Story 11/21/2002
Copyright vcwriter17b
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OK, I don't look at weather forecasts. Yes, it's December in New England. So sue me.
I was working on the FX portion for a model of US balance of payments. That's Foreign Exchange for non-economists. I may not really have slept last night. I went to be thinking about the model. When I woke at the ungodly hour of 6AM, I had several ideas I wanted to try. In the zone, you know. Coffee? Breakfast? Meh. That can wait. I did a quick rinse with Listerine, then pulled on jeans, sneakers, T-shirt and windbreaker, then slung the backpack over my shoulder. The bike was sitting on the front porch. I'd been too tired to even remember to lock it last night. I hefted it down to the sidewalk, mounted and headed back to the computer center.
I don't care how cold it is. I'd rather be on a bike or motorcycle than enclosed in anything, and the bike is about the only consistent exercise I get these days. I don't think about it, I just do.
Not thinking, now there's a key phrase.
Running the model from a directly attached workstation is a heck of a lot easier and faster than trying to use the wireless connection. Especially when you're competing for bandwidth with all of the gamers. You would think people would have more important things to do on Christmas Eve. Yeah, right, who am I to talk?
So I got to the center, this time remembering to lock the bike. Went in through the sliding glass door and then down the stairs to the users' room. All of the tables were empty for a change, a concession to the holiday, I suppose. I found my usual nook, unpacked and set to playing with the model.
The basic inspiration was a good one, but there were a lot of little adjustments. A model is after all a model - a simulation and simplification of a much more complex reality. The ultimate test of a model is smell - does it smell right? Does it produce results that are plausible without any impossible surprises. If you run a model and 2 + 2 doesn't add to 4 in every situation, it's junk, no matter how much you like the output. When the model has 2,000 variables and 60 years of data, there's a lot of checking and adjusting.
Time flies whether you're having fun or not. After a six pack of soda, junk food from vending and about 8 hours of work, I think I've got something that I want my clients to review. And my eyes are shot. I need some protein and some real sleep. Yes, I've slept on a table in the Comp Center before, but that's not something you want to volunteer to do, ever. Between the hard table and the hum of the lights, there is nothing to recommend it. Of course, if they ever put sofas and showers in this basement, some people would never leave. Marla probably would kill me if I pulled a stunt like that. I wouldn't blame her.
Opening the door to the outside world is one of those "oh, shit!" moments. Naturally at this afternoon hour in winter, the sun is setting but it's not dark yet. It's grey and misty with pellets of ice and snowflakes. Then I notice is a lot of white stuff on the ground. Then the white mound about where the bike rack was last seen, with a handlebar grip sticking out the side. Then that it's really cold. Finally I realize, as my sneakers sink into the snow, that my shoes and jeans are going to be filled with slush by the time I get home. Won-der-ful.
My sleeve collects slush as I search for the bike cable and lock. That takes a bit. Then I lift the bike out of the drift. I sling the backpack over my left shoulder and put the bike on the right, then start trudging out to the street. I'd like to say that this is the first time I've done this, and that I learn from my mistakes. Neither is true. Been there, done that, doing it again. Ah well, I could be paying for a gym membership.
The street's a little better than the parking area or driveway. The plows have done a first pass. I actually can set the bike on its wheels and ride for a couple of blocks. Slippery as heck but it beats carrying the darn thing for even that little distance.
Once I get up to Main Street, well that's when the trip gets interesting. The snow provides a beautiful backdrop for the faux colonial stores and homes - all of which are dark for as far as the eye can see. More unusual, people are standing in the doorways of these darkened structures, staring out into the street. Now, some stores do close early on Christmas Eve, but that's not what this is about.
I finally notice the car embedded in a utility pole on the next block. There's a cop I know talking to a couple on the street side of the car, and a few angry neighbors screaming at them from the sidewalk. Sound carries in the cold stillness, whether it's something you want to hear or not.
I know the cop, so I go over to see if I can help. Wet and cold as I am, a few frozen minutes more won't make a difference.
Or maybe they will.
As I get closer, I can see that Larry, my cop friend, is quite flustered. The couple are dressed simply. He's in sweatshirt and jeans, she in a long dress. He has a weather-roughened and lined face with a long black beard. She has a classically beautiful face, almost cherubic, coupled with that "beach ball" look of advanced pregnancy. Her image and poise in an obviously stressful situation make me think of Renaissance paintings I'd seen long ago at the National Gallery.
The car looks like a rust bucket from hell. If it had ever passed an inspection, it was probably before I was born. If cars even existed back in the Dark Ages.
I pick up on the conversation as I approach, before they notice me.
"Look folks, I don't know what to do here. Your car isn't going anywhere. Even if it could, the lake bridge between the town and the highway is blocked by an overturned car, and a highway overpass between there and the hospital has a jackknifed tractor trailer. Choppers are grounded and you can't walk there in this mess. You're just not getting there."
"Then what do we do? I don't know how long she can hang on." Mr. Beard is on the verge of panic, I'm guessing its his first rodeo. The woman is like, "calm down, I've got this" although I'm not sure she does. I take that as my cue.
"Hey Larry, sorry for intruding, but can I be of help here?"
"Hey Bill, this is Joe and his wife, I'm sorry, Maria is it?. They were trying to get to the hospital."
"It's a pleasure to meet you both," as I offer my hand to the bearded one. She simply nods to me and smiles. "Hold on a sec. Let me deal with the Greek chorus on the sidewalk so we can talk without shouting." I step away from the trio and scan the 20 or 30 gawkers. I do see one person who might be helpful and seems embarrassed by the display.
Cupping my hands, I channel the drill sergeant I used to be. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!" I smile. The voice still rocks, loud enough to wake the dead and pull people out of their I'm-so-sorry-for-myself pitty parties.
They actually do get quiet and focus on me as I step toward them. Some even step back as I approach. "Listen people, the lights are off for several blocks in both directions from here, so this car is not responsible for your power outage. The outage started somewhere else." They start to look around, seeing the evidence for what I'm saying.
"Now listen carefully, I'm saying this once and for the sake of your family, you need to follow instructions. Get back inside your home and close it up, tight. We don't know how long the outage is going to last, so use tape, clothing, rags, whatever, to seal air leaks around windows and doors. Fill whatever containers you have with water and put them in the freezer to help preserve what you have there, and then keep that door closed! If you have a generator, conserve fuel. Again, you don't know what caused this or how long it's going to take to fix. Understand?"
I see some heads nodding. "OK, now move!"
With a shrug of shoulders, the crowd starts to disperse. I wave to Alice, a computer nerd friend from uni. On getting her attention, I signal her toward me. She nods and comes over after helping to calm the last couple of hotheads on the sidewalk and sending them on their way.
