Hurricane Shopping

By 10 a.m. on Saturday, hours before Hurricane Irene swept through Park Slope,  sold its last bottle of water and was out of batteries. An orderly queue emanated from and snaked to the corner of First Street.

"I guess people are stocking up on caffeine and almond croissants," my sister joked.

Someone standing in line told us that Starbucks was closed and we realized why the wait was so long. The woman’s comment reminded me of the days before the Seattle-based beanery and mega-franchise popped up on Seventh Avenue, when Connecticut Muffin was the only café in town.         

But on Saturday, despite the pervasive sense of apprehension, there was almost a festive mood on the Avenue as Park Slopers strolled with strollers and shopping carts filled with chips, salsa, peanut butter, bread, canned goods and other “emergency” nonperishable items.       

There was something about the impending storm that stirred me—and my neighbors—into a state of hyper-consumerism. The more emergency items and food I bought, the less anxious I seemed to feel. It became evident, and almost humorous, how almost everyone had the same hurricane supply checklist and was frantically trying to find and purchase the same supplies to ride out the storm: water, flashlights, batteries, battery-operated radios and food that you can eat without cooking.

But soon, neighborhood grocery stores sold out of these popular items. The phrase-of-the-day was definitely "Go Bag," the bag we were meant to pack with our emergency essentials (clothing, important papers, flashlights, radio) in case we had to evacuate for shelters nearby.        

The lines in Rite Aid were impossibly long as people loaded up on toilet paper, paper towels and toiletries. The food shelves were mostly empty, except for a few cans of soup lying of their side next to some canned fruit and boxes of cereal.            

At Shawn’s Wines & Spirits people were stocking up on liquor and wine. I bought two bottles of Rose and the man behind me hugged five bottles of inexpensive Italian red wine. 

“It’s good enough for the amount we’ll be drinking,” he told me while embraced the bottles closer to his chest. 

I stuck my head inside the and asked what time they would be closing.

"We're staying open and playing it by ear,” owner Ezra Goldstein told me. “I live a block away so it's not such a big deal.”

I was heartened when I could see that the bookstore was packed with people picking out good reads for the impending lock-down.         

A large moving truck was parked in front of the John Jay Educational Campus as the school was transformed into an official Evacuation Center for people who were forced to leave homes in the lowlands. 

Back at our building on Third Street, my neighbors were bringing the plastic garden furniture into the basement and clearing the front yard of any detritus that might be swept up in the wind and cause damage.

Once inside I felt tired, so I took to my bed to read (Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Wendy and The Lost Boys), but I kept jumping up to check my emergency list. In truth, I was too antsy to wait out the hurricane in bed with a book. I needed to be the warrior mama defending family and home from the forces of nature.

I covered the dining room table with all the flashlights, batteries and Yartzeit candles (which are lit in memorandum and honor on the anniversary of the death of a loved one) we had in the apartment.       

Then I located an old-style push button telephone that can operate without electricity (as instructed by my trusty emergency checklist). It was comforting to hear the old fashioned ring, so unlike the digital tones of cordless phones.          

However, the RING-RING rang so many times that the nostalgia wore off after so many times running back and forth to the dining room to pick up the receiver.

My mother, my sister, and my friends: Everyone was checking in and debating the hurricane news. “Fill the bathtub with water,” was one of news blasts from my sister and that’s exactly what I did. I also filled a lobster pot with water and as many water bottles as I could find.         

By mid-afternoon I felt the need to go out again. I decided to inspect my basement office at the Montauk Club on Eight Avenue. I made sure any valuables were off the floor in case of flooding.

Later I ran into a friend who in need of batteries and also ideas on how to secure her front window. It was raining but the wind hadn’t started yet as we stopped in a pet shop on Fifth Avenue. She bought “Wee-Wee” pads for her dog. 

“In case we can’t go out,” she said.

, , the new frozen yogurt shop and  were open. The dark bar, with its spiral staircase and underground back room struck me as great place to sit out the apocalypse. 

Then I got a call from my daughter telling me that she was in need of emergency provisions: popcorn and cookies.         

The sky was darkening and the wind and rain were picking up by 5 p.m. I found myself at the Community Bookstore, again, with a friend sitting in the back room talking as a father read books to his daughter in a loving voice. 

The owner told me that they’d had an incredible day. “There was a kind of black humor among the customers,” Goldstein explained. “People were bored and needed a place to go.”

So what books were Park Slopers buying to read during the hurricane? I asked. Goldstein cheerfully checked his computer for the list of popular purchases.

“We sold four copies of Literary Brooklyn, four copies of Hunger Games, lots of George R. R. Martin books, Swamplandia!, The Magic School Bus: Inside a Hurricane,” Goldstein read from the screen. “But mostly, we sold classics." 

I noticed Anna Karenina, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Visit from the Goon Squad on the list.

“Our sales were up 45 percent compared with the previous weekend. Barnes and Noble closed at 3 p.m.,” Goldstein explained.          

Ah, even in a hurricane, or maybe especially in a hurricane, Park Slopers need their books.