Creative Writing: Blackout

WOOOSH!

The cheap blinds make their familiar sound as I yank the old yellowing cord down at an awkward angle, a motion that used to be a struggle but now comes second nature. Every time I pull on the cord, I tell myself that I’m pulling too fast and this will probably be the time that it finally snaps. It never does though, it always seems to hold on, barely. Like pretty much everything in this dank Brooklyn apartment, always holding on, but barely. Plumbing, appliances, you name it, still functioning but not without a cacophony of groans and creaks. The only real positive of this 900 square foot cinder block apartment housing three women in their early thirties, is the view. The very one that I’m currently soaking in. 

We live in Green Point, a neighborhood of Brooklyn that sat undisturbed for decades until developers and young-ish people like myself realized that GP sits in the most perfect geographical position for an incredible New York City view. At this time each night, it’s all East River and cotton candy skies and New York City’s spectacle of glass and lights. It’s what I come home to every night, after a day spent mostly underground in the subway, and peer at, reminding myself that yes, this is still worth it. Look at that view. Without taking my eyes away from the window I kick off my shoes. My roommate, Elyse, is also home, arguing with her boyfriend on the phone (Joe I came to you last night. How many weekends in a row can we do LES? Geezus), her voice combatting the radio station streaming in the kitchen. I can tell you all of these details because our walls are made of plywood. Maybe not even;  could be painted cardboard. We hear every word, every bite, every note, every sigh, every laugh, everything. Hell, I could probably hear an eye roll in this place. 

I lift my hands onto the window and lean my forehead against the glass, closing my eyes and enjoying the coolness on my skin. Today was hot, so hot. August in New York is nothing but salty sweat and exhaust and garbage and grime. I keep my eyes closed until I hear a click and suddenly the room feels dark around me. Nextdoor Elyse lets out a rhetorical - what the fuck? Opening my eyes, I realize that we’ve been plunged into darkness. My room, the apartment, and... the island of Manhattan. The ever-constant blinking of lights, that heartbeat of the city, has ceased. I wait a few seconds. It feels like a brief pause from normalcy, the city catching it’s breath. Only the seconds pass and the pause hasn’t ended yet. Shit. 

“Goddamnit, it’s a blackout,” Elyse says as her shadow enters my doorframe. She turns on the flashlight on her phone, pointing directly at me, temporarily blinding me. “How is this even possible? There hasn’t been one of these since, like, the ‘70’s.”

“I think there was one in like, 2003,” I mutter, mostly to myself as I plop down on my unmade bed and rub my eyes. “I mean, it was 102 degrees today. I guess that’s why? And by the way, it’s about to get really hot in here without our AC.” 

“Ughhhhhhhh,” Elyse groans, walking into the kitchen and opening the door to the fridge. “I’m not built for this.” 

Before she’s finished her sentence, our third roommate, Sloan, pushes the front door open with a dramatic shove, drops her purse onto the floor by the door, and immediately joins Elyse at the fridge. She grabs a beer and uncaps it in one swift motion. “I just walked up seven flights of stairs. Seven. Fucking Flights.” 

“Guys! Shut the fridge. Our food is going to go bad,” I say as I push myself off the bed and walk into the main space. 

“Honey, it’s a lost cause. These are never temporary,” Sloan says over her shoulder, between swigs of Blue Moon. “Hopefully, your Southern blood can get you through the hellish night we’re about to have.” 

I consider this for a moment. She’s right, I used to run drills at soccer camp every summer in worse heat than this. But I was also a teenager. Realizing that I’m sweating through my blouse, I unbutton the top few buttons of my starchy white button-down. Resigned, I grab a Blue Moon and join Sloan on the couch. 

“Well, in that case, cheers, y’all, let’s get drunk!” I laugh at them, in my thickest Georgia accent. Sloan chuckles and Elyse groans, as she uses her lighter to light a candle that illuminates our apartment. As it turns out, that candle was our only source of light for the next fourteen hours.