A tropical depression has just turned into a named storm – Georges, a few hours prior. The Gulf Coast has had its fair share of storms, named storms and the dreaded hurricane. A run-of-the-mill storm gets named, like Mitch or Ivan or Katrina when it reaches 33 miles per hour. It becomes a hurricane at 73 miles per hour.
The office know-it-all, Lanny, sidled in over the Vice President of Operations and quizzed us all on what a hurricane was. “Do any of you…. know… what a hurrrrry-cane is?” His southern drawl interjected awkward pauses at the most awkward of all moments. My native Southern Californian tongue cringed just about every single time he opened his mouth. Lanny was from Pensacola, Florida – the heart of the Redneck Riviera, the stretch of coast from Mobile, Alabama to Apalachicola, Florida. A lifetime smoker and ex-Marine, Lanny considered it his job to boss around the helpless old ladies and recent college grads in the office while hacking his bile onto the office carpet every few minutes.
“Well, anyone?” Lanny insisted.
Betty, with a conspicuous New York accent answered. “It depends on where it is, Lanny.” She rolled her eyed.
Lanny, somewhat disappointed that someone knew the answer, gave us all a lesson. Betty rolled her eyes again and walked back to her desk. “A hurricane is a storm going about 70 miles per hour east of the International Date Line. Typhoons are in the Northwest Pacific, west of the dateline and everything else is a cyclone.” One by one, the office left him and walked back to their offices and cubicles. I sat down at my desk and wondered what I should do next. I lived in Orange County, California and I was in Tampa doing a database upgrade job for the company. I had been to Tampa many times and enjoyed everything it had to offer from a white-trash Disneyland called Busch Gardens to the white sand beaches next to the anything-goes strip clubs. Still, a fucking hurricane? I prefer earthquakes. They are over and done with in 30 seconds flat. Hurricanes give you plenty of warning and tons to time to get to love your fear of death. Get the will up to date and find your insurance policies because we might not make it out of this alive. I grabbed my stuff and decided to take a walk back to my hotel room and think about things. I could try to take a flight out, but Tampa International would be crowded for days.
I walked outside and saw the high-rise of the Hyatt Regency and remembered I was on the 25th floor. No, I won’t be staying there. I might be safer if I stayed in the office. Betty came up behind me. She was one of the few people in the office that was actually nice to me; everyone else saw me as “the help” and ignored me. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Not sure. I think I’ll stay here or drive to Alabama or something.”
“You’re better off staying here. It is still several days away. No offense, but you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Neither do you. You’re from New York.”
“My husband is from New Orleans. You can stay with us.”
It was as good an idea as any; what else would I have done? Wait for the hurricane to sweep me away like some Bizarro Wizard of Oz? I accepted the invitation and we waited for the storm to hit. Georges spent a few days in the Atlantic, hitting several Caribbean nations and Key West, before turning to the Gulf Coast. I was hunkered down with Betty and her husband, which turned out to be one of the nicest gestures of hospitality ever extended to me. Georges lost most of its power in the Florida Keys and eventually dissipated, but not before drenching the Gulf Coast region with buckets of water. The Tampa area alone was flooded and the power was out in most of the city. Still, disaster had been averted and we all were relieved.
The emergency radio we listened to told of the damage in the Caribbean. The newscaster said that New Orleans was saved again by her sophisticated, but aging, levee systems. Betty’s husband, a civil engineer and New Orleans native, piped in over the newscast. “They really need to upgrade those levees before something really bad happens in New Orleans. They’re living on borrowed time being below sea-level and shit.”
We all nodded our heads. Yeah, I’d say so.
