Hurricane Party

I started writing this the night after a hurricane came through my area, isolating the small town where I live by flooding all the access roads. Learning over the next several days about the loss of life in this town alone and the personal and business financial hardships the flooding caused made me take a long break. It’s not a tasteless pun when I say the whole muddy mess dampened my enthusiasm for the story.

Months have passed. The damage, for the most part, has been cleaned up. Now, it’s time for a hurricane party.

* * * * * * * * * *

The only thing that kept me from beating someone’s face in at work that day was the complete absurdity of it all. I manage a large do-it-yourself home improvement supply store. A hurricane was churning up the coast, and people were going insane with their over-preparation for the storm. The media’s “public service announcements” warned of Armageddon. The official forecast called for heavy rain with some river flooding. That happens some times. Usually the storms don’t have names. This one did.

Fear-mongering sells papers and air-time, so the local media outlets have gone nuts. “Buy ice! Get bottled water! Stock up on food! Buy flashlights and batteries! It’s the end of civilization as we know it!”

A hurricane that came through here when I was a child killed a family trying to cross a flooded bridge down the hill from my parents’ house. Right after I finished college, another hurricane turned some towns around here into islands for a few days.

Funny thing. Except for people who tried to drive through rushing water or who insisted on going back into their flooding homes to save one more thing, no one died. No one starved to death. No one was blown away. No levee broke. We’re north, inland, and uphill. And yet, people panic. It was like a feeding frenzy in a school of sharks at my store.

One customer was having a panic attack because we were out of plywood. “What can I do? What can I do? You have to sell me plywood!”

“I’m sorry, sir. We’ve out of plywood,” I said.

“What about flake-board?”

“The last skid went about an hour ago.”

“Particle-board?”

“All gone.”

“Get more!” he yelled.

“It’s been ordered.”

“When will it get here?”

“Some should get here Monday, sir. We have six trailer-loads of plywood, flake-board, and particle-board coming.”

“The hurricane will be here tonight! What am I going to do?”

“Sir, this far inland, you don’t need to board up your windows.”

“Don’t you tell me what I need to do! Are you implying I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Sir, I would hate to see you waste money and cause cosmetic damage to your house to guard against a threat that doesn’t exist.”

“I’LL MAKE SURE YOU GET FIRED! I NEED PLYWOOD, NOW! I WANT TO SEE YOUR MANAGER!” the customer shouted.

“I’m the manager.”

“GET ME THE DISTRICT MANAGER!”

“I’ll give you the number for the corporate complaint department.”

“Will they bring me plywood?”

“No, sir. The complaint department is in California. They will investigate your report and take disciplinary action as required.”

The moron was practically in tears. “Why don’t you have plywood?” he wailed.

I was very proud of myself. I didn’t smack him, and I didn’t laugh. “Sir, certain irresponsible media outlets are making the threat from this storm out to be more than it is. The major weather services are calling for us to have heavy rain and some flooding, but minimal winds, nothing more than the gusts we get once or twice a year from thunderstorms.”

“But I need to board up my windows!”

“Where do you live?”

“Serenity Hills. Why? Are you going to deliver plywood to my house?” he asked anxiously.

“If you live up there, I doubt you’ll need to do anything special to weather the storm.”

The guy gave me a disdainful look. “Maybe you don’t care about keeping your family and your possessions safe, but I do!”

“Sir, you’ll do more damage to your house screwing plywood to your window frames than the storm is likely to do.”

“But what about the storm surges?” he shouted.

“This store is a hundred miles inland and five hundred feet above sea level, and you live on a ridge above us. I’m not sure storm surges from the flood in the Bible hit there.”

“You don’t know that! I want to be prepared!”

A fool and his money are soon parted. “Probably, you could use pressure-treated deck boards, sir. We still have racks of those left, but they’re all one and five-eighths inch premium select grade.”

“So they’ll be good and strong? Now you’re talking!”

An hour later, I was amazed at how much expensive lumber this moron and I managed to fit in, and on, his Mercedes SUV. Armed with enough top-of-the line tools and fasteners to start a construction business, this foolish homeowner left to secure his castle. I was tempted to sell him a roll of aluminum foil to make hats for him and his family, but I was afraid he’d buy it.

By the time I locked up the empty store and drove home, I was exhausted. Doing this work keeps me in shape, but even with all the heavy lifting I had done today, I knew I’d be okay in the morning. That’s not what wears me out. It’s the emotional strain of keeping myself and my staff from hitting obnoxious customers with a sledgehammer.

This was my weekend off. On Monday, the trucks would roll in, and we would face the Herculean task of re-stocking the store. I called my second-in-command, the acting manager for the weekend, to tell him what happened.

“Jake?” I said when he picked up the phone.

“Hey, Harry!”

“Have fun tomorrow and Sunday,” I chuckled.

“Buying panic?”

“That’s an understatement. There isn’t a sheet of plywood, flake-board, or particle-board left. We’re out of generators and flashlights. Picnic coolers and ice-packs ran out this morning, there are no more grills or camp stoves, no charcoal or propane – you name it, if it would have any usefulness at all in a disaster, it’s gone.

“Damn!” Jake said. “What will we do tomorrow?”

“Before I left, I grabbed some cans of fake snow from the Christmas supplies we just got in and wrote on the front windows, ‘Out of everything. Sorry.’ I think you should only open the main door and get your biggest guys to stand guard against the mobs. It was crazy today. One asshole even bought deck boards to cover his windows.”

Jake laughed, “I’ve been watching the news. The talking heads are ranting on about the Apocalypse, but real meteorologists say we’ll only get rain. Are you prepared for the storm?”

“Yup. Bought a bottle of sippin’ whiskey on my way home. That’s the supply I’ll need most over the next couple of days,” I laughed. “Oh, and if you need me tomorrow?”

“Tough shit.” Jake said.

“Right. Have your people do major housecleaning.”

“Oh sure, you wait until your weekend off so I have to be the bad guy making everyone do shit jobs. Classy move, Harry.”

“As General Manager, I’m delegating responsibility to you, buddy. Run with it.” My phone beeped. “Hey, gotta go, getting another call,” I said.

“Enjoy your days off, and stay dry,” Jake laughed as he hung up.

“Harry?” my new caller said.

“That’s me.”

“What are you doing, you old fart?”

“Not much, Ben. I just got home from getting my ass kicked at work.”

“People are nuts, aren’t they?” Ben asked.

“Guys from that gated community up the road from the store are boarding up their windows!” I said.

“Why?”

“More money than brains. Our siding contractors will make big bucks repairing the damage these idiots do,” I said.

“Wanna get a drink?” Ben asked.

“Only one?”

“No. I’m heading to Suzie’s Sauce Shop. They’re having a hurricane party.”

“Let me grab a shower and clean clothes. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll save you a stool,” Ben said as he broke the connection.

Suzie’s is down the street from me. It’s a big building, with a bar and karaoke upstairs, and a club in the basement. My favorite spot on Friday nights is the dance club downstairs. The music is too urban for my tastes, but fun people hang out there, and the drinks are cheap. It’s also within crawling distance of my house, so I’m not tempted to drive when I’ve had a few.

It was raining as I walked, steadily enough that I was glad I had my hooded rain-jacket. “Hurricane Party in the Dugout,” the sign in the front window said. Normally, I have a beer in the neighborhood pub-type bar that serves as the main entrance, and then go downstairs, but the upstairs bar was nearly deserted. I headed to the Dugout dance club.

“Hey, Harry!” Ivan, the bouncer, boomed at me. “Here for the hurricane party?”

“I guess. What is a hurricane party?”

“I dunno. In Moscow, we didn’t celebrate on-coming disasters, but you crazy Yankees do weird shit. It should get wild. All drinks are at least one-third off. Drafts are only a dollar, and that hillbilly whiskey you drink is three-fifty for a double.”

“Sounds good, after the day I had at work,” I chuckled.

“There’s some nice eye-candy here,” Ivan observed.

“So I see.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Sure, Ivan. In my dreams. I need a drink.”

“Check out the shot-girls,” Ivan said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You know Hana, that Korean chick who’s banging the cook? It’s her younger sister and the sister’s roommate.”

“What are they serving?”

“Red Headed Sluts and Harvey Wallbangers. A buck each.”

I laughed. “My roommate and I threw a Harvey Wallbanger party in college. We got seriously trashed. Some chicks danced naked on the table.”

Ivan said, “They can’t do that here. We don’t have that kind of club license.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Did I say I’d stop them right away? I might get busy and not notice for a while. Doing cavity searches on suspicious-looking women takes time.”

“I knew there was a reason you always smiled, you big Russkie pervert,” I laughed as I headed toward the bar.

Ivan was right. There were women of all types and ages, from girls who probably had fake ID’s to women who were more age-appropriate for me to hit on. But that wasn’t why I was there. I was there to have a couple of drinks with my old friend Ben.

Ben and I grew up together. He was the one who introduced me to Maria all those years ago. Ben and his wife were best man and matron of honor at our wedding. They were the ones who supported me most through the ordeal of watching the radiation and chemo fail to save my wife.

In our younger days, Ben and I chased a lot of skirts together, but neither of us had any delusions about our appeal to the younger and more desirable women at Suzie’s. Sure, we flirted with them, or tried to, but we were just a couple of old horn-dogs who liked to get together for drinks and laughs.

“Hey, Ace!” Ben hollered from his stool at the crowded bar. “A lager and a double Jack Daniels for Harry!”

My favorite bartender, a character everyone calls Ace Ventura because of his outrageous hairstyle, greeted me with his usual high-five. “How’s it going, Splinter-Pecker?”

“Every time I see you, I’m reminded that I’ve failed,” I said.

“How?”

“I could have been rich if I had put money in hair gel stocks.”

“Watch the hair jokes! I like my hair. It’s a fashion statement. It says a lot about me.”

Ben snickered, “Yeah, that you’re a slimy bastard.”

Ace leaned over the bar and said to me in a stage whisper, “Guess who’s next drink is going to be real, real weak?”

“Fuck you, Ace,” Ben laughed.

“You’re not man enough for me. If we got together, you’d be the one on your knees,” Ace dead-panned, turning to get my drinks.

“Look at that,” Ben said, pointing to the TV over the bar. It was showing video of the torrential rains the storm was dropping.

“It’s gonna get wet tonight, boys,” Ace said as the collected my money. “I’ve been watching that all night. The storm turned inland, and it’s dropping a hell of a lot of rain. It’s supposed to stall right over us. You know how our storm sewers are.”

“Yeah, if we get an inch of rain, Main Street turns into a river,” Ben said.

“I know,” Ace replied. “Look!” he said, gesturing toward the screen. He grabbed the remote, turning the music down and the TV volume up.

“… streams and creeks are flooding. Viewers in low-lying areas are urged to keep watch on rising waters and to obey all evacuation advisories. Motorists and pedestrians are strongly cautioned to avoid standing or running water. This storm could dump ten inches of rain or more in our area over night. Folks, this is a bad one,” the weatherman said.

“Shit!” I said. “That’s a lot of rain.”

“Ten inches?” Ace exclaimed. “That’s almost as big as me.”

Ben ignored him. “If we get ten inches of rain, this town will be an island. Every road in and out crosses a bridge.”

“It was raining when I came in, but not that hard,” I said. “I wonder how it is now?”

A couple came downstairs into the bar, looking like they had been fished out of a lake.