Post-Apocalyptic Hurricane Blues

It was hot and people stood in long lines to buy water and then sat in even longer lines to buy gasoline. Everyone looked angry a lot. In this way, last Thursday came and went.

After that, people didn’t go to work. They boarded up all their windows, tied down the dog in the back yard, and watched Geraldo Rivera on the television almost get sucked out into the Gulf of Mexico. By this time, Friday was drawing to a close.

Not sure of what else to do, some of us gathered at my house and watched the tree branches get whipped around by the ever-increasing winds. Through the sliding glass doors, we watched civilization take a vacation and Chaos come.

This was in the very early hours of Saturday morning.

This was a truly wonderful fucking turn of events.

I like Chaos. I admit this to you. It strengthens me. On Saturday, when I awoke, I could smell it in the air. The scent of Chaos. Anarchy. Beautiful, utter confusion.

I awoke in between two men I barely knew who were both much too too young for me. In my role as Hurricane Hostess, you see, I was (naturally) in charge of sleeping assignments, and somebody obviously had to guard the two strapping young lads from the evils that might befall them in the bed of another, less virtuous, lady than myself. In times of Chaos, concessions must be made, after all. I was willing to do my part.

On Saturday, everything outside was moved around. The roof shingles that used to be up there were down here now. In the streets where once rode shiny automobiles, now there was only water and broken glass. That tree? You know the one: that one that always looked so… so vertical? It was lying down now due to all the Chaos and such.

My fence ran away from home and I have yet to find it.

All in all, the situation was much like Jesus describes the last days in the Gospel of Matthew: “No phone / No lights / No motor cars / Not a single luxury / Like Robinson Crusoe / As primitive as can be.” I can’t be sure that’s the preferred translation from the original Greek, but you get the picture.

A friend of mine put the whole bunch of us up at some business suite residence inns he owns near the Houston Medical Center. It was almost the only place in town with electricity. We moved in and for a while watched politicians on the television point their fingers at one another about where the food and water was. This was Saturday.

Three large groups of people were staying at those residence inns: 1) the families of the hotel employees; 2) the Oakland Search and Rescue Team (accompanied by a pack-and-a-half of cadaver dogs); and 3) my assorted, heavily-armed motley crew and their associates, many of whom lacked any form of discernible housing even before the hurricane.

As could have probably been foreseen, the Chaos increased. People wore eye patches for no reason and Kevin Costner processed drinking water out of his own urine. This was Sunday.

Social conditions at the hotel deteriorated to a point where most of the employees and their families fled back to their homes. They huddled inside their houses – now moldy and bereft of electricity, running water, and cable TV – and they tried to forget what they had witnessed at the hotel. This was Tuesday.

We were now theoretically – and probably only theoretically – in control of the hotel.

Harry played poker with the Oakland Search and Rescue Team. Weapons were drawn, lots of cash got dumped in my room, and then Harry disappeared. He might be beyond the reach of even our best-trained cadaver dogs now. Time will tell. This was Wednesday.

I stood on my balcony, surveying my domain. Wyatt, my bedmates from Friday night, and my twin legal assistants appropriated a giant barbecue from the Kroger Grocery next door. Amidst the Chaos, the smoke smelled of human flesh and mesquite.

I looked down again. I saw my friend, the legal owner of this fine establishment, walking towards me. This surprised me a little bit, because my friend does not live in Houston.

I lit a cigar.

ME:                  “This place is supposed to have wireless internet. I was lied to.”

FRIEND:         “Is that why you’ve set up your own little fiefdom with this as your base of operations?”

ME:                  “Probably. I’m addicted to the internet, but it does keep me out of trouble.”

FRIEND:         “I’ve been getting a lot of complaints about some of your… guests.”

ME:                  “People are whiny wimps with nothing to do but complain.”

FRIEND:         “Most of the complaints have come from the Oakland Search and Rescue Team.”

ME:                  [Handing FRIEND a cigar as he joined me on the balcony.] “Oh! Speaking of them, when are they gonna leave town? I think they might have kidnapped one of my friends…”

FRIEND:         [Watching a flock of winged demons devour a small child in the courtyard.] “Okay, Adri? I told you that you could stay here for free for as long as you needed to. Until your house was back to normal. And I stand by my word. But… the world out there is getting back to normal now, and things seem to be going downhill in here.”

ME:                  “I know. Ain’t it great?”

FRIEND:         [Shrugging and walking away.] “Good God, woman. You’re still in heels at 11 o’clock at night? I swear, you’re going to show up to the Apocalypse in high heels.”

ME:                  “I thought I already had.”

This was Thursday.