A storm, short and fierce, knocked out the power around here for a few days. And suddenly one is deprived of conveniences and necessities probably taken for granted. I took the opportunity to try and not be so attached to them. My viewing of a documentary series about the Chicago Bulls, The Last Dance, was interrupted. Fine. My 2DS XL wasn't charged and it died after a mere hour of heroic combat with the Risen. (My fully charged 2DS served solely as a flashlight.) Fine. I could only read during daylight hours, outside, candlelight being insufficient, too harmful to the eye to risk, I felt. I worried for the books themselves. The new dehumidifier was off and, having discovered mold is a problem in the basement during the sultry New Jersey summer, they'd once more go unprotected from the blight.
Someone said it could be days before it came back.
I was at work when it hit. I'd paused to listen to the rainfall, mildly surprised that we weren't insulated from the sound. Three trash cans were placed around my area of the store where water dripped from the ceiling. The lights went out momentarily and came back, dim. A generator, located outside near the receiving area, was providing partial electricity. (The next day, passing it by as I approached the back door, the noise it made as it operated, or labored, it seemed to me, brought to mind a tarmac. I plugged one ear.)
On that first day, Miguel, my ride, didn't show. I began walking. Usually I don't expect to see many cars on the road I take but now there was a line of them. As a man drove past, he asked me if the lights were on in the store. The end of his sentence faded. He was gone before I looked up.
My brother found me and pulled over. Once I was in the car, he explained that the traffic lights were out and everything was backed up. Cones had been set up to direct oncoming cars but one driver he'd seen drove through them. I told him about how someone was in the bathroom when the lights went out and - I felt sorry for the janitor.
The power outage fell on the day Miguel and I buy our groceries, so there wasn't much in the refrigerator to eat but there wasn't much to lose either. We used a lighter to turn on the stove. I ate eggs and drank tea without oat milk. My brothers and I sat in the living room until nightfall. They discussed Paterson as I idly constructed an airboat with my nephew's blocks. I ate a second ice cream.
At night, in bed early, drifting off to sleep in deeper darkness, I thought of prison, of solitary confinement. What if you were always deprived? What if you had only your thoughts to entertain you?
An unexpected gift awaiting me at work: no music. Its absence, coupled with the near-dark, made for a solemn (some might say gloomy) mood. Which is more appropriate in the days of the coronavirus than hearing, "Celebrate good times, come on! Let's celebrate!" for the nth time. Another gift: certain coworkers, having nothing to do, were sent home. I experienced a "good time" and celebrated.
(While we're on the subject, two other songs from the coronavirus playlist at the store: The Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony" and Frankie Goes to Hollywood's "Relax.")
No electricity means no card payment. For lunch I went to a nearby Lukoil and had to pay in cash. Coronavirus-related infections and deaths continue to surge in the US. The state government order on wearing a mask was and is still in effect. A sign posted on the door says no entry if you aren't wearing a mask. The cashier, standing behind a transparent plastic screen placed only on one side of his work station, wasn't wearing a mask. I stood six feet away and waited. He asked me if I was going to step up to the register. I asked him if he was going to put on a mask. He made a show of patting himself, a show I recognized from my job, and shrugged. "Oh, I forgot to bring one. You want me to throw your change over?"
Out of respect, I won't name the band whose t-shirt he was soiling by wearing it. Running low on cash, I set aside my candy product. Someone entered just behind me. He wasn't wearing a mask and eyed me warily for a moment. I turned away sharply. The cashier spoke to him casually, cheerfully. Nothing amiss.
Our transaction was completed without eye contact and, once finished, I resolved never to go back.
Meals planned one day in advance, multiple grocery shopping trips. There were only a few bruised nectarines left. The freezer section was emptied out and blocked off with ropes and overturned grocery carts. Behind these makeshift barriers were puddles of water. Self-checkout accepted cards but didn't permit cashback.
At home: No air conditioner. Proliferation of shadows by day. A few feeble lights against the darkness by night. A vague feeling that madness could set in. Preview of society's collapse.
My sister-in-law considered crossing state lines to store the frozen meat.
For us, the power returned after a few days. Others weren't so lucky. Gradually, various stores I frequent became themselves again. I welcomed the light reservedly, appreciation tempered by a sense that there may come a day when the power goes out and doesn't return.
