Two Blackouts: Here and There

I.
We drank beer and played board games by candlelight. Made trips to the rooftop to watch the people stream down Broadway in the distance, using their cellphones as weak, blue-tinged flashlights to guide their footsteps.

II.
I call my parents a bit later than usual, to make sure they're okay. The phone rings longer than it should, and my heart beats faster — imagining the consequences of non-functioning traffic lights — until he picks up the phone.

"I pictured you stumbling through the dark, tripping over furniture trying to get to the phone."

"That's pretty much what it's like."

I.
I made it all the way to 103rd street before I had to take off my shoes. I walked the rest of the way home barefoot.

II.
Of all the trees that fell in the town, they say the biggest was our old pine.

I.
Gatherings at bars in the city raged late into the night, catering to the ladies and fellows who couldn't reach distant boroughs, cross state lines. We discovered our radio still had batteries in it, so we put on a Super Furry Animals CD.

II.
On day three with no power, they buy a wind-up radio, solar-chargeable batteries, and a hat with an LED light in the brim.

"Where on earth did you find those things?"

"Walgreens."

"A hat with a light in the brim?" In my head I list the items necessary for survival.

"For reading."

I.
We ate things that might go bad: guacamole, cheese, milk. We slept as far apart from each other as possible, sheets kicked onto the floor. Hoping for a breeze. When we woke up, the lights were back on.

II.
Stories feed through from those with working phones. Some streets had all their trees uprooted. I wonder which trees are gone.

I think of that big old pine.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.