The Big One | 5 November 2021
So that was it: “The Big One.” Adrenaline pumping, I checked my body like it didn’t belong to me. No pain yet. The apartment was in much worse shape. Heavy cracks spread like arteries on the walls and ceiling. The front door was wedged on bent hinges inside a now parallelogram frame. Outside I heard car alarms, shouting, and the hiss of water. The face of my alarm clock was black. The block was busted. I could stay and hope for the best, or I could leave and not worry about the roof collapsing in on me. The emergency backpack stuffed in the closet was looking more appealing by the minute.
BNR Response
Bleary eyed and having been awoken by the shake, I rubbed my eyes and put my feet on the floor. Rising up out of bed I reached for my favorite pajama-soft Pearl Jam tee, worn as a dress, threw on a hoodie and Uggs. I grabbed my go bag, phone, and apparently unnecessary keys, and made it through the trapezoid door. Every step down the hallway felt like a move across an Indiana Jones bridge rapidly collapsing in a pit of lava behind me. I felt guilty relief in knowing that 99% of my stuff was already packed and in transit to move across the Bay. Now I just had to figure out if my new place had been hit.
Once on the street I was able to fully survey and assess the damage. It wasn’t great, but perhaps not as bleak as within my apartment building. I could see smoke billowing up from the bridge, and a fire hydrant was responsible for the hissing water, but the most unusual scene at the moment was the number of people out in the streets. As I walked down my block toward where I meet the crew for brunch every Saturday, the regional code-5 disaster only mildly distracted me from the fog caused by the other tumult I experienced in the last 24 hours: my latest conquest.
As I stepped over fallen bricks from my neighbor’s balcony, I searched my phone for last night’s text messages. The usual semi-drunken exchanges with Bertus, Frosty, and Lo took a familiar shape as I described the Viking-esque 6-footer I had targeted the night before at the speakeasy a cab ride away.
I stopped to console a hysterical Maria (2 doors down) who couldn’t find her dog after the 8.1 quake. I hug her hurriedly, noting that her disheveled appearance isn’t going to do her any favors if she wants her philandering boyfriend to stick around. Randall liked to look. I should know.
My mission was to get to breakfast, which my phone told me I had 5 minutes to do, before everyone got their orders in. As I stopped dutifully at the light, a jacked-up taxi drove by with its bumper dragging on the ground, a large boulder-sized dent in the hood, and I realized I was functioning on autopilot. I hadn’t gotten that lit last night so I couldn’t blame the Sidecars, so I chalked up my cavalier attitude to both shock and post-coital buzz.
I pulled my hoodie back on my shoulder from where Maria had tugged it down in her unseemly crying spell, and the wind bristled against my unshaven legs. I felt the eyes of the suit walking past me acknowledging that I didn’t have pants on. If I weren’t in such a hurry, I’d see where that suit was going and find out if he wanted a tag-along. Immediately behind that suit came the disapproving look from some hausfrau, I rolled my eyes and walked on. It ain’t for you anyway, lady, so wave off.
I nearly skipped the remaining 5 short blocks to Johnny’s, the greasy spoon we frequent, and saw the gang seated in the primo window table. An extraordinary number of people were waiting on the sidewalk, emptying the carafes of coffee left outside for those whose seats weren’t yet ready. The side door was open, and I could see they’re handing out meal kits to people presenting at the window in need of food. I then realized that the line reached down the block and wrapped around the corner. It’s a Pirates of the Caribbean ride-like line that no one wants to be in. I recognized the guy up next in line at the door as someone I had bagged a few weeks prior, whose name I conveniently couldn’t remember. Whew, what a night that was. He had full sleeves of tattoos and wore several rings on his hands. He had this sick loft right on the Embarcadero with those endlessly high ceilings. I should try to recall his name so I can text him later to see if he’s still got a hunger for redheads. And if his apartment is still standing. I mean, we will need a place to go and mine’s out so…
I edged past the huddled masses in line for the free food at the door and opted for the main entrance to the café. I slid into the booth window seat next to Lo and threw my head down on the table in feigned drama and exhaustion. No one laughed. I couldn’t wait to tell them about last night, and tittered as I remembered bringing Thor back to my place: shimmying out of my low-slung jeans and camisole, the room spinny as we clumsily fumbled toward an appropriate surface (table gone already, so countertop?). We danced in an inebriated roundabout, kissing, removing his clothes next. I couldn’t stop teasing him about his name, sure that it was a bar alias (mine was “Natasha.”) I was in the haze of remembering how young he looked, his blonde hair falling across his remarkably unblemished face, when Lo snapped her fingers in front of me like a hypnotist breaking the spell.
“Earth to Gabby!” she said, then I came to and saw that she and Bertus and Frosty were all looking at me with stern incredulity. I listened intently at how their flats were in various states of disrepair, how thank goodness Johnny’s was open and had chargers and WiFi, blah blah until their attention drifted away from me and I could focus on more important things…like our waiter’s ass.