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| View of the Magic City from South Beach after Hurricane Irma |
MY LADY OF THE STORM SHELTER
By David Arthur Walters
I arrived home three blocks from the ocean on South Beach on Tuesday, the second day after Irma’s visit, safe and sound. Neighbors said that the lights had flickered during her visit, and that a neighbor in the taller building next door had tied a rope to a railing on the third floor to save them from drowning if the huge surge expected had occurred. Irma turned out to be a tropical storm if not a Cat 1 hurricane for South Beach. The surge around our building was, they said, about six inches. They had used tough blue tape to seal the doors inside and out, and then climbed back into the apartments through a window. They were in the process of tearing the tape off along with the paint. I imagined that the fellow who had sealed himself into his apartment with silicone on the next block must have a daunting task removing it. I rushed inside my place, turned on the air conditioning, and quickly looked around: I found no damage although I had left the little bathroom window open.
I hurried back to the bus stop where the evacuation bus had landed a load of South Beach people from North Miami High School Gymnasium, where we were sheltered during the storm. The beach had been closed by Mayor Levine, but this single bus was allowed through to make this one stop, while others at that shelter were carted off to other shelters.
When I debarked I heard my name called as I walked off.
“David, David, David!”
What? I thought some other David was being hailed. I turned around, anyway. A lady I had met at the shelter was hurrying after me. She had stationed herself there between two double door exits from the basketball gymnasium, taking care to do that because the wall could brace her back as she sat and read her Kindle books. The drawback to that was debris and water blew besides both sides of her mat when people came in and out of the gym, not to mention a string of little ants.
She worked at a law firm, she said, and lived at the Floridian, a short walk west from my second-story studio in a two-story apartment building with four units, which I figured was a death trap; the dire media forecasts would have the roof blown off over my head, with the second floor flooded by a 12-foot or more surge.
I do not have early Alzheimer’s that I know of, but I do have difficulty remembering names even of familiar people. I do remember painfully now the kindness she showed me. I mentioned I had forgotten to pack toothpaste. She gave me a squirt of hers, and later found me and presented me with what was left of a sample tube of Colgate Advanced Whitening toothpaste.
We took care to update each other on the almost always conflicting information about our fate from the Red Cross volunteers in the front lobby. The electricity was down, and my batteries were dead. I heard that South Beach was in pretty good shape, and there was a chance of getting onto the beach before we were transported to another shelter because the high school wanted to get rid of us and turn off the generator for inspections to prepare for the return of students nearly a week later, on Monday.
A German resident, who had tried to get onto the beach by cab and was turned around by the police, said he paid cab fare both ways. And then he was told that a decision was made to let people in who had copies of their leases, a utility bill, and local identification.
I had only my passport with me, and planned on leaving the country if the beach were utterly destroyed, but my new acquaintance said she had plenty of identification with her, and would just say I was with her. She would not, however, depart before she heard from her building manager that the building was open and the fobs would therefore work.
“David, David, David!”
She wanted to give me $50 to sleep on my floor if her apartment was not available yet. I would not think of taking $5,000 from her for a good deed, for then it would not be good. Instead of just taking her home with me, or asking her to wait, I said I did not know what I had left, and hurried home.
Knowing that my place was intact, I scoured the immediate area and found her stumbling west along with her suitcase and two bags.
I gave her my card.
“Call me if you have a problem.”
“But the phone service may be down. Where are you?”
“On that block,” I pointed across the street. “The phone service is up. People are around now. You will get in. There are people who live there home for sure.”
“But there are only twenty units.”
She started off again, pulling her suitcase, the bags falling off the top of it, stooping down to retrieve them….
I shall never forget that sight.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I thought a half later, having not heard from her. “I should have brought her home, or just helped her with her stuff.”
I walked to West Avenue, and did not see her. The Floridian building was open. But wait a minute, was that the building she told me about? She said it had twenty units, but the Floridian is a huge building. It just so happened that there was a building with twenty units nearby, so I went over there, to be assured that there was no problem with residents getting in.
I was in shock. I started walking towards Flamingo Park, and could not control myself. Big boys are not supposed to cry because they will never find a woman to actually love them if they do so.
I have managed to avoid dwelling on my painful past, and became expert at not feeling hurt or guilty, but this was too much. I admit it: I started sobbing uncontrollable. Everything that had happened was focused on the vision of that woman stumbling along with her gear, as if I had sent her off to her certain death.
I happened to be standing in front of an apartment building that was draped with a huge tree that had been toppled. A resident by the name of Kathleen came across the street and gave me a shoulder to cry on. She said I should not worry about the lady because there were police officers all over the place. It was broad daylight. She surely would have been assisted.
“You are suffering from post traumatic stress,” Kathleen said.
True, but my stress was over what might have happened yet did not. I thought Irma was going to ruin South Beach, torment and kill people, and I would never see Florida again.
Adopting a voluntary mission helps encourage people in natural and manmade disasters. I had volunteered to stay and help the government so I would have some reason for staying, so I could be active at something, but the city was “fully staffed.” Now not much damage was done in my area, though the disaster was nearly insufferable in the Keys, a place that Floridians say people like me should go to. I guess I am one of the Lucky Ones although I would have felt luckier being of some use during the storm. And here I was in shock, bawling like a baby.
“Here, you take my number, come over sometime and we can chat,” Kathleen said. “I work at Epicure.”
“Thank you. Please do not tell anybody you saw me this way. I see you have a view of the tree. I believe I know how to cut it down so as not to damage the building.”
“The city is expert at that.”
“Not always. Thank you.”
I went home, where I watched a lawyer say that if a tree on government property falls on a building, the government is responsible for removing it.
Today I searched the two markets close by in hopes of seeing that lady again so I could give her my heartfelt apologies.
She is no doubt all right because in fact the building had been opened at 8 am that morning. Still, I am ashamed. Now there are only three events I am really ashamed of. One other happens to be storm related: I was sleeping in my Manhattan room during a storm, and dreamed that I heard a woman banging on my door: “David, aren’t you even going to open the door?” she cried. I awoke convinced that some poor woman I knew in the neighborhood was seeking shelter from the thunderstorm outside. I put on my raincoat, and ran around looking for her, but the street was deserted.
I was not hurt by Irma. I was victimized by myself. I will not be okay until the Lady of the Shelter forgives me.
As for the trauma of post traumatic stress, my shock is nothing compared to those who returned to nothing. I may, however, recount what happened to me in hopes that it will help others deal with future impending disasters. One thing I learned was why Miami Mayor Gimenez said shelters should be the “last resort.”
xYx
South Beach, Florida
September 13, 2017
Like you, I am having trouble with names. Last night, while watching Sean Spicer on the Jimmy Kimmel show, I couldn't remember George Stephanopoulos's name for the life of me. But at times like Harvey, Rita, Ike, Allison, and Alisha whose eye passed directly over my house after driving rain through every window for six hours, I've always wanted to "batten down the hatches" and stay in my house rather than go to a hotel or a shelter where I know my anxiety alone would cause me PTSD like you. My care is difficult enough without having to deal with the stresses involved in a shelter. There would be no relaxing for me.
Before Harvey came on Thursday, two days before he hit, I thought about calling my friend, Mildred, who with her husband, both in their 80s, lived in Meyerland and had been flooded a couple of times before. The last time it took them six months to get back in and they were taking care of her mother, close to 100 years old.
For some reason, I didn't call and tell her to get out. The mayor, Sylvester Turner, told everyone to, "Shelter in place." Meyerland flooded quickly when Bray's Bayou overflowed its banks. Mildred and her husband had to retreat to their attic where the mayor had warned, "Not to go." They lost communication and were trapped in their attic for 18 hours. I can't imagine what went through their minds. Luckily, their eldest son acquired a boat and came to the house and rescued them. Their house will probably be part of the FEMA buyout because it has been repeatedly flooded. I kick myself figuratively for not having called her.
I'm glad that you are okay, your apartment is okay and you can get back to writing your fine stories and articles for us to read.
Ron
I hope you will see the Lady of the Shelter someday.