Stormy weather

At this point, we're all just waiting for the plague of frogs

Still reeling from excessive heat and the weird smoky air at the end of last week, I figured the rain last Saturday would actually be a relief. Though it was only sprinkling as I got ready for work, the forecast was dire—there were even tornado rumblings for goodness sake. Having no desire to tempt fate, I decided to walk instead of riding a bike to work, and remembered this photo I’d taken a few years ago during a sudden storm. I love the ingenuity and nonchalance of New Yorkers, but I knew I couldn’t pull this look off; I grabbed an umbrella.

Mary, Mariano, Pedro and I were all safely at the bar just as the city turned an eerie gray/green and the sky let loose with some truly shocking torrential rain. We went ahead and did all our set-up work; aside from the normal Saturday crowd, England and France were playing at 5pm in the World Cup, and besides—people flock to bars in storms. Whether seeking shelter from the rain or a last hurrah before oblivion; when it looks like the End Times out there, it’s usually packed to the rafters in here.

Then the text alerts starting buzzing, and it became apparent we were likely in for a very slow day.

While there was no business, there was certainly plenty going on. With the rain barrelling down fast and hard, it was only a matter of time before “the area subject to flooding” was our own kitchen. (Um…should we be fleeing?) I’ve said it many times, but it bears repeating: if your business has been in the same building since 1936, your staff better know their way around a tool box and have good common sense. Mariano scrambled to move supplies away from the streaming water and positioned buckets to contain the flood in the kitchen before donning a hefty garbage bag and heading up to the roof to clear out the rain gutters.

We were thanking our lucky stars for Mariano last Saturday.

I on the other hand was no help whatsoever. As the crashing storm rattled the bar I was staring out the window fretting about Ruby, my dog, an 88-pound bundle of nerves, home alone. And then I got a text from my neighbor Darren:

Neighbors like Darren make New York City feel like the smallest and most charming of small towns. He has gotten me out of far too many jams to mention.

With our set-up work done and no customers to wait on, Mary looked for a movie on TV as I swam across the street to Duane Reade to buy some popcorn. (Kernels, not ready-made, we were planning on a proper movie afternoon.) Success on both fronts, we settled in.

In terms of disaster movies from the 1970s, it was fitting that Mary found Jaws; The Poseidon Adventure would have been a little too on the nose.

Mary noted that “Cletus” (the name her brother gave to the big, scary fish in our tank) seemed jealous of the attention that “Bruce” (the nickname given to the mechanical shark in Jaws, supposedly after Spielberg’s lawyer) was getting, and made his presence known.

Of the two, it’s possible that Cletus was more disturbing.

By 3:30, Bruce was vanquished, the kitchen was open, and the sun had made its way out, along with our customers.

We’re weathering some insane storms these days—both environmentally and politically. We need to hang on, help each other, and do the best we can.

And Democrats—come November 3, we’re gonna need a bigger vote.