7:13 PM, July 4th.
Text from Neighbor: “Wanted 2 give u a heads up. electricity issues @ building again.”
I looked at my phone, sighed, and went back to people watching…thinking she was definitely training to be the next Resident Retired Lady. So much drama over such trivial things.
I was at Gasworks Park, people-watching and making myself sick on $7 worth of kettle corn. Now was certainly not the time to be worrying about my apartment.
Didn’t Neighbor have anything better to do than watch her lights blink on and off? Why was she even home?!? It was the Fourth of July! It wasn’t raining! She really needed to get out and do something.
Near as I could figure, Neighbor only worked part time. She spent hours by the pool; every semi-summery day you could see her sprawled on a chaise lounge. When not by the pool, she watched the building happenings from her deck. I often heard her talking to the Resident Retired Lady on the phone – despite being a mere ten feet above her. Long ago I’d trained myself to avoid passing her in the hallway; even a short “hello” lasted twenty minutes or more. She always had plenty to say about her latest boyfriend catastrophe or work saga. She kept track of who left their laundry in the dryer overnight.
The park continued to fill with people. I stashed my phone and chatted with friends.
Hours went by. The sky got darker.
Fireworks started along the periphery of Lake Union. It got colder. The park got fuller. At 10:10 PM, one of the top five fireworks shows in the nation (according to Time magazine and the official WaMu Family Fourth website) started.
Twenty-one minutes later, it was over. I waited and waited and waited for the crowd to disperse. Wondered if making it into the top four of fireworks shows required twenty-two minutes of pyrotechnics. Or possibly even twenty-five?
Somehow, I got past a bunch of the crowd and found my car. From there, it took an hour to get home…despite the drive to the park only taking ten minutes. Probably no one factored the resultant traffic jam into the “nation’s best” scoring system. I considered writing to Time about the matter, then swerved to avoid spectators who’d spilled over sidewalks and onto the road.
My parking spot appeared eventually. It was late, I was tired, and being around so many people all day had made my skin crawly. I was seriously looking forward to a shower, some quiet time, and lots of sleep as I trudged up the stairs to my apartment and flipped on the hall light.
At that very moment, I remembered the Neighbor’s text. And realized she’d been serious. By electricity issues, she meant issues.
I had no power. At all. Anywhere in my apartment. Nothing turned on.
It was midnight on the Fourth of July. My ice cream was melting. My milk was getting warm even. My hot water heater was going cold. I was nine hours away from morning, and had no way to make coffee.
My cell phone battery was nearly dead. I had no car charger. And therefore was about to face an entire weekend with no contact with the outside world.
So I did what (likely) anyone would have done: decided the power would still be out when I got up. And went to bed.
Every day another story -
Sofie
