The Storm (12 page)

              “Oh wow,” I said aloud, seriously intrigued. “I wonder how they are doing down there. What did you see? Was the army or government out in force?”

              A deep sigh revealed that what he had experienced wasn’t pleasant, but just as he was about to answer, loud knocks echoed throughout the chamber. Our meeting had begun. He gave me a quick nod and whispered “later” while we all turned and faced forward.

              “Good morning! The Blennington Estates Homeowners’ Association special meeting has begun,” was the introduction from our HOA president Samantha Levin. She was maybe four-foot-ten, mid-fifties, and had short, curly, dark hair. She always wore heels to try and achieve a five-foot height. Her cute looks betrayed the hard woman inside. She had grown up in Israel in a settlement community within the West Bank. Daily artillery shelling and murdered love ones defined her youth. Like many aspiring Jews in Israel, she came to America for opportunity in the business world. It was only her toughness and drive, along with intelligence, that had gotten her to be a mid-level manager at Lockheed Martin. Needless to say, her personality was sharply type A.

              “Good morning,” came back the answer from a dozen voices at once.

              “I understand this meeting was called by our members out of necessity.” It was obvious she was trying to provide a sense of normalcy or structure to a world that was rapidly losing both.

              Half the group looked around for Tom or me and gave us a quick look then turned their attention forward. Samantha, or Sam as she usually went by, was pacing in the ten-foot zone of space she had, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden floor. “Should we begin by reading the minutes of the last meeting as we normally do or jump forward?” she asked loudly to the group.

              Some grumbling and hushed voices gave their reply. “Okay, Blennington!” she said in a raised voice that would be synonymous with a boss waking up a sleepy team in an afternoon meeting scheduled right after lunch. “Just say yay or nay with me, and we can proceed.” If anything, she was sticking to protocol.

              “Which is yes?” whispered Wenda Alvarez to me. I hadn’t seen her either since before the storm and wanted to catch up, but now wasn’t the time.

              “Yay,” I said instantly back without breaking my gaze upon Sam. Wenda was a sweet woman but confused her English regularly. She had come here only this last year from the Philippines on a diplomatic mission and was scheduled to return in a few months.

              “Okay, thanks,” she whispered again and reached out to touch my arm in a gesture of
gratitude.

              A familiar voice suddenly rang out loud from the middle of the crowd. It was Tom, and his speech was slurred. “We don’t give half a poo about the last minutes, Sammy.” He always called her Sammy to annoy her despite her hatred of that nickname.

              Samantha Levin wasn’t surprised and was always collected. Most people would have rolled their eyes at Tom, but she paused a moment to observe and absorb the mood of the audience. The anxiety from a few minutes before hadn’t diminished, and she knew it was worth moving on. “Very well, all say aye if you want to get on with business.”

              “Aye,” said everyone, with a couple of “yeah and yes” mixed in.

              “Very well, the former minutes will not be read today. We can move on to today’s special business.” Her eyes immediately went left and right through the crowd, searching for a target, and locked on me. It was this moment I realized that I had helped put this together and probably would have to speak up to everyone. As her eyes fixated on mine, I observed that her tone was neutral and the full board was conspicuously absent. They had either fled, dissolved, or just didn’t show. I wasn’t sure and didn’t know if that was a negative or if it mattered. “Mr. Myers,” she said, after peering at me with eyes that could have intimidated an owl. “You knocked on my door yesterday and called this meeting. I figure we will start with you. You have the floor.”

             
Oh crap,
I thought. I’m used to public speaking in the bank at times. I meet new people daily and sometimes give financial seminars to larger groups. Everything I always say or present is always backed up with colorful marketing materials and is polished by practice. Flashy pictures of ladies smiling and holding a new credit card help sell. I would need a picture of Molly Pitcher or some American folk hero that fed or supplied people now as an equivalent, but all I had were words. No preparation, except that which I had dwelled on this morning and my nightmares.
Those should stay private,
I thought, as I made my way to the front. Mohammad gave me a big pat of support on the back that kicked my confidence up a notch.

              Seldom did I sound shaky when I presented or asked for business. Today was no different, even if my legs felt a bit weak as I stood in front of the crowd.
The kids need you,
I reminded myself. Sam spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen, Josh Myers has the floor.”

              Suddenly I wondered why she chose me and not Tom despite his having reached twice as many houses as I did. I looked around and found him in the crowd. His bright shirt stood out from the rest. He held a red plastic cup in hand and took a sip. No wonder she didn’t call him. He has a “mystery beverage” in there that is probably whisky and something else.

              As I stood in front of everyone, I wished I had dressed in a suit. It at least commanded respect. I was in some dirty jeans and a gray sweater that was wet from the rain. The noise of the rain pounding on the roof was loud, so I would need to shout. To Jean Pierre, I glanced and asked, “What time is it?”

“Twelve oh eight, Monsieur,” he answered. His watch was gold and nice.
If only Stacy had bought me one of those instead of the expensive electronic gadgets we have piled up that are now worthless,
I reflected. Pragmatism was almost an American invention, and now a Frenchman had usurped it.

              “Good afternoon,” I said loudly to the group. They replied to me just as they had to Samantha. “Most of you saw me or Tom yesterday. If not, then you heard from a neighbor and came here. I’m glad each of you is here.” My voice was a bit shaky and not that of the confident salesperson I was accustomed to being.
Stop it, Josh
, I told myself. “Let’s start with what we know. The power is gone completely all over the place. Has anyone had any electricity work in any device or heard any outside word from beyond the metro DC area?”

Ten seconds passed. Silence. Eyes move all around, looks are exchanged; much was communicated, but nothing was said.

              “My water went out this morning. Does anyone else lack water flow or is it just me?” I should have asked some neighbors earlier but hadn’t had the chance with the rain. Now was as good a time as any.

              Several responses came back, all short and all no. Everyone had a water problem then. The storm intensified outside and the constant beating of rain on the ceiling was akin to having a jet engine running outside. To speak and be heard, I was almost shouting now.

              “Okay, everyone. I think we have some serious things to resolve today. Our water is out. Food will run out soon for most of us (
a white lie for me
, I told myself), and we have security issues to resolve since someone was just murdered on Plantation Road.”

              Heads were nodding yes and it was overwhelmingly obvious that everyone who came here today was thinking about the same thing. I had been worried that people were only concerned about when their favorite TV show would return, but common sense was in abundant supply here and survival instinct trumped any trivialities. Everyone was on the same page.
Good
, I thought, as my eyes found Zeke. He was in the corner, sitting alone but near Puba. He still hadn’t cleaned up the toilet paper mess, probably because of the rain. I would have a chat with him later. I nodded toward Samantha to return the control of the meeting to her.

              Her shoes clicked and clacked as she walked back to the center of our stage. She gave me a courteous acknowledgement and gestured me back to the crowd. I was a low-level manager in the corporate world. She was more used to hosting unexpected large meetings, and her experience showed. “We have a few items on the agenda. Security, water, and food. We tackle them in that order. Any other issues to add? Do it now or forever hold your peace,” she said with a little laugh that got a few responses but mostly fell flat.

              It was quiet for a few seconds. Samantha was about to move forward when a loud cough was heard and followed up by, “My backyard is filling up with beer cans!”
Uh oh
, I thought. Tom was drunk and was going to make a scene. “I need some garbage collection,” he said loudly. His Hawaiian shirt contrasted with a fresh, wet stain beneath the left collar. He’d spilled some of his mystery beverage only minutes before. He took another sip of it and it left an orange tinge on his mustache.

              Jean Pierre spoke up now, “I do not like garbage on my property either. It is most unpleasant. We should find a place to bury or burn it.” His heavy French accent always came out with an arrogance unique to the French, but at least this time he was on the same side. The French could always fight Americans on any number of issues, but they were trusting allies when their interests were at stake.

              “Aye, garbage too!” shouted an unknown person from the crowd, only to be followed with several others saying something in agreement.

              Samantha nodded in either agreement or submission and agreed to make it part of the agenda. Garbage would be a quick issue to tackle.

              As the question hung open for debate, a man I hadn’t known before spoke up. An elder in his later years with a white beard and matching hair spoke, “I think we should go dig a big hole by the trees on the western side of the neighborhood. There’s a big ditch fifty feet behind my house where the forest starts, and it’s as good a spot as any to bury garbage. Ten guys digging one full day, and we should be able to make a huge hole that can cover any garbage for months!” His voice had that whispery Greek accent that was just barely noticeable. I would later learn he had fought the Nazis in Crete in World War 2 in his youth and came to America soon after the war to find opportunities.

              “Are we in agreement?” asked Samantha to the crowd, knowing the answer that would come back.

              “Aye,” was returned to her in a unanimous fashion.

              She had a victory under her belt. Damn, she was used to this, and her face looked even a tad smug. Any time speakers or leaders get a unanimous decision behind them, it gives them ammo on the next topic, which is usually tricky. This is why politicians tackle a lot of easy issues before finally going after one tough one. Samantha Levin spoke again but directly to her aide, “Okay, Jean Pierre, you are keeping the minutes of this meeting. Please write down that we have voted unanimously to dig a hole behind Mr. Doukas’s house for the garbage. We will round up volunteers after the meeting. On to the next issue,” she announced. Food or water, I expected. “We need a census,” she calmly but vocally informed the audience.

              Another layup. The trash issue was an unexpected gift, but she took it. She came here prepared with her own easy issue to rally support on, and this was it. She had played the corporate political game her whole life and was in her element here.

              “Why do we need a census?” asked Mohammed while he had his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

              “We need water! We need food!” shouted a couple of anonymous voices before anyone could see who had said it. Despite it being noon and with the room having plenty of windows, it was, at best, dim in the pool house as there was no electrical light added.

              Samantha hadn’t expected any questioning on her easy issue, and she took a moment to think about it. “How many of you have food stashed for five years?” she asked the crowd with a sudden abrasiveness that even I was taken aback. “None of you do.” A moment of reflection followed. “How many of you are ready to kill or be killed?” Her tone was now assertive, and her index finger was pointed and sweeping the crowd. “How many of you think you can live for another year with what you have?”

              Silence.

              Some were probably like me, prepared and provisioned but silent. I was a white person in a room with mostly foreigners, commonplace for the DC area, yet I had never felt that I was a minority as I did at this moment and kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t ethnic tension that worried me, it was the class haves versus have-nots unfolding in a new and eerie scenario. I was suddenly worried about what she wanted in the census, but I kept quiet.

              The rain let up some and was now a drizzle, if only for a few minutes. Samantha’s tone eased correspondingly, and she shifted to a practical line of thought “We need to know what we have. If we are going to worry about defense or food or water, we have to at least know what we possess and how to distribute it. Don’t you agree?”

              She had looked right at Nana. Damn her. She knew just who to go after. “Yes, I do,” spoke Nana. “When we give out aid back in my country, we first take a count of who is in each village and how many family members they have. I agree with Samantha. We need to do a census.” Samantha just nodded with him as his bright white teeth came out from a crescent-moon-like smile.