27 June 2006

Flash Flood

We drowned yesterday, the hardy ones who looked at the trains that could not run, and the rising waters in the subway tunnels, and climbed into our cars to head for the capital.

The Federal Government announced that it was going to open as usual, though it understood if some of us had some issues and would accommodate us.

The flooding caused the electrical infrastructure to start failing as the water rose, and stop lights and major distribution points flickered and tripped off line. The National Archives building closed; that is where the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence are stored.

The Supreme Court had offered to take care of the original copy of the Bill of Rights, but thankfully the Archivist decided to hold on to it, since some of the amendments appear a little spippery, and might float away on the dark waters.

Perhaps it was a coincidence, but the Justice Department threw in the soggy towel as well. .

Commerce closed the Herbert H. Hoover Building on Constitution Avenue, and non-essential personnel at the Smithsonian were set free to sink or swim on their own. EPA went dark, too, which is a good thing since all manner of nasty things were floating back up out of the sewers. It would have frightened everyone.

Meanwhile, all us in-betweeners, the ones halfway between the government and honest work, were trapped in out cars. With all the trains stopped, there was no alternative to the auto. Nor was there an alternative to sitting patiently as the Beltway was closed and the street tunnels in the District slowly filled with brown water.

We are saturated, and there is another warning in effect through the whole rush hour.

It is killing me. There are things I need to do, and I have to get downtown to do them. It is going to take hours to get there, even if the sub-basement parking below the Bus Station is not filled with stagnant rainwater.

That is why I showered and dressed, prepared to get wet again, and risk my car against the swirling Potomac that is rising perilously near the 14th Street Bridge. I had to pick up some papers from the lower unit I keep at Big Pink, and to check and see there has been no water intrusion.  I walked out of the side-door and scurried across the walkway to be under the shelter of the balcony above my entrance.

I was surprised to see Marty 2 out on her balcony on the second floor. She was holding a rock, or rather a lump of bituminous asphalt larger than her hand. She said that someone had thrown it through the window in front of her dining table.

There is a lot of glass in Big Pink; that is why the units are so bright and airy, when it is not dark and stormy. I must have looked a little confused, what with all the glass available to toss something through, and why this particular rock had wound up going through that particular window, masked as it was by the balcony railing and the hanging plants.

“We think it was Mickey,” she said. He was a lifeguard here a few years ago. He transitioned into a personal care-giver when Marty 2 was sick, and all she could do was arbitrage deals in the silence of the night on her home computer.

“It's usually someone you know,” I said, feeling guilty at the relief that it was not an anonymous act of vandalism. “Do you know why?”

“A mouthful of Percocets and a six-pack of beer,” said Marty 2, ripping a strip of grey duct tape to put diagonally over what remained of the shattered glass.  “It was late. He called and said something about going out for whipped cream. Then the rock.”

“Have you considered a restraining order?” I asked.

“Those things work like an umbrella,” she said, looking at the drops falling from the sky. “You still get wet.”

Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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