I learned today that anyone, everyone who passes opinion on war, or terror, or any of their related misfortunes, should hear an explosion, up close, and without warning. I seem to be magnet for manhole explosions, or the folks at ConEd are incompentent in ways we cannot imagine, having witnessed (within a minute or so of the event) three in the past fifteen months. I have been struck by lightning (in a tertiary way — I know that’s a strange qualification, but true), so maybe it is just that I have a unique coincidence with electrical-related mishaps.
The first was in front of the apartment the day of the Big Blackout, so the subsequent darkness we presumed in the apartment to be our fault (and, for a while, also the cause of the collapse of the eastern seaboard grid; what can I say? We have a megolamanic streak in the apartment). Then, a few months later, more of the same, even the same manhole, this time sans region-wide darkness.
Today, it was leaving the workplace and hearing — no, really, feeling the term always used but never appreciated enough: the concussive effect of detonation. The change in air pressure races past you as the sound hits, and your head rings and your ears immediately stopper. Everyone pauses, looking around for some indication of what just happened. No one is screaming, no one has pushed the terrorist panic button yet. Slowly, smoke begins to billow at the end the block. Everyone moves in a very measured fashion, and no one asks their neighbor anything. A slight stir happens as those who are closer begin to move quickly away, but their disruption does not impel those around you, who remain, staring quizzically. More smoke. And then, again, a sonic thrust even greater, accompanied by a junction box (those steel rectangles with a gridded pattern that sit in many intersections), with its entire substructure, a steel fabrication that weighs an easy 200-300 pounds, goes a good twenty feet into the air.
This time causes a headache and ringing that won’t dissipate for thirty minutes. People are now runnning rapidly away from the source in a geometrically perfect pattern. Vehicles race for cover with inadequate concern for pedestrians. To the left, a man is berating a woman with the proverbial Nikon D70, who responds “I can’t! I’m scared.” Some 200 feet off, we who stood and stared after the first event are still paused, even sickeningly relieved that it is only the street exploding, an entirely comestible event, though dozens of people are racing up the street towards us. You begin to warily eye the manhole covers that dot the street. Sirens are now wailing in the distance, and it is quiet, except for the ringing and occassional cries of fleeing pedestrians. One cab sits oddly in the center and you keep wondering of the driver has fled. Smoke is now covering the intersection and the stench of burning electricity fills the air. Some vehicles are still crossing the intersection and you wonder what urgency compels them to proceed in the face of an highly uncertain condition.
A minute passes. Maybe. And people, likely on their way to the Port Authority, have pulled up, and are starting to creep back to the west, the source. A third rupture, one that seems tame, relative to the first two, signals a defiance on the part of our interlocutor, danger, to the evening commute. This being New York, the lack of escalation emboldens the majority to begin walking back towards the scene, the obvious detour of two blocks deemed excessive. And the unexpected additional three minutes spent leaving the building, along with perhaps the concern that those manhole covers under your feet are legitimately worth fearing, forces you to walk away. By the time you reach the end of the block, the passersby are almost oblivious. By the time you exit the subway a stop away, everything is normal, save the uncomfortable thickness in your ears and the pain whinging in your skull. When you get home you can barely find evidence of the event. But concussion sticks with you. And at a hundred feet, two at most. You try to imagine that happening, closer, for hours, days. Bigger, worse.
We know more than one should ever have to about terror. But much of our anxiety is fueled by anticipation. We still, to our great fortune, live in a place where an event like this can be immediately dismissed (as perverse as such a process is) as accident. And regardless of our posturing, we know it. Because something exploded under our feet, and it stopped my heart, and five hundred people stopped and stared. No one, no one took cover, or immediately ran. Five people were injured, the Times reports. We are lucky. As we are every day. I’ll remember this. But only for a day or two, unless it is useful cocktail chatter (like this). Because I am lucky.
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Boom.
I learned today that anyone, everyone who passes opinion on war, or terror, or any of their related misfortunes, should hear an explosion, up close, and without warning. I seem to be magnet for manhole explosions, or the folks at ConEd are incompentent in ways we cannot imagine, having witnessed (within a minute or so of the event) three in the past fifteen months. I have been struck by lightning (in a tertiary way — I know that’s a strange qualification, but true), so maybe it is just that I have a unique coincidence with electrical-related mishaps.
The first was in front of the apartment the day of the Big Blackout, so the subsequent darkness we presumed in the apartment to be our fault (and, for a while, also the cause of the collapse of the eastern seaboard grid; what can I say? We have a megolamanic streak in the apartment). Then, a few months later, more of the same, even the same manhole, this time sans region-wide darkness. Today, it was leaving the workplace and hearing — no, really, feeling the term always used but never appreciated enough: the concussive effect of detonation. The change in air pressure races past you as the sound hits, and your head rings and your ears immediately stopper. Everyone pauses, looking around for some indication of what just happened. No one is screaming, no one has pushed the terrorist panic button yet. Slowly, smoke begins to billow at the end the block. Everyone moves in a very measured fashion, and no one asks their neighbor anything. A slight stir happens as those who are closer begin to move quickly away, but their disruption does not impel those around you, who remain, staring quizzically. More smoke. And then, again, a sonic thrust even greater, accompanied by a junction box (those steel rectangles with a gridded pattern that sit in many intersections), with its entire substructure, a steel fabrication that weighs an easy 200-300 pounds, goes a good twenty feet into the air. This time causes a headache and ringing that won’t dissipate for thirty minutes. People are now runnning rapidly away from the source in a geometrically perfect pattern. Vehicles race for cover with inadequate concern for pedestrians. To the left, a man is berating a woman with the proverbial Nikon D70, who responds “I can’t! I’m scared.” Some 200 feet off, we who stood and stared after the first event are still paused, even sickeningly relieved that it is only the street exploding, an entirely comestible event, though dozens of people are racing up the street towards us. You begin to warily eye the manhole covers that dot the street. Sirens are now wailing in the distance, and it is quiet, except for the ringing and occassional cries of fleeing pedestrians. One cab sits oddly in the center and you keep wondering of the driver has fled. Smoke is now covering the intersection and the stench of burning electricity fills the air. Some vehicles are still crossing the intersection and you wonder what urgency compels them to proceed in the face of an highly uncertain condition. A minute passes. Maybe. And people, likely on their way to the Port Authority, have pulled up, and are starting to creep back to the west, the source. A third rupture, one that seems tame, relative to the first two, signals a defiance on the part of our interlocutor, danger, to the evening commute. This being New York, the lack of escalation emboldens the majority to begin walking back towards the scene, the obvious detour of two blocks deemed excessive. And the unexpected additional three minutes spent leaving the building, along with perhaps the concern that those manhole covers under your feet are legitimately worth fearing, forces you to walk away. By the time you reach the end of the block, the passersby are almost oblivious. By the time you exit the subway a stop away, everything is normal, save the uncomfortable thickness in your ears and the pain whinging in your skull. When you get home you can barely find evidence of the event. But concussion sticks with you. And at a hundred feet, two at most. You try to imagine that happening, closer, for hours, days. Bigger, worse. We know more than one should ever have to about terror. But much of our anxiety is fueled by anticipation. We still, to our great fortune, live in a place where an event like this can be immediately dismissed (as perverse as such a process is) as accident. And regardless of our posturing, we know it. Because something exploded under our feet, and it stopped my heart, and five hundred people stopped and stared. No one, no one took cover, or immediately ran. Five people were injured, the Times reports. We are lucky. As we are every day. I’ll remember this. But only for a day or two, unless it is useful cocktail chatter (like this). Because I am lucky.