The Little Piston that Could
I was up until 4 a.m. last night making maps with the night crew. You’d think it’d be a nice quiet shift, but they need to have products prepared for first light, which means I get busy. They served us chicken fried steak at the 1 a.m. chow. I think I'm still recovering from that one. My diet has taken a nose dive into grad school-style comfort food crossed with southern hospitality. Huddling in front of a laptop with people looking over you shoulder for 18 hour will do that. Red vines, chocolate, pb&j sandwiches, oranges, bananas, coffee, more coffee, doritos, chips, diet coke. Rosemary and the track look so far, far away right now. The summer tan that I earned under so many hours in the sun is beginning to peal.
Today was full on:
“I need it NOW. Is it ready YET?“
“I have a meeting in 10 minutes.“
“Email it to these Army captains.“
“We're giving these maps to the pilots so they can do aerial surveys of the neighborhoods.“
“If you see bars or stars, yes it is a priority.“
“We need this by 1700 for a heads meeting to decide the hazmat priorities.“
“We're giving these maps to the boat teams so they can navigate up the streets now waterways to do house-to-house searches.“
“What is the lat/long of this street address? They say there are people who need rescued there.“
“What is the lat/long of this address? There is a house full of nuns who refuse to leave and want to die under God's will.“
“They sent out swat teams to take out snipers who are on the roofs shooting at the response personnel.“
“There is bunker fuel sliding through the neighborhood.“
The shit is on fire. A gaping hole will open up and swallow the remains of the city. Nobody sees that as such a bad thing. It's all good. The Coasties get what they need. They go do the dirty work. I just sit here and eat Red Vines.
There is a woman pilot my age who wears her olive green pilot suit and black combat boots around the command post. She speaks with authority and control, but in a soft, tender voice that makes you wonder if that same voice barks back to her while she's in the pilot's seat scorching through the airspace. She has blonde hair pulled back and in other attire could be that California girl from a Beach Boys song. I admire her. I sometimes wish I had taken a different track.
It really is a positive atmosphere here. They try to keep morale high. Someone has passed around Beanie Babies to the tables. Somehow I got two. A brown and tan puppy diving into the Red Vines and a bright green bear dressed as a clown sitting on a printer. Everyone is friendly and says hello. It's not like the streets you live on where you don't even lift up your head to greet a neighbor you've lived next to for 5 years. Everyone introduces themselves. Everyone smiles and asks how you are, even if you've never met. You're here for a common cause. You're here to help each other succeed. There is no need for masks or self absorption. Leave that at the door. In fact, leave that in the putrid flooded streets of New Orleans. Get over yourself. We're here as humanity and will die together in humanity. There is no need to trump anyone else today when you will trip and fall all your ass in front of everyone tomorrow. I love coming to these events because it is a microcosm for how things should be. Team work, communication, success, altruism, equality. I try to take it back with me when I go home, but it tends to get crushed by those who have never had the pleasure. That could be my contribution, to not let it get crushed any more. Fuck you all and your holier selves, I will take back. You won't crush this again.
