08. Dream
Ahead of us, there’s a sea of brake lights.
Everyone is funneling into the left lane, trying to get over to the baseball stadium. I tap the brakes, they squeal as a lifted pickup truck tries to cut in front of me.
“Jesus!” Cal exclaims from next to me as we stop short, “You gotta pay attention, Soph.”
“It’s not my fault that guy’s an asshole,” I bark without a second thought.
“I know, but still, we can’t afford to be in an accident,” he anxiously holds the little compartment in his door. It sets me on edge.
He’s right, but I don’t want to hear rational thought right now. I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere else, really.
The traffic crawls toward the single-turning lane. Ahead of us are army-green armored vehicles underneath disheveled palm trees. We’d heard the National Guard had moved in, but this is the first real sign of it being true. The cars inch towards the entrance to the stadium. Soldiers in camo carrying cases of water and polystyrene boxes dot the front of the baseball stadium, walking with purpose and unnaturally relaxed faces.
The brakes screech again as we approach the end of the turning lane. A tall soldier sticks his hand out, telling us to stop and wait. I wonder how much longer we can go without taking the car to a mechanic.
It’s a miracle it got so far as Sarasota when we decided to evacuate, let alone made it back.
The soldier waves us in, I roll down my window and try to appear friendly.
“Are you here for dinner or supplies, ma’am?” he asks, inspecting my face.
“Supplies,” I reply.
“Alright, drive on straight ahead, you’ll follow the line of traffic around the field and then we’ll load you up. Just make sure you’ve got the trunk open when you approach,” he instructs, already looking at the car behind us.
“Thanks,” I reply, pulling forward.
As we make our way through the gates, I see the stream of cars he was referring to. Past the ravaged stands is a dense line of cars all creeping forward at a snail's pace around the carved-up field.
“Watch for potholes,” Cal warns. At the rapid pace of 6 miles per hour around a dirt path, I deem his advice redundant and say nothing.
The low sounds of NPR and the endless hum of engines around us fill the space between us. I watch the herons standing around the nearby retention pond, their long legs craning with each step. I long to have their problems instead of my own.
When we crawl forward, I look at the baseball field. I’ve never been here before, but I suspect it looks worse for wear. Charlotte Sports Park is torn up, the metal roof of the seated area is twisted and pulled back like the lid of a tin can. Palm trees are haggard and falling apart. The field itself is littered with debris, anyone would think a plane crashed into the damn place.
“Was it like this when you were a kid?” I ask Cal, “After Charley I mean.”
He shrugs.
“Possibly, I don’t remember much of it,” he replies, not looking up from his phone, “I just remember how hot it was. No power for two weeks, nothing but MREs for dinner, and no roof on half of the house.”
I guess I should count my blessings that we have our roof still, but everything about the last week feels like an awful dream. Cal looks up from his phone and puts his hand on my leg.
“We could have it a lot worse, you know.”
I nod, knowing full well that he’s right again, however, it’s hard to truly believe him. Seeing the way the latest hurricane has torn up our town, I wonder why we’ve chosen this place. We’re halfway around the baseball field now and I can see a break in the traffic. They’re loading up people’s trunks. The car in front of us pops his. I turn the car off so I can do ours too, praying the damn car will turn back on and, thankfully, it does.
We teeter closer to the small cluster of tents at the edge of the stadium. Cases of water and boxes fill each tent in piles. Military personnel are darting in every direction. When we pull up, I roll down the window and a stony-faced soldier lists what they’re loading in our trunk with a rehearsed meter.
“Alright, we’ve got you two boxes of meals, two cases of water, and a tarp. Any kids in the car?”
“No,” I reply. The thought of not having small people to care for during all of this leaves me feeling relieved.
“Alright, you’re all good to go. Have a blessed day folks,” he waves us along to make room for the next car.
I feel another soldier shut the trunk with a thud before I pull away. In the blistering evening heat, we’re heading back to our battered house where we’ll drape a tarp over the leaking roof and eat military rations for dinner. This has to be a fucking dream, right?
