SUSPENSION OF MISBELIEF

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"They live...you watch."


Episode II: suspension of misbelief.

Journal Entry 17: We’re going on Day Three. The lights, the power…all of our utilities are gone. We drank too many jugs of our water reserves in panic early on. It’s tempting—oh so tempting!—just to push a funnel under where the glass is giving out beneath the boarded kitchen window. Soon, we’ll have our chance, I do expect: the window in the bathroom has been compromised, and the wind-driven violent rain is gushing in, beating the door against the wall.
The ceiling drips, and—trembling with each howl of nature’s fury—threatens to give way and sail afar, exposing us to most certain doom. The floors are damp where there is carpet, and are slick where there is tile. The insects are all dead, and floating past our puzzled cats, spooked with every thunderclap and lightning flash above. They aren’t alone. I can feel the water rising all around outside. The levels must be rising past the door, as the air pressure has changed with this last rush of racket rumbling like a tremor past the bedroom wall—my ear forever glued to it in morbid fascination, like an ear kept to the ground, awaiting horsemen far away. The winds batter our shaken, creaking home like a cat swatting a mouse around the basement floor. When the storm surges lash out, it’s like the Pimp Hand of the Universe Itself. Each time the waves come crashing in outside, we feel this great and terrible weightlessness as if the house is rising from the ground. We know, and we wish we didn’t, that it's worse—far worse, and far closer—than we ever could imagine from inside.
The air is getting thin; these boards, this tape, that glass…none of it will hold. The cats are so afraid, unable to find shelter where the surface isn’t damp and the tiles don't give. I hope they find their spot; I’d rather we be sucked out through the roof, next surge, than have to suffocate and slowly watch them die, like all the others. Not again--even if it meant we ate another day...

Or not.

In truth, the weather was beyond serene—the best we’d had in ages. It seemed unlikely we were even due for rain, much less Apocalypse of End-Tymes Might. Hurricane Rita was coming through, and I planned to sit it out. I’d blog as long as we had power, and scribble until we had it once again. I’d make it all dramatic, I though. Afterall—I had aptly gaged the gullibility of my readership with a fantastic New Orleans tale not long ago; I could probably really ham it up for this. Hell, I might finally have some readers for a change.

I remember living in Baton Rouge when Hurricane Andrew passed through. We remained inside our boarded-up apartment for awhile, before we holed up in the inpenetrable stone fortress that was the Jimmy Swaggart Bible College dorms—God bless its cultic fortitude!. When the Apocalypse finally, truly nears, and the nukes light up the sky…I’m telling you, that place will still be standing, with the roaches as its sentinels for all of time. But to the point: sure, it was raining shingles, and several cars were overturned. I saw a tree fly past one time, but really that was it: Three days of darkness, then we waited for the water and the power to return. This took maybe a week. All in all, it really wasn’t bad. That was at least a Category 3—how much worse could this possibly get? Why should this be any different?

Besides, I was flat broke—I couldn’t afford to leave if I desired to. I had been planning to take a trip to see some friends up north this week—I had reserved a train ticket—but I knew that, once again, I would reserve my seat but only sit it out. I’d been laid off from my job for the dry fall/winter season, and I simply had no money. For my sake, I figured, this better be bullshit. Like Santa, the Great Pumpkin, Allah, and the Bunny Christ of Easter to a child, there was most certainly a will to believe—or disbelieve—working in overdrive on my part.

It’d been days since the anouncement, and I hadn’t done a thing. “Bah,” I said beneath my breath, “I know what they’re all doing. The mayor’s cleaning house…”

Since Hurrican Katrina, our island had been swamped like the mighty bayou with refugees, evacuees, and fleeing Bourbon He-She’s, each and many vast with fleas, disease, and backwashed feces, all receiving increasingly unceasing varieties and degrees of freebies, keys, and courtesies from the displeased and uneasy locals. Hotels were pressured to take them free of charge; restaurants had been browbeat into giving them free food, or at least being less rude than was the custom in this town. On top of all of this, these imported persons of Sudden Import, were now competing for the few jobs that could be had there—the Mexicans were so pissed off at the competition, that many of them left. On an island that, quite frankly, had become dependent on illegal labor for more than tasty tacos and clean dishes, this came as a bigger blow than anything Linda Lovelace had delivered. Our economy was slipping in a slick of shit. So when the mayor called for evacuation—and specified that refugees from Katrina need leave first—it seemed all too obvious what this was really all about.
No hurricane had seriously threatened us in nearly twenty years; and nothing had done true damage since the Big One long ago, in 1900. We were perfectly safe, I reasoned—cruel and crappy as it was, our local government simply wanted all the poor folk gone. I had every reason to be cynical—the natives were. They were all angry about the refugee situation, murmuring in sullen choirs; some were even mumbling that we had acquired “bonus negroes.” Bonus or not, the final round was upon us all, and in our coldness, we didn’t even know.

All those jokes we told about Florida—our Nation’s windbreaker, and buffer for all storms—were coming back with “friends.” But hey, with “ravaged” being the official state adjective, and the vulture soon to be it’s new state bird—not to mention Jeb Bush out jibbering on about unleashing mystical Oriental warriors like he has Hal Jordan’s ring, and could transform into the Green Lantern at any hour should the Liberals give him any fuss…while his daughter, Noel, dreams of all the crack she’ll smoke one day in Lincoln’s bedroom…Florida needs every friend that it can muster. And really? So would I.

Some time had passed; it was two days or so before the storm arrived. The locals had surprised me—even the diehards (who swore this was a sham...that they’d never leave), were leaving in vast droves, like lemmings off a cliff. Rita was now a Category 4. “How bad is that,” I asked a fleeing neighbor, “really—just how bad?”
She shook her head… ”A Category 3 would flood up past your roof,” she told us, compounding our grief with every added detail. She went on: “You’re too close to the water—if it doesn’t tear the roof off, your house would still completely be submerged. That’s a Category 3.” She shoved another box into her truck, like an oily dwarf into her belching rectum. “But this supposed to be a ‘4,’” I somewhat whimpered, “What will that be like, then?” She looked a little cross, as if her friend’s retarded nephew asked about the penis on her dog.

“A ‘4’ is like the storm of 1900. It would completely submerge the island--and with the 20 ft. storm surges, and 120mph winds, there really won’t be too much left of the ground itself. These houses will be gone,” she said solemnly, as she took time to light a cigarette, “and really, my money is that it turns into a ‘5’ before tonight. That’s what MSNBC was saying. They say it’s going to be a ‘5.’ That will actually destroy the entire area. There won’t be anything left of anything. The island as a land mass will be ripped apart, and swept into the gulf.”
“I see. Thank you.” I hurriedly ascended the stairs inside, and went staight to a Google search. I felt lucky only once, and then I never would again. The old hag was right—we were fucking doomed. I felt like I had Magic Cancer, damned by HMO with only two days left to live. Every news network was on it, and they all sang the same song: “Doom doom doomy doom doom, doomy doom doom doom.”
CNN said that it would be a Category 5 for sure, and FoxNews said the same—albeit, they somehow blamed it on the Democrats. Still, Truthout had five articles by nightfall which linked Rita and Katrina to the Bush Administration. It was then I was enlightened: All of them were idiots, left and right alike—politicizng death from safe suburban homes and mountain towns, where they themselves will never die...placing blame for pain, from places far away, where hurt will never reach them. I swore to myself right there I would survive…if just to deliver that hurt and death to them one day in person or in writing, like a pizza from Charles Bronson, in a box marked “Bill O’Reilly—extra sausage,” and “Al Franken—pepperoni.”

So how would we get out? My girlfriend had a plan to catch a ride to Houston with her folks; but really, I’d rather surf the waves of my demise than spend 25 minutes with her dad. Were it left to my devices, I would leave him in his attic with a gun and one bullet, and a rusty can of beets. He would not get a can opener. And he'd only get one bullet, because his hands are getting shaky now, and swollen. He would aim at his own head, and miss. And as he slumped down on the floor to slowly starve, in bitter resignation to fate, those beets would still be there, unopened…mocking him. That’s how I would like to see him go: Broken, starving, out of bullets…and mocked in his final moments by a goddamned can of beets.
OK…so I’m not traveling with him. Besides, they plan to go to Houston, and if it really is a ‘5,’ then Houston’s going to suck like so many Black Hole singularities in space. Houston would not be spared. Now, my girlfriend is resourceful, and I’d trust her to survive no matter what—even if it meant slitting her mother open down the middle, and crawling inside for warmth like a Ton-Ton on a cold Hoth night. So…

Wait…I had a train seat reserved. I checked my reservation…it left less than a day from Certain Doom. I’d need to be at the bus station in sixteen hours, to be taken to a town that had a train. Money aside, there was an issue; FEMA wanted those buses ready to move the whole town out at six, to Huntsville, AL—which, really, might be worse than death…if they even left at all (Note: After the fact, I would be vindicated here, as it was my understanding that they didn’t move an inch…) It dawned on me that they might not recognize my reservation in this emergency. I needed to make a phone call...
I argued with a man on the phone, squealing like a man inside my head. “We can’t justify that bus, sir—there’s only maybe four folks even confirmed to ride it. We’re not sure if we should take a bus from the evacuation for such a small handful…I’m sure you understand…maybe you could hop the bus to Huntsville later on…”

Deep inside my rotten, wormy heart, I knew FEMA would fail us. Those buses wouldn’t make it out; and if they did, so what? Who wants to be in Huntsville, live or dead? It was time for some creative haggling. In retrospect, what followed now seems utterly impossible. I suspect it was the conviction of the telling, rather than the veracity of lie, that saved my ass. I’m really still amazed. All I can say is, thank God for people who aren’t paid enough to care…

I began explaining that I was with the news media (wink wink, nudge), and could easily produce a press pass if need be… (smile…it was an old Ozzfest badge) Our van with all the cameras could be seen on the TV... (Of course—yes, right! If you had sattelite..) The van had to stay there, for constant coverage; so I had to get to Houston, for supplies… (The smug grin widens…) There might be grave consequences otherwise—a news journalist left behind by inefficient public transportation? A citywide embarassment, I would say! The mayor should just love this sort of press… It could very well result in his job, if he defied me … (Dear God, how can I hold the laughter back?) I put on quite a show, really.
And then the coup de grace, which I myself could not believe I got away with (and still cannot to this day): I convinced him that the hurricane was no big deal, really; it was just a ploy by “the Man” to push the underpriveleged out—in fact, that was what I was covering! (Yeah—that’s the ticket!)
That last one was totally gratuitous—I probably had what I needed already—but to my surprise, he took the bait! He actually fell for it. “You know, you’re probably right, sir,” he replied, “and dang it, I’m sure there will be other reservations by tomorrow morning… You’re right—I’m definitely not going anywhere now…” (Oh Jesus, I’m going to hell…)
“Oh well,” my sinister side confided deep within, “not only do you get out safely, but there just might be an opening at the station when you return…” Double-score!

My house was about to be demolished, like the intergrity of the Bond franchise without Pierce Brosnan. We had dismantled the wooden fence, and used the planks to board the windows…but really, would it matter? We were screwed, and about to be throttled harder than an overweight ten-year-old who accidentally stumbled into a dwarf-tossing competition. I never wished so hard for a moving van in my life, pregnancy scares aside.
My train reservation said that I could only take what I could carry; basically, that meant a spindle of CD’s, two paperbacks, a porno, and my balls. Oh wait…I still needed clothes. Damn. Okay…clothes, then CD’s, then balls… This wasn’t going to be easy by any means. I had thousands of irreplacable books and CD’s…plus a vintage 80’s horror film collection—literally 1500 videos and posters, with full cheesy, offensive box art included. How do you choose what gets to go? I had spent a lifetime collecting these things…and poof!…they would be gone, floating out to sea to pervert God’s noble dolphins.
My ladyfriend took the cats—the children, you know—and whatever else I swore in obtuse rage that I would never forgive her for were she to leave behind….basically everything. I had a heavy bag indeed when I was finished…it was one bag…but it was hardly anything I could carry. There was something I was supposed to learn here, I suppose. Something deep, I imagine. Yup…it’d probably be really Zen or some such… Yeah…any day now, I am certain. It’ll come to me, I know.

In all this madness, I never once stopped to think about how I might pay for this glorious trainwreck of a trainride once I got there. You see, I was being bussed from the island to a place way out in Northern Texas called Longview—a six hour bus ride to catch a train. Without a credit card, I would have to pay for my ticket at the station (hopefully not the old fashioned way...), a hundred miles from anywhere. If the ticketbooth was closed (or all the tickets sold), by the time we finally got there, I might be fucked and stranded, raped and freexin’ in the desert wind, whether I had the cash or not. To this end, I was uncertain. We scraped up every dollar that we had; the phone company had foiled us with their timing, and after all pennies were rolled, I had exactly $113. I seemed to remember the ticket being something like that…um…uh, roughly... I guess I would find out, eh?

We made it through nightmarish traffic to the depot just in time. Our voices choked to silence, my girlfriend tearfully dropped me off at the closest curb. We both knew what we had to do to make it. There is a look that lovers give when they are about to part, perhaps for good. It’s like a parent gazing at their starving child—wishing they could feed them, though they can’t…and unsure of just whose suffering is greater in the end.
It was a long kiss, like goodnight, except forever. We didn’t really know. Neither of us had been alone in many years; and we would live because it might seem strange to die apart, even though we didn’t always get along. The cats—our children—mewed in sorrow, in distress. Cars honked impatiently behind us; but we were the only two individuals who existed at that time. Some punk started bumping us to move. If we weren’t afraid of being stranded on the island, we contemplated backing into him. But he wasn’t worth it, not today. She closed the door, and hightailed it into Houston before she lost her chance to traffic on the bridge. I dragged my baggage like a boulder to the gate, and shuffled in.

An aging black man hoisted my heaving travel bag into the baggage compartment of the bus. He grimaced at its weight and heft. “Wow, I hope there’s room…Some guy’s supposed to be here with the news or something. I reckon he’ll have lots of cameras and stuff to pack down here…” I smiled, and nodded. I got on board, and promptly ducked, in hiding...seeking in vain to dodge the angry lightning from Above.

The bus idled for hours. It stalled like every hope and dream I’ve had. What in the hell of any faith that had one were we waiting for? I was nervous, sweating bullets—sweat is only pee before its pissed; and I knew I’d never need to piss for days. Finally, the driver shook his head, and closed the door. “Well, we can’t wait here any longer. Traffic’s gonna kill us as it is…” He started his routine, as the four—count ‘em, FOUR—passengers settled slowly in their seats. People were scrambling to escape across the island, and here I was on a bus with just four people. Yeah…I’m going to hell.
“I just don’t get it,” I overheard the driver say. “It shows we’re all accounted for, but I was positive that some big newscaster was supposed to be here, too. I wonder where he is? Oh well, we waited…” I couldn’t tell if they were messing with me…but I was keeping my head down, just the same. And it was the smartest move I made during this trip.

The traffic off the island was obscene, but I figured it would move. I was unsure of my destination, but it seemed the worst was over. Uneasy and exausted, I drifted off to sleep. I awoke six hours later.

We were less than ten miles from where we started.

I looked out the window to a grievous shock…it was a blinding, smokey encampment all around us…sunlight glistening off a thousand windshields to mock the driver next to catch its light. We were drowning in an ocean of our fellow man, and his machines. Bumper to bumper, anger to sorrow, faint hope to desperation all around…we were trapped in what would be a legendary traffic incident, the Evacuation Gridlock. Cars moved at one and two miles an hour, maybe less. They honked, and vast throngs swore. It was like a scene out of the Road Warrior. It was disheartening, yet amazing, all at once. Vehicles of all sorts for as far as the eye could see, and not a single one blessed with movement, but for an inch or two when fortune had its way. It was like trying to get served at Denny's.
People got out of their cars, to frolic and to fight, to eat, to drink, to fuck. It wasn’t like a cop could pull you over. People traded gasoling for cigarettes and food; though often, it would be the opposite way around. It was an Ocean of Steel. And it would remain that way for hours yet to come. It was the irony of escaping into nothing. We were on the road to nowhere…and we had reached it long before we had arrived.


TO BE CONTINUED…


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