eating—we
even cracked a couple of cans of Vienna sausages—and watched the
storm’s progress. We had electricity, though there were several
ominous brownouts. Fortunately, our stove was natural gas, so we
could cook even if the electricity failed.
The wind was howling as eleven o’clock drew
near, but except for occasional hits by palm fronds and debris,
there didn’t seem to be major damage. Still, Ruthie insisted we all
go into the closet at ten-thirty. I gave my chair to Guthrie, who
propped his leg on the cooler. I sat cross-legged on the floor. We
left the TV on in the living room, volume maxed, so we could track
the hurricane’s progress. At eleven o’clock there was a report of
looting in Orange County.
Penny Sue took her .38 from her pocket,
slipped it out of the holster and placed it on a shelf in easy
reach. “Can’t be too careful,” was all she said. “Where’s your
Glock?” she asked Guthrie.
“On the coffee table. It’s loaded. If you
hear anything, one of you run get it.”
About eleven fifteen, the storm passed off
the coast of Daytona Beach and we ventured from the closet. Though
the wind still raged, blowing rain in horizontal sheets, Charley
was kind to us. We seemed no worse for the wear. At least there
were no leaks or outward signs of damage.
Penny Sue cracked the second bottle of
champagne to toast our good fortune, and we all proceeded to turn
in for the night. I helped Guthrie unroll his sleeping bag and blow
up the air mattress rolled inside. I rewrapped his knee with a
Birds Eye Teriyaki stir-fry and zipped him in the sleeping bag.
“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he muttered,
either very sleepy or completely stoned. Whichever, he seemed
content for the rest of the night.
Wrong.
“Help! I’m drowning!”
I was in the middle of a dream where I was
shopping at Beall’s department store. I was standing in a mob at
the jewelry counter, eyeing a humongous bottle of Joy perfume. It
was hot, and I was sweating. The people around me smelled of
perspiration, and I wished I could douse them all in the cologne.
No sooner did I have the thought when the bottle burst. The Joy
perfume ran down the counter and filled the store up to my chin.
There was a mad rush as customers swam out—
“Help! I’m stuck. I’m drowning!”
This call, louder and more urgent than the
first, woke me up. Drenched in sweat, I blinked at the early
morning sun shining through the window and tried to separate dream
from reality.
A moment later a loud “Damn!” came from the
hallway—unmistakably Penny Sue. “The electricity is off and the
place is filled with water.”
Ruthie and I, in the guest room’s twin beds,
bolted upright.
Ruthie swung her feet to the floor.
“Heavens!” she cried.
I stood up in ankle deep water. “The place is flooded.” Then I remembered Guthrie on his air mattress,
zipped up in a sleeping bag. Lord, he really could be drowning. I
slogged to the spot where I’d left him; he wasn’t there.
“Over here,” he yelled. “Help me.”
Lying on the air mattress, he’d floated to
the far side of the room, behind the sofa. I splashed through the
water, unzipped the sleeping bag, and pulled him to his feet.
“Thanks, man. You saved my life. I was
trapped like a big, soggy burrito. I’m indebted to you for
life.”
“Forget it. You would have done the same for
me.”
“Yeah, man, but I’m still indebted—your
slave for life. If you need anything, just ask.” He rubbed his leg.
“After this knee heals.”
A slave, just what I needed. My own life was
tough enough to handle. Managing Guthrie’s life was too heavy to
contemplate.
By now everyone was in the living room.
“Where the hell did all this water come from?” Penny Sue asked,
scanning the room with the halogen lantern.
“Storm surge,” Ruthie said forcefully. “I
warned y’all.”
“It couldn’t be storm surge. The water would
have come in through the glass doors.” I pointed to the
even cracked a couple of cans of Vienna sausages—and watched the
storm’s progress. We had electricity, though there were several
ominous brownouts. Fortunately, our stove was natural gas, so we
could cook even if the electricity failed.
The wind was howling as eleven o’clock drew
near, but except for occasional hits by palm fronds and debris,
there didn’t seem to be major damage. Still, Ruthie insisted we all
go into the closet at ten-thirty. I gave my chair to Guthrie, who
propped his leg on the cooler. I sat cross-legged on the floor. We
left the TV on in the living room, volume maxed, so we could track
the hurricane’s progress. At eleven o’clock there was a report of
looting in Orange County.
Penny Sue took her .38 from her pocket,
slipped it out of the holster and placed it on a shelf in easy
reach. “Can’t be too careful,” was all she said. “Where’s your
Glock?” she asked Guthrie.
“On the coffee table. It’s loaded. If you
hear anything, one of you run get it.”
About eleven fifteen, the storm passed off
the coast of Daytona Beach and we ventured from the closet. Though
the wind still raged, blowing rain in horizontal sheets, Charley
was kind to us. We seemed no worse for the wear. At least there
were no leaks or outward signs of damage.
Penny Sue cracked the second bottle of
champagne to toast our good fortune, and we all proceeded to turn
in for the night. I helped Guthrie unroll his sleeping bag and blow
up the air mattress rolled inside. I rewrapped his knee with a
Birds Eye Teriyaki stir-fry and zipped him in the sleeping bag.
“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he muttered,
either very sleepy or completely stoned. Whichever, he seemed
content for the rest of the night.
Wrong.
“Help! I’m drowning!”
I was in the middle of a dream where I was
shopping at Beall’s department store. I was standing in a mob at
the jewelry counter, eyeing a humongous bottle of Joy perfume. It
was hot, and I was sweating. The people around me smelled of
perspiration, and I wished I could douse them all in the cologne.
No sooner did I have the thought when the bottle burst. The Joy
perfume ran down the counter and filled the store up to my chin.
There was a mad rush as customers swam out—
“Help! I’m stuck. I’m drowning!”
This call, louder and more urgent than the
first, woke me up. Drenched in sweat, I blinked at the early
morning sun shining through the window and tried to separate dream
from reality.
A moment later a loud “Damn!” came from the
hallway—unmistakably Penny Sue. “The electricity is off and the
place is filled with water.”
Ruthie and I, in the guest room’s twin beds,
bolted upright.
Ruthie swung her feet to the floor.
“Heavens!” she cried.
I stood up in ankle deep water. “The place is flooded.” Then I remembered Guthrie on his air mattress,
zipped up in a sleeping bag. Lord, he really could be drowning. I
slogged to the spot where I’d left him; he wasn’t there.
“Over here,” he yelled. “Help me.”
Lying on the air mattress, he’d floated to
the far side of the room, behind the sofa. I splashed through the
water, unzipped the sleeping bag, and pulled him to his feet.
“Thanks, man. You saved my life. I was
trapped like a big, soggy burrito. I’m indebted to you for
life.”
“Forget it. You would have done the same for
me.”
“Yeah, man, but I’m still indebted—your
slave for life. If you need anything, just ask.” He rubbed his leg.
“After this knee heals.”
A slave, just what I needed. My own life was
tough enough to handle. Managing Guthrie’s life was too heavy to
contemplate.
By now everyone was in the living room.
“Where the hell did all this water come from?” Penny Sue asked,
scanning the room with the halogen lantern.
“Storm surge,” Ruthie said forcefully. “I
warned y’all.”
“It couldn’t be storm surge. The water would
have come in through the glass doors.” I pointed to the
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