Overblown

Tonight, we send our sincere wishes to our East Coast followers that Hurricane Irene turns out to be less like Katrina and more like Floyd.

(DIGRESSION: We also extend this hope for the sake of all those "Irenes" out there.  The name "Katrina" still hasn't recovered.  You never hear about parents naming girls "Katrina" any more.  Nor boys "9/11."  EOD)

Back in 1999, Hurricane Floyd walloped the Carolinas and churned its way north, prompting the kind of apocalyptic predictions we now hear coming out of New York as it braces for Irene.  At the time, the Solipsist worked at LaGuardia Community College, which, along with other schools, closed in advance of the storm.  The college, though, was designated a Red Cross shelter, and Your-Not-So-Humble-Correspondent was a certified Red Cross shelter operator (this being back in the days when we cared about our fellow man).   So we were there bright and early (well, overcast and early) to prepare for the influx of rain-drenched refugees.

For an aspiring megalomaniac, Red Cross shelter operator is actually a pretty good entry-level position.  While the college was largely deserted, what skeleton-crew staff remained had to answer to YNSHC and his boss, Steve, who were, by virtue of their training, completely in charge.  The security guards reported to us; the college president reported to us; the NYPD officer assigned to the college reported to us!  It was martial law, Baby!  It was Stalinist Russia!  And we were Stalin!

We set up our shelter in the college's gymnasium.  The Red Cross delivered dozens of cots and promised prompt deliveries of food.  We were in for the long haul.  We received our first guests, a young couple from Egypt, shortly before the rain was expected to start.  This was their first autumn in New York, and the desert-folk were understandably wary.  Next came a middle-aged homeless man.  We went into shelter-operator overdrive.  We had out clients sign in, showed them to their cots, and assured them that food was on its way.  As the rain began to fall in earnest, the shelter staff--the Solipsist, our boss, the policeman, and a handful of other volunteers--took a deep breath, collected ourselves, and looked grimly through the shelter doors, bracing ourselves for the crowds to come. . . .

Waiting. . . .

Waiting. . . .

Waiting. . . .

"Uh, Steve?  It's been an hour.  Can we unbrace ourselves?"

"Give it a few more minutes."

Waiting. . .

Waiting. . .

"Hey, Steve, when's the food going to get here?"

"That's a good question.  Hey!  We didn't say 'Unbrace'!"

"Sorry!"

After another hour or so, we began to worry about the food situation.  We had been told that a truckload of sandwiches was making its way Queensward.  We let out a small cheer when we saw a truck pull up outside, only to experience a letdown when we discovered that all it contained was more cots.  Contrary to what you may have heard, there is nothing even mildly erotic about a college gymnasium filled with some 75 cots.

As for the food situation, at our training, the Red Cross had told us that, in the event of an extended delay, the shelter manager could use his own discretion to try to wrangle up supplies from local businesses.  With our clients getting hungry, Steve took the initiative to contact a McDonald's a few blocks from the college.  He played the "Red Cross shelter operator" card.  Told the manager how the Red Cross would be truly appreciative.  The results were more impressive than you might imagine: The McDonald's manager let him talk for a good five minutes before saying, "No."

By this time, the rain had pretty much subsided.  The Egyptians decided to take their leave of our shelter, thus reducing our population by two-thirds.  The only person left was the homeless man.  We wanted to close the shelter but couldn't do that as long as there were still people sheltering there.  Steve didn't want to just kick the homeless man out onto the less-hurricane-filled-but-still-dangerous streets, so he asked our Red Cross superiors if they could help us locate a homeless shelter to relocate the man to.  But they were too busy overseeing the non-delivery of food to shelters like ours.  The policeman offered to get the man to a homeless shelter--but he couldn't leave until the Red Cross declared the shelter closed.  Which couldn't happen as long as this homeless man was still there.

Come to think of it, maybe this was when we stopped caring about our fellow man.

In the end, the events of the day were thoroughly--and thankfully--uneventful.  And while we suffered through the purgatory of boredom that dreary September day, we realize that things could have been ever-so-much worse.  We hope that Irene proves similarly disappointing.