| 11.03.05 |
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Storm Surge
By Rebecca Wakefield
There is no delicate way to put this – sex and disaster go together well. Naturally, it has to be a big catastrophe; say, a hurricane named after a cartoon character. Maybe the aphrodisiac effect extends to earthquakes, terror, or even IRS audits, but I’ve never had occasion to find out. It’s not the disaster itself that is so compelling, but what it does to the illusion of comfort, safety and routine that cloaks our perception of everyday life. Strip away power, gas, water, hot food, traffic lights, e-mail, cell phones, television, etc… and what is life all about anyway? Behavior in such situations derives mostly from emotion. Normal law and logic don’t seem to apply. There is little left to do but revert to the baser instincts. People often band together, helping each other with food preparation, medical emergencies or debris clearing. We throw impromptu barbecues or parties. On the other end of the spectrum, cretins speed through traffic stops, jump lines at the gas station or loot. Still others take a middle path to comfort. A friend of mine out driving between North Bay Village and Biscayne Boulevard in Miami last week noted the only person walking the streets the day after Wilma was a hooker. She appeared to be doing a brisk business. Last year, during the endless siege of storms that threatened South Florida, I holed up in a tiny apartment with a couple of friends near downtown Miami. The apocalypse never struck, so we passed the time touring places we thought might be harboring adventurous souls. We went to the venerable Jimbo’s on Virginia Key, where the regulars were having an informal hurricane party. People lounged around a television sipping $1.50 cans of Bud and Miller Lite, along with a teacup Chihuahua and a third-generation Jimbo’s mutt named Corky. The wind batted the various signs warning against drinking alcohol within 50 feet of the premises, although it was unclear which portion of the ramshackle collection of buildings (which for years have appeared to have already been leveled by storm) could be considered premises. For lunch, we went to a Cuban-Chinese eatery on Calle Ocho. We ordered ropa vieja and chop suey sopped up with butter-soaked Cuban bread. The jukebox played a strange mix of Julio Iglesias, Chayanne and Los Tigres del Norte. An old homeless man at the counter twisted the cap off a tiny bottle of whiskey purchased across the street as he waited for his soup. Later, we watched the waves at South Pointe wipe out the egos of dozens of amateur surfers, and ended the day in an art studio in Little Haiti, where dapper artist Edouard Duval-Carrié served us an infusion of blackberry syrup and vodka over ice in tiny crystal glasses. This year, even after the horror of watching Katrina swamp New Orleans, I didn’t take Wilma seriously. Call it hurricane exhaustion, laziness or stupidity (for other descriptions, speak to my mother), I did nothing to prepare other than close the shutters. I figured Naples would get the brunt. Thus I continued my routine up to the actual event. I went on a date with a guy from the neighborhood who had just blown into town from places like Panama City and New Orleans. He’s a good-looking Southerner with vivid blue eyes and a lopsided smile, product of an ill-fated Jewish-Catholic union set in the Appalachian foothills of East Tennessee. He’d come to Miami with the usual story of a wild past, bad life choices and a desire to remake his destiny in this new place. My take-away from the evening was that David (not his real name) was a charmer, but not a great long-term dating prospect. For one, he was a big, goofy kid, prone to shedding his shirt in public at the slightest provocation. A couple of days later, the storm hit. About midday, I was mopping up water, leaves and bits of glass. The power was out and cell phone service so spotty I gave up. There was a knock on the door, which I figured to be a neighbor because I live in one of those buildings you can’t enter without a key or a code. It was David, who’d walked right through the building’s electricity-deprived defenses. Normally, such an arrival might creep me out. But what with the world coming to an end, I was happy to see him. He helped me pick up and then we walked to the beach. We checked out the destruction in the neighborhood and found an open convenience store where we bought slightly warm drinks. I tried to answer his questions about puzzling Miami phenomena, such as why Lincoln Road is always packed with assorted fake-breasted women, gay hipsters and tiny, tiny dogs. The air was cool, the sun shining. People were walking around everywhere and we were all hyper-aware of each other. It felt like being on vacation in a strange, war-torn land where nothing works but life goes on. Again, I wound up eating Chinese food, from one of the few places open last Monday. They had gas stoves. As we waited for pork-fried rice in the descending gloom, David taught me a card game called Spades. He came back to my place and we listened to the radio while we ate over candlelight. Our conversation accelerated through levels of intimacy that normally require weeks of contact. We talked families and sports, politics and religion, ex-lovers and career aspirations – the stuff you don’t usually discuss until you’ve observed the social rituals. Maybe it was the candles, but David started to look damned good. He was affable, attractive and there in the chilly dark with me, one big arm casually slung over my shoulders. For the next few days, he just lived with me, shipwrecked on a deserted island. I made him food and he fixed things that were broken in my apartment. I wasn’t thinking, “Would this person fit into my life?” or “Can a modern woman love a shirtless man?” I was feeling the intense, unwarranted connection to a virtual stranger that’s possible when life is put on hold. This phenomenon has been noted before. Salon.com and other media wrote about how New Yorkers turned to “terror sex” as a life-affirming way of dealing with the trauma of September 11. The baby boom after World War II probably owes something to a similar desire to overcome chaos. Hollywood is full of romance-springing-from-crisis movies. “When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses," opined Humphrey Bogart in the stormy classic Key Largo. Whatever the case, suspending disbelief is a marvelous way to go through a hurricane. When the power came back, we watched the end of the World Series. David went back to his place and to work. I’m not sure whether I want him to knock on the door again. For those few days, he was perfect. Now, with civilization back on the grid, there’s no way he can be. Rebecca Wakefield’s column appears every other week. Comments? E-mail wakefield@miamisunpost.com. |
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