, 10/29/12

Stayed in. It was kind of ominous outside. Did a slapped-together, storm-themed internet radio show, thinking I might not have power during my usual Tuesday-morning slot. The city instituted a 6 p.m. curfew which was fine with me; I had my peanut butter. As further prep I watched all my DVR’d shows. Flipped around on the news coverage: good ol’ Ernie Anastos (KFTC!) and my hurricane honey from last year, Liz Cho. Popped in a Netflix disc that had been sitting around for a while, Margaret.

9:06 p.m., Patrick called. I don’t like phone calls when I’m watching a movie. Besides, the storm—Sandy, Frankenstorm, whatever—had “made land” on the Jersey shore a few hours earlier. Hoboken had lost power in a few spots, with downed wires from heavy winds, but I was beginning to think we’d dodged a bullet again. I told Patrick, if we can make it through maybe four more hours, we’re home free.

Five minutes later, the power went out.

Wait, just my apartment? Seemed to be light in the hall. Oh, no, just the emergency lights. Well, those work, anyway.

Is that water in the streets? Impossible. I’d just looked outside and everything was fine. It was barely raining, maybe not even raining at all. Talked with Andrea, talked with Patrick. Huh. Might as well go to bed—maybe everything would be OK in the morning. But it was hard to sleep: Wind whipping crazily and a constant symphony of car alarms. And is a five-story brick building supposed to rock like a boat?

TUESDAY, 10/30/12

Seemed calm, at least. Quiet. What time is it? Still no power and… yikes. My building is on the corner of 5th and Adams: Fifth is now a river, Adams now a river.

I checked the official Hoboken Facebook page on my phone. Another curfew, till 1 p.m., later extended to 6. Warnings not to walk in the flood water. Let’s just say it was “toxic.” Didn’t stop a whole lot of idiots from sloshing through. Some with high boots, some with plastic bags on their legs, some in bare feet. A lot of people are really, really stupid.

Our gas stoves worked, at least (using a match to start up the burner). And the running water was fine. For a midday meal I cooked my rapidly defrosting ravioli and meatballs and heated up some sauce. Sprinkled on some grated parmesan—not bad if I say so myself.

I straightened my place some. Not much else to do. I work at home, which requires electricity. Could maybe read a bit. In the early evening I stepped out on our dry stoop. Though it had gone down a little, this water wasn’t leaving real soon.

After the sun set, those of us still in the building—me, Kate, Ellen, Carleen, Patrick, and Jennifer—met up in Carleen’s apartment. We drank, we ate snacks, we laughed, all by flashlight.

WEDNESDAY, 10/31/12

Ooh I drank too much Maker’s Mark last night. Power still out, but it was looking much better outside. Still a lot of water on the corner but the streets were generally dry. Thank you, low tide. There was a call on Facebook for volunteers to help clean up the parks at 10 a.m. First I ventured to Jefferson Street, one block farther from the river, where my beloved 1991 Corolla was. The equivalent latitude on Adams Street had remained relatively dry—maybe I’d lucked out.

No tree on top of the car, at least. It looked good except for what I would come to call “reverse condensation.” So many post-Sandy cars on Hoboken’s streets had condensation on the inside, indicative of water in the interior. I’d suffered from it once years before—the seal on my trunk had given way and water was getting in, onto the back floorboards. So I knew what to look for. Opened up the passenger side front door and yup, a pool of water down there. But, it didn’t look too bad. I’d give it a day or two to dry out before trying the engine.

Went to nearby Church Square Park (which gets its name from the church featured in On the Waterfront) where I met up with Patrick. Not a very organized effort but there was a pile of rakes and garbage bags and a small group of residents pitching in. We worked for a few hours, first clearing the walkways and then the grassy areas, separating out the many fallen branches into our giant stick pile. We were joined in our section by a well-meaning but chatty guy named Ed and also a dad with some complainy little daughters (“I want the rake!” “No, I do!”). I briefly wished to still be flooded in.

A city worker came by with more rakes, bags, gloves. He was very appreciative for the help. It felt good to be outside, good to do something—anything—and the park looked pretty nice when we were done.

Patrick and I then headed to the main drag, Washington Street, in search of food. Word in the park was that Benny Tudino’s was open. Pizza would be good right now.

The mood on Washington Street was, dare I say it, festive. It seemed like I was running into everyone I know. There was Ken, soon followed by his wife Martha (a fellow veteran of the classroom-magazine wars) and daughter Alice. And hey, here’s Eddie! Big hug. Now here comes Leah! Hello Leila, and Eduardo, and Tobi. It was like we’d come out the other side, and I was really happy to see everybody.

There was a Cake Boss-length line outside Benny’s, so we continued on to Amanda’s, where we’d heard they were giving out french fries. It was my first real sense of the overwhelming kindness and generosity I’d be witnessing over and over again in the coming days. A line formed at tables set up outside the restaurant (where I’ve had a couple of very romantic dinners). Owner Eugene Flinn was out there with a guy I recognized from the Museum and a couple of other helpers. They kept bringing out food to pass out: macaroni and cheese, fries, dumplings, pulled-pork sandwiches, meatballs…. Such nice people.

Patrick and I continued uptown. Martha had told us there was a makeshift phone-charging station outside the Shipyard apartments. What a nice idea! My phone was back at the apartment on life support, connected to a spare battery charge which has proved to be a very wise purchase. Lots and lots of friends from all over the world were checking in with me, making sure I was OK, and offering places to stay. (Apparently Hoboken had received some prominent media attention in the past couple of days.) I totally appreciated their concern, but to me it seemed the worst was over and I was determined to ride it out. Plus all these supportive messages were draining my phone battery. So where was that charging station?

Making our way to the river, we saw the devastation to the marina. The boats actually seemed OK, but the wooden dock and slips had the shit knocked out of them.

We didn’t find the charging station on our first pass, so Patrick and I split up. On my way back downtown, I found three charging stations, one connected to a CNN truck.

There was much activity near City Hall: ambulances, the Red Cross, National Guard, reporters, photographers. A podium was set up for Mayor Dawn Zimmer. “We can’t hear you!” yelled someone from the crowd during her announcement. There’s no microphone because there’s no electricity, someone calmly replied.

Patrick had seen several charging stations along Hudson Street, which apparently hadn’t lost power from 4th Street up. So we headed that way in the evening, chargers in hand. We ended up inside Saints Peter & Paul Church, where there was a weird but comforting scene within. Power strips were everywhere, phones and laptops plugged in, as their owners filled the pews. And, you know, there was a lot of Jesus stuff too.

I plugged in my phone in the back of the church, and my spare charge up at the front. Patrick was sitting up there but seemed to be chatting up a pleasant young woman, so I left him be. I worked my way into a middle pew behind an impish, greying, bearded man with glasses. A couple of other people were leaning toward him for the same reason I approached: He held a portable TV in his hands. It had been less than 48 hours since I’d seen one, but it seemed like an eternity. “How did that person get inside that box?” I jokingly inquired, to the group’s amusement. We watched the news and chatted some. His name was Max. He lives in Manhattan and works in Hoboken. The coming Saturday, Max would be flying to Berlin for a conference. Not knowing how the storm would affect his ability to get from Manhattan to Newark, on Sunday he packed a bag and had been sleeping in his office since then. His tech-related work helped him accumulate many gadgets, and he was charging several of them. A clip-on flashlight he showed us helped him maneuver through his darkened workplace.

Sitting to Max’s right was Marie. Seemed like a cool lady. I find a hint of sarcasm very attractive.

The walk back to Fifth and Adams was incredibly dark and kind of scary. Well, it was Halloween after all.

THURSDAY, 11/1/12

Still no power. Seemed like a good day to dry out the car. I packed up some old towels and sheets and headed out. The water had reached up higher than I’d originally realized: The little containers between the front seats were now tiny little pools.

I opened up all the doors, DeLorean-style. Hung my toll-money dollars out to dry on a rolled-down window. Sopped up any standing water the best I could. Unloaded the contents of the trunk, two folding chairs and other assorted camping gear from a long-ago relationship. And some gag gifts from my pal Steve: a Yoda doll (is it still mint-in-box if there is condensation inside?), Harry Anderson book, Alf with damp fur.

Behind me, another guy named Ed—this one with an SUV—was trying to jumpstart the car of a guy named Joe. Joe had a sort of Jon Stewart quality to him, which I found pleasing. Ed was a bit more rough around the edges. Ed owned waders.

The jumpstart wasn’t going well. And Joe’s windshield wipers had a mind of their own. As a much newer car, Joe’s had computerized electronics that at least wouldn’t be an issue for my Corolla. Ed then offered to try my car, but that didn’t go well either. It tried to start, it really did, but never got over the hump. But I really appreciated Ed’s effort.

Now a little bummed, my walk downtown didn’t help my mood. There were so many people pumping water out of their basements, portable generators buzzing, and home after home piling ruined furniture at the curb. Mud-strewn streets and sidewalks. I hoped to see my pal Patty at Piccolo’s restaurant but they were locked up tight on a street that likely flooded badly.

Came home, rinsed out a skillet, and cooked up a previously frozen, now still-a-little-cold-so-hopefully-OK bag of shrimp scampi.

At night I headed back to the church to recharge the phone again. There were now many other places to charge—Hudson Street residents were being exceedingly kind, with power strips on extension cords at their front gates. But it was warm in the church and I dig those high ceilings. Plus maybe I’d run into Marie again.

Nope, no sign of her. The priest said they were having a 7 p.m. mass and we were welcome to stay, or we could leave our devices plugged in and return later. (My upstairs neighbor Jennifer said the priest had assured that the phones were safe and if anyone stole one they’d go “straight to Hell.”) I figured I’d let the mass attendees do their thing, and I went for a walk. I wanted to see the New York skyline, which we’d heard (on Max’s TV the night before) was strangely dark in the middle—no power between 39th Street and the Financial District. Hello, darkness, my old friend. Walking around was pretty spooky. Headlights or flashlights or a siren here and there punctured the near-silent dark but otherwise it seemed like stepping into the void. Was it even safe to venture out onto the practically deserted waterfront, out onto Pier A Park? I passed a guy walking his dog (I’ll assume it was a dog, anyway). Then I heard a voice at the end of the pier. I slowly approached and realized it was some jerkoff on a cellphone discussing his fantasy football team. So some semblance of Hoboken normalcy remained.

I headed back to Washington Street. Maybe I could snag some food before mass ended. The city had put out a call to food trucks and they had responded in force. I ordered a hot dog from the “Rolling Diner” parked outside the CVS, and got a little emotional as I thanked them for coming to town. I then proceeded to the PSE&G Command Center set up in the parking lot next to the Office Depot, down at the end of Washington Street. It was a heated tent, open 24 hours a day, with chairs, long tables, and staff on-hand to answer questions. It primarily served as another charging station, but they also offered free food, coffee, etc., and were distributing bags of ice next to the tent. And it was a nice spot to be around other people.

I thought that was all mighty decent of PSE&G. Above the call of duty, you know? It’s not like they caused the power outage. I ate a some-sort-of-luncheon-meat-and-cheese sandwich, fruit chunks, Ritz crackers with peanut butter, and drank a little carton of milk. My friend Ellen from the building was there; we agreed that drinking fresh cold milk in this situation seemed a bit on the ostentatious side.

Returning to church, I was happy to see my new pal Max again. He’s a funny guy. Still no Marie, sadly. But there was Bill! Bill works at the Hoboken Historical Museum. He is an odd bird and obviously I like that. It took Bill a few encounters before he remembered my name, so that had become a running gag. In the church, Bill had a copy of the New York Times with him. It was interesting; the printed paper initially struck me as anachronistic (fitting Bill’s persona), but I soon realized that in a power outage, a printed newspaper was definitely the way to go.

Bill is a painter. As we sat in the pew, he told me about his favorite artist, Fairfield Porter. I jotted down the name on a scrap of paper—like an animal!—for future Googling. But then Bill revealed he’d received a scholarship to an art workshop in Maine next year, run by Fairfield Porter’s daughter. Nice—a bit of light in the darkness!

FRIDAY, 11/2/12

On the Hoboken Facebook page and in text alerts, there were repeated urgent calls for volunteers. My “car day” had been depressing. So now it was almost like, well, I can’t help myself, but maybe I can help someone else a little bit. Besides, what else was I going to do all day? So I arrived at City Hall by 9 a.m. I am a night owl by nature but the power outage had screwed up my internal clock and I was now on “farmer hours,” asleep when dark, up when light.

I signed in in the City Hall lobby, on the “civilian volunteers” yellow legal pad, and headed to the cleared-out courtroom-turned-volunteer center. (I’d been in there once before, wanting to fight a parking ticket but chickening out when they said there was a steep court fee if you lost.) The assembled volunteers were told we’d be assisting with prescription meds. The local CVS and Walgreens had reopened under generator power. Residents could bring in empty prescription bottles and receive a three-day refill free of charge (I believe thanks to FEMA funding). But Hoboken has a large senior-citizen population, many in high-rise buildings which they were unable to leave. So our efforts were split in two: Some would canvass apartment buildings, gathering prescription info. Others would then deliver meds to the housebound people.

Maureen Thyne, who was leading the medical effort this morning, asked if anyone had a Hoboken phonebook (ostensibly to fill in missing details on prescriptions). Now, the early-bird volunteers were mostly college kids from the Stevens Institute of Technology, half my age and younger. They blankly stared at each other, perhaps not even knowing what a phonebook is. As a longtime resident, I sprung into action and raced back to my apartment. I had a 2009 edition for Hoboken/Jersey City/Weehawken, perhaps the last year it was printed. I also had a 2000 Hoboken-only book, courtesy of the Hoboken Reporter. But I kind of wanted to keep that one. It was the final one with my old Newark Street address in it, and I am a sentimental so-and-so. But after a brief crisis of conscience, I decided to bring that phonebook too. It would probably be easier to use, and senior citizens were likely still at the same address from 12 years ago. I took a photo of my listing in the book and rushed back toward City Hall.

Cutting through Church Square Park to get there, I was envious of people eating sausage-egg-and-cheese sandwiches on the park’s northern edge. Chef Brett Bond of Taste Event Catering, who has been backstage caterer for country-star Brad Paisley and other major tours and venues, had driven up from Maryland with his kitchen trailer. It was parked on Fifth Street across from the public library. He’d be providing excellent hot meals to whoever wanted one, at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The money was coming out of their own pockets, Bond and his wife. These are complete class acts. Such incredible heart. A quality meal can instantaneously turn around an otherwise crappy day. Brett Bond, you have my eternal admiration.

But I had no time for egg sandwiches! OK maybe if there was no line, but, no, those people queued up probably had it rougher than me anyway. I had to get back to City Hall. Wait! Who’s that in the mid-park gazebo?!? Well holy crap it’s my great friend Carol!! Eating an egg sandwich with a new friend she’d met while warming up in the church. I bounded up the gazebo steps and gave her a giant hug. Crazily, I had just tried to look up her address in the phone book, figuring I’d check in later and make sure she was OK. (Carol is a lively 76.) Well here she was and she was doing just dandy, thank you very much! I would’ve loved to chat with her more but I had to get back to City Hall!

Now, let me own up to something: I immediately had a bit of a crush on Maureen of the medical team. Ponytail sticking out of a baseball cap, she had a poise, intellect, compassion, and a sense of dedication that I responded to in a big way. I know myself pretty well and knew I would do whatever she asked of me, for as long as it needed to be done. And then would later look her up on Facebook. But not now, man, not now! There was much work to be done.

For safety reasons, they didn’t want to send out any volunteers alone. So I had three med-delivery partners over the course of the day, and it was kind of a Goldilocks/Three Bears sort of deal. First up was Liz. Liz was cool. A little older, an art teacher in the suburbs, and she runs an art collective here in town. Great sense of humor. The first building Liz and I entered was pretty dark. Well, sure, that made sense, what with the lack of windows and no electricity. I used my phone’s flashlight app to find the right apartment number. That was going to kill the battery pretty quickly. Oh well.

Liz and I delivered meds to several people but my favorite was Carmen. She was a sweet grey-haired woman on the 4th floor in a wheelchair. When we arrived with her medication, Carmen lifted up her arms and shouted out in joyful appreciation. There was a CD on her table. I first thought it was Engelbert Humperdinck but on closer inspection it was the exitos de Roberto Carlos. I told Carmen that Roberto was guapo and she laughed. We music fans have a bond.

We returned to City Hall. I was happy to see historian/author Christina Ziegler-McPherson also volunteering. (Later I’d see Bill volunteering too. I sometimes feel like I’m a collector of good people.) I had met her the first time I volunteered for the Historical Museum and it was great to see her again. Christina was concerned that, as a historian, she had no “real skills” to offer as a volunteer. (“Unless they need a lecture on socialism,” she said.) I said that she showed up to help, and that was the only thing that mattered. I ran into her again a couple of days later. Her power had just been restored, and she kindly offered use of a hot shower in her apartment. It was one of several such considerate offers I received. (Russian-accented Serena, for whom I carried a box a couple of blocks to her apartment, I still may come by and take you up on that brownie offer.) I ultimately didn’t go to anyone else’s place for a shower, but I did learn a thing or two about hot-water heaters. I guess they are pretty well insulated? The first outage shower I took in my apartment, the water was still hot. The second one was, well, warm enough. Medium, let’s say. The third was, I will not lie, cold. It was a cold shower. I was in every-other-day mode, with what I’ll call “sink showers” on the in-between days.

But back to City Hall, Friday. Our next task was to retrieve prescriptions from CVS and Walgreens, and bring them back to City Hall to be checked in and then sent out. Liz and I split up for this, and I was joined by my next partner, Helena. Now, Helena was an interesting person, don’t get me wrong. With an accent that didn’t immediately say South Africa to me. She used to live in Hoboken, and was now in Clifton, but had returned to help out. That was great. Helena had worked in the pharmaceutical field with a brief foray into wine importing (not an ideal combination of skills). Now she was unemployed. OK, I was happy to discuss all of that. But as we went out on our delivery runs, she started getting a bit too metaphysical for my tastes. She was signed up for a 21-day Deepak Chopra online workshop, and our attitude determines what happens to us, and yadda-yadda-yadda. Now, my feeling is, whatever gets you through the day is fine by me, as long as you don’t screw anybody over or force your beliefs on someone else. But just shut the hell up about it, alright? Plus I don’t like conversations that I can’t participate in. Luckily, the previous night at the church, Bill had shown me a Hoboken Reporter article that mentioned The Secret. So I worked that in for a minute or so.

On our way back to City Hall, I caught my first glimpse of the FEMA crew. They seemed awfully young but I admired their smart blue windbreakers.

More meds had to be picked up from Walgreens so I dashed out before Helena could catch up with me. (She was a bit on the large side.) There was a nice moment at Walgreens when Fernandez of the National Guard helped translate for a Spanish-speaking elderly pharmacy customer. There was so much kindness around.

Back at City Hall, I was ready to do more deliveries. Maureen insisted that I have a partner. (On a more relaxed day I would’ve brought back from Walgreens a gluten-free snack for Maureen, which I had overheard her ask for earlier.) I requested a young partner this time. “Male or female?” Maureen asked. I said I didn’t care, just somebody fast. Let me be the one struggling to keep up. And that’s when I met Molly. We had a big basket of meds to deliver so there was no time to dilly-dally. (It did seem a little weird that random-citizen me was allowed to distribute pharmaceuticals, but, you know, desperate times….)

Molly is totally cool in every regard. In my Three Bears analogy, she was “just right.” She is pursuing a master’s in acupuncture, and recently-ish married a real nice guy named Rob who I met the next day. Funny as hell, caring, and resourceful. Also had the foresight to bring a flashlight. Our second stop was a dark hallway on Bloomfield Street. We found the right apartment door, but our combined high-school Spanish wouldn’t be enough to get the task done here. A friendly neighbor jumped into action but still couldn’t get our person to open the door. We made out the Spanish words for “flashlight,” “door,” “right,” “pharmacy,” but all we heard from inside was sad cries of “¡O Díos Mio!” like Fred Armisen’s Feracito character. (OK, I found it a little amusing; I am a bad person sometimes.) We tried the next-door neighbor, who said the woman’s son would be back soon, and she would happily hold the meds till he returned. This wasn’t ideal, but she seemed like a decent sort, and we had a lot more meds to deliver. At the end of this first run we checked back and the son had returned. It was wonderful to see people pitching in, helping each other out in a time of need.

We did three med runs together, Molly and me. The second one, uptown, also had a research component. They were processing a prescription for a Mr. Lisboa and had his street address but not his apartment number. Molly and I tracked him down, up five flights and down another dark hallway. We’re good like that. The high-five I got from Sharon See of the medical team when we returned with the info made me feel like a million bucks. When Pedro’s meds came back from the pharmacy, Molly and I took them right uptown and into Lisboa’s family’s hands.

That was the last run of the day. It was getting dark. Molly and I said our farewells, exchanged numbers, and I headed toward the church to recharge my phone. (I was hoping to see Max once more before his flight, but no such luck. No sign of Marie either.) But first I needed some food; I hadn’t really eaten all day. I’d heard the Elks Club had been serving hot meals so I went in there. Pasta, ham, french fries, grabbed a bottle of water and wolfed it all down in the large darkish hall, filled with people. I was pretty beat and by the time I reached the church it was really sinking in. My face was all hot. You remember the show 24, right? I was a big fan. Some seasons had cliffhanger endings, but my favorite conclusion was season 3. It had been another long, challenging, saving-the-world-from-imminent-destruction sort of day for Jack Bauer. But he got through it. Finally, with a moment to reflect, tough-as-nails Bauer sat in his car and just started crying. And that’s kind of how I felt. Physically and emotionally spent.

Still, Jack Bauer got the call, wiped his eyes, and headed back to work. And I knew I’d do the same the next day. Besides, how else would I see Maureen again?

SATURDAY, 11/3/12

9 a.m. No Maureen. In fact, there weren’t any medical people at all yet. I decided to “hang back” a little in terms of volunteering in case the team was, I don’t know, getting gluten-free egg sandwiches or something. But, when super-competent volunteer leader Allison (a Stevens student herself) asked for people who could stay till 4, I raised my hand. I was one of five assigned to POD 4. But if I had raised my hand just a little earlier, I could’ve been in charge of POD 4. Damnit! Instead, someone named Alyssa was. OK, fine, I don’t need to be in charge, no power trips for me. I will be a good soldier.

POD stood for Point of Distribution. There were seven of them spread out around our mile-square city. POD 4 was on Fifth Street, near the library and Brett Bond’s food trailer. I wanted to say to our group, let’s turn down 4th Street and go diagonally through the park to get there faster but, hey, I wasn’t in charge. Respect authority. We were waiting for a National Guard truck which would drop off MRE’s (Meals, Ready-to-Eat) and donated items: canned goods, non-perishable foods, blankets, diapers, etc. The MREs are pretty freaking cool: Various different entrees. Slide the entree pouch into the green pouch. Fill water up to the line, close the green pouch, and voilà—it magically starts heating. There’s magnesium in there or something. So if you’re alone in the middle of the desert (or in a powerless high-rise just across the river from Manhattan), you can still have a hot meal.

As we waited, Forde—president of the library’s board of trustees—recognized me. I am a “Friend of the Library” volunteer. Could he possibly pull me away, Forde wanted to know. He needed people familiar with the library to help out. There had been water in the basement which they needed to clean up, and they had to find an electrician, and sundry other tasks. Hey, talk to Alyssa, I said. She’s in charge.

So, I was pulled away. But soon, as we toured the library’s not-horrible damage, I began to feel bad about switching crews. I mean, it’s absolutely important to get the library up-and-running again, but feeding people and keeping them warm seemed more immediately crucial. That’s what I wanted to do.

There was lot of waiting around. The medical day was much more satisfying, much more constant activity. Now, I helped open some windows in the library basement. I went to a darkened bodega on Washington Street and bought bleach to help clean the library. But when the National Guard truck finally arrived, we all helped unload (it’s fun to pass boxes down a line) and I then quietly drifted back to the POD team.

We set up the items we’d be handing out on a couple of tables borrowed from the library, and also inside a tent that the city’s Division of Cultural Affairs sent over and set up. (I kept running into Geri Fallo, who runs that division, including many of the arts and music events that are just about my favorite thing here in town. After 18 years, it took a week-long power-outage for me to actually get to know her. I can safely report that she is a real nice lady!)

I spent some time handing things out, and then swapped jobs with someone who was “guarding” the giant stack of MRE boxes outside the library. Little did I know I’d be stuck with this task the rest of the day. Hey, I’m a good soldier, but it just didn’t seem like the best possible use of my time.

Proximity to the Brett Bond trailer was a very good thing. A Nuchas empanada truck had also pulled up on Fifth Street. You could pick one empanada from column A, one from column B, and get a Coke or water, all compliments of JetBlue Airways. Sweet! I went with spicy cheese (A), beef (B), and a Coke (warm but my first Coke in many days so who cares!). And then there was no line at Brett Bond’s so I had a cheeseburger and som excellent chicken noodle soup.

As we passed the original 4 p.m. closing time, Alyssa (who was a decent person herself) wondered what we would do with the leftover MRE boxes. I volunteered to go to City Hall to find out what the dilly-o was. I like walking around, and it certainly beats standing next to boxes. On my way, I was very happy to run into Louise & Jerry’s pals Zeus, bartender Pat, and Pat’s happy little dog.

Person-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless at City Hall said that the National Guard would be coming by to pick up the MRE boxes by 6 p.m., and to not leave them unattended. (Rumor is, those meals cost $14 a pop.) I told Alyssa that if she needed to leave, I was fine watching the boxes, as I lived nearby.

She left.

I think I could’ve dealt with the boredom of guarding the boxes. At one point earlier we had to provide an accurate count of our remaining boxes, so that killed some time. (Volunteer Mark and I re-stacked them five high for easy enumeration.) Got to see Molly again, who was on peanut-butter-and-jelly duty next to the Brett Bond trailer with her husband Rob. And there were enough buddies walking by to keep it interesting: Marilyn from the Friends of the Library, Sasha a.k.a. Lord Lorax who I’ve worked on a couple of shows with, Christine on her bike who I recognized from Iris Records but told me she had just quit. Well, hell, she rode all the way to Jersey City and then was told she wasn’t needed today? That is not in the post-Sandy spirit.

The problem for me was the wind. It was, as wind can be from time to time, windy. And cold. Temperatures had been fairly moderate most of the week but I think the weather started to realize it was November. Cold would raise the suckitude level quite a bit. While sleeping in my apartment, I was OK, thanks to a new warming tip from Bill. His late stepfather, a World War II vet, said instead of piling blankets on top, to put some underneath you. By god, it worked like a charm. (Also, Ellen had loaned me a couple of blankets. And Carleen gave me a giant box of Frito-Lay snacks. And Patrick and Paige loaned me flashlights. I love my neighbors.) But right now, standing next to a pile of cardboard boxes in the chilly wind was not very much fun at all.

The arrival of Ryan, after darkness, at least mixed things up a little. Did I want him to relieve me? Well, hell no, I wasn’t going to abandon my boxes to a total stranger. But we talked. He’s a student at Cornerstone University in Michigan, studying to be a preacher. Thin fella, blue sweater, backpack. Tired-looking. He and his buddy had driven all the way—up into and across Canada, down through Buffalo—to help out. Was their second such “mission work” excursion, having also gone to Indiana after a tornado or whatever natural disasters they have in the midwest. They hadn’t really planned this trip, with confidence that “the Lord would provide.” They’d be helping with the midnight shift at the shelter beneath the Saints Peter & Paul Church. Hey, that’s my hangout!

Ryan wanted to know if he could assist me in any way. Sure, I said. The National Guard truck is coming, you can help me load it up. It was already after 6, so they might be here any minute.

Very soon, Ryan started to get antsy. He was hoping to rest up before his midnight shift. Hey, guarding cardboard boxes requires patience, Grasshopper, and patience was a virtue last I checked. I told Ryan he should head off and relax a while, don’t worry, I’d be fine. Ryan agreed, but before he left, he had an important question for me.

“Can I pray for you?”

Uh… sure, pal. Go ahead. Do whatever you like, right? “Throw one in for my car, will you,” I said, joking but not joking.

Ryan bowed his head and joined his hands in front of him, Arsenio-style. Wait, he was going to pray for me right now, in front of me? Uh, ok, whatever. He started in with boilerplate God stuff, repeating some phrases I’d just told him. (Lazy!) But then he got all Jesus-y. Now, I don’t know how far along Ryan is in his pastoral studies, but you might want to ask someone their religious preferences before dropping the Christ bomb on them. Here in not-northern-Michigan, we’re just a little more diverse.

Ryan then took off, without uttering a word for my poor Corolla. Kind volunteer Jessica grabbed dinner for me from the Brett Bond truck, and insisted I eat it in our tent, out of the wind. Brad went on box duty. Roast beef, corn, au gratin potatoes—superb. I think I ate more—and ate better—that day than I would’ve on any normal non-power-outage day.

Around 7 p.m., a police officer came by, and asked if we were ready for pickup. Uh, yes. We’ve been ready for three hours. I retook my guard post and waited. And waited. At 7:44 p.m. I texted Patrick, who was in the PSE&G tent, asking if he’d go to City Hall and find out what was up. At 7:54 he replied that a National Guard sergeant told him, “We’re putting that together now.” I kept waiting.

About 8:10, the aforementioned Person-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless came by, all out of breath. The National Guard isn’t coming, can we store the boxes in the library. Uh, yes, we can do that. We could’ve done that a long time ago. So, we moved the boxes and other supplies into the dark library. Nameless then held court, venting about his difficult day. I pretended I needed something outside and just kept walking. The bureaucracy was pissing me off. If I did this tomorrow, I would need to be POD leader. Learn from the mistakes.

But first I had to charge my phone. Back to church, arriving at about 8:30. There was music coming from inside but through the glass in the doors I could see people sitting on the floor, so I guessed, this is not mass. As I entered to the strains of “You’ve Got a Friend” (whew, secular), I noticed the pianist and boy-girl duo up front, the male singer with a guitar. They next launched into a couple of numbers by the Civil Wars. I hadn’t had enough music in my life this week. On my iPod (as that battery slowly wound down as well), I had listened to the Go-Betweens a couple of times. Have I mentioned what a fantastic group the Go-Betweens were? And then there were a few spare minutes, usually when charging, when I’d read the MOJO articles folded up in my back pocket: about Kraftwerk, and Dylan’s Desire. At home I’d read the liner notes from the Trypes’ Music for Neighbors LP, sometimes by flashlight. These were some of the only times I was thinking of anything but the hurricane and the recovery. That was pretty valuable.

The duo finished up, and we gave them a standing ovation. (She was getting a little prayerful in her comments, so it was a good time to end, from my perspective.) Taking advantage of our standing, the woman launched into “God Bless America,” inviting us all to join in. I don’t sing “God Bless America,” because Woody Guthrie hated it. The song was everywhere he went in 1940. As Joe Klein explained in the Guthrie biography A Life, “It was just another of those songs that told people not to worry, that God was in the driver’s seat.” And Woody (greatest American ever? maybe.) wrote the more pro-active “This Land Is Your Land” as a response.

So I didn’t sing. But I did turn to the woman behind me and told her she had a lovely voice.

Bill was there, great to see him again, and he introduced me to Ralph, a photographer. But it seemed like they were closing up the church. It was only 9—they’d stayed open till 9:30 or even 10:30 other nights. Ah well, I guess Sunday is a big day for them and they have to get ready.

With much charging time still needed on my phone (these smartphones take forever, don’t they? and then don’t last very long), Bill and I headed to the PSE&G tent. I have to say, walking around in utter darkness, sometimes with a flashlight, sometimes without, I didn’t really mind it. Kind of felt like I was at camp.

We met up with Patrick at the tent and had a lot of laughs. Bill praised several of the photos on Patrick’s phone (but not all of them, which showed his praise was genuine). I let Bill call a couple of people in New York who he hadn’t spoke to; Luddite Bill does not have a cellphone. There were great deli sandwiches from Hobby’s in Newark. I told the Hobby’s guy I was a fan of their old stand in the Prudential Center in Newark, when I used to go to Nets games. I am a sandwich aficionado. I also chatted with a woman whose birthday was the next day, and all she was wishing for was to wash her hair. When midnight rolled around in the PSE&G tent, we sang “Happy Birthday” to her. I think she’ll remember that one. Or I will, at least.

SUNDAY, 11/4/12

I arrived at City Hall just a little after 9 a.m. (which would’ve been 10 a.m. except for the least relevant time change of my life), but POD leaders had already been selected. Damnit once more! Nameless had been supplanted as the guy in charge (good riddance) by John of Hoboken’s Office of Emergency Management. I approached John and said, “Excuse me, I was at POD 4 yesterday, and I know you’ve already selected leaders, but I volunteer with the library so…”

John grabbed me by the non-existent lapel on my hoodie and said, “You’re my leader.” I gathered a fine crew: Vanessa, Christina, Mike, Jessica, and Erin from the day before (I deputized her against her will) and we headed out—cutting across Church Square Park to save time. Today when the National Guard unloaded, we stored everything in the library (thanks Forde) so no one would have to stand guard. John checked up on us a couple of times during the day, and gave me the phone number of Carly, intrepid inventory manager at the high school (where all the donations were stored), to let her know when we ran low on anything. Another John, who’d managed a different POD the previous day, came by to help. Anthony from Stevens and a friend of his were helping both us and Brett Bond at their PB&J table.

Ryan the Michigan missionary came by at one point and asked if my power was back and could he stay with me that night. I said my power wasn’t back, my place was pretty freaking cold, and he should probably stay at the church again. Ryan hemmed and hawed. The priest had kind of banned him. I guess the night before, ol’ Ryan got a little preachy (literally) with those taking shelter. And for the priest, that was a dealbreaker. Just because you’re in a church doesn’t mean you want that old-time religion and I’m guessing the priest understood that very well. So that soured me further on Ryan.

There seemed to be quite a lot of religion around that day. A big gang of lime-green-vested kids from the World Mission Society Church of God passed by. They didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. And then the Kabbalah crew came around. (You remember Kabbalah: The Jewish + mysticism stuff that Madonna was into some years back.) When you’re POD leader, all questions get directed to you. When the Soup Nazi’s (ok, ok, he’s “the Soup Man” now) food truck came by, they asked me for permission to park on Fifth Street. Hey, as long as you’re not blocking Brett Bond’s trailer, and you’re giving stuff out for free, you’re welcome here. (They were, but not for very long—it almost felt like more of a photo op for the Soup Man organization.) And the Kabbalah folks were sent to me too. They wanted to present me with The Zohar (wasn’t that an Adam Sandler movie?), an 1,852-page black hardcover book—”the complete original Aramaic text.” Well, OK, I accepted it, thank you very much, I will need to brush up on my Aramaic. But maybe, just maybe, a donation of batteries or flashlights might be much more helpful? Just a thought.

THe National Guard was supposed to pick up the remaining MREs by 4 p.m. They didn’t come, but at least John from the OEM kept me posted. My few-buildings-down neighbor (and another shower-offerer) Irwin Chusid cycled by. It was great to see him; he was staying in Brooklyn and I said I’d text when power was back. Brett Bond’s lunchtime macaroni with chili was quite good. Some nice folks came by with Dunkin Donuts Munchkins and hot chocolate for the volunteers—that was very kind and very welcome on another cold afternoon. By 5:30 we’d moved our remaining supplies back into the library. Texted John that I’d be happy to do it again the next day and he was happy about that. Not to pat myself on the back, but I run a pretty tight POD.

Went to the PSE&G tent to charge. I figured I’d let the church do their own thing for the full Sunday, Lord’s day and all. Walking there was a bit surreal. Power was back on Washington Street, and people were filling bars and restaurants, making it seem almost… normal. But it was a very different world just a couple of blocks away.

MONDAY, 11/5/12

Day 7 without power. Went to City Hall to get a new crew. Since it was now the work week, there were fewer volunteers around. But young Anthony had returned (a very good guy), so the two of us set out to open POD 4. We passed Ryan on the sidewalk and I didn’t even say hello. Volunteer John from the day before (also a very good guy) showed up again in time to unload the National Guard truck. (Trivia: A civilian has to be aboard a National Guard vehicle so it doesn’t appear to be a military maneuver.) New item today: Lots and lots of canned water.

Teenagers Arturo and Angel came by to lend a hand. This was very welcome, especially when we learned that Arturo could speak Spanish. (Volunteers Iris and Rosa fulfilled this important need on the previous days.)

The Brett Bond trailer was gone so we were the only game around on Fifth Street. But the day went very smoothly and by 4 p.m. we were packing up. Volunteer John bought slices for Anthony and me at Pizza Republic on Washington. Seemed a little weird to be sitting in a restaurant, lights and TV on.

Anthony offered to help again if the POD was open on Tuesday, and I said I’d text him when I knew. Then I headed home. Checked on my car; there was a flyer saying that parking regulations would go back into effect on Monday, November 12. Let’s see, I was on a Friday street-cleaning block—so that gave me a week and a half to figure out something with my car. I went up my still-dark stairs, dropped off The Zohar (which I had stored at the library overnight), then remembered I should check on Irwin’s place. So I headed back downstairs and round the corner. Some places had lights, some didn’t. The electrical grid is a baffling, byzantine thing. I texted Irwin that the buildings on either side of his seemed to have power, and that I’d check again later.

I went upstairs to grab my charger. Back to church? Maybe. But as I stood inside my doorway, I heard a noise behind me. Had missionary Ryan broken in? No, it was… the TV. The TV?!? Did I have… power?!? I had power!!! At 5:25 p.m. I texted Patrick: WE HAVE POWER!!! The hot water heater came to life. I flipped on the heat—and heat came out of the vents! Internet. Cable. Phone. I went into the hallway, the beautiful brightly lit hallway. “Is anybody home? Is anybody home?” Nobody was home. Texting. Emailing. Come home, come home. I went into my bathroom and turned on the hot faucet and hot water came out of the tap. It was miraculous. Oh, so happy. I texted OEM John. Did he need me tomorrow? He did not. I would see if they needed a hand at the high school with the remaining donations. But maybe I’d sleep in just a little. Vote, take a hot shower, think about shaving my hurricane beard.