The shrill prospect of a tornado watch scrolling across the television screen proved no deterrent to the desire to procure a physical book from our public library in preparation for the vacation trip starting the next day. Indeed, my wife and I also felt the need for a salad from our favorite sub shop to eat for dinner that evening. Under gloomy, threatening, cloud-crammed skies we set out, reasoning that we could beat the projected arrival time for a band of storms sweeping in from the west.
The short drive to the library proved uneventful and we weren’t the only patrons that felt a trip to the same destination was also necessary on this threatening day. All went well, I roamed the new books rack while my esposa Cheryl searched the dedicated PC stations for the availability of a particular novel calculated to evoke the atmosphere of Savannah, our place to vacation the following days.
Glancing out the large plate glass windows that opened onto the small flower garden with its bronzed statue of an older woman reading to a group of children huddled at her feet and parking lot, I could see the trees whipping about as the storm arrived about two hours earlier than anticipated; then rain and possibly hail began pounding the roof and rendering visibility down to about two feet through the windows. A weather alert began wailing a klaxon call from the phone in my back pocket because I had forgotten to silence the thing; shortly, the PA announced that we were under a tornado warning, so all patrons needed to go down into the lower level then into a side hallway area to take shelter.
As part of the obedient herd, I made sure that to have Cheryl by me as we descended the stairs in a left spiral and moved across the reference and nonfiction section away from the windows. Standing around with approximately fifty others next to shelves containing South Carolinian writers, I started scanning book spines, naturally. Had just picked out one about an unrepentant Confederate from the Spartanburg area (I had read it several years ago) when the place went dark.
Librarians with us announced the loss of power, versus I guess, saving power, when I peeked around the end of the shelf to the windows and saw that high winds were still whipping the vegetation into submission. Well, I thought, not the worst exit off this mortal coil, smothered by books and other bibliophiles, yet not in a hurry to do so. I stayed where I could see what was happening through the windows and grabbed a chair, intending to read a bit. Even with the gray light from the large windows, it was still a bit too dim to read comfortably, leaving me to my devices (no reception on the cell).
After several minutes, a librarian announced the lifting of the warning with the further news that power would be out for an unknown time, so we could stick it out or leave. Cheryl and I opted to get the heck out of there and was greeted with stiff winds and rain pouring like the blazes. Our umbrella was barely adequate for the walk to the car, and useless as she got in the passenger side, no way to cover us both. Racing around to the driver side I put up a futile struggle getting in and collapsing the umbrella without drowning.
Attempting to call the sub shop and receiving an all circuits are busy message should have been a major tip-off, but, no. Rolling across the bridge over the interstate a few miles later, we could see the east bound lanes, the ones we needed, were at a near standstill as far as we could see in both directions. This necessitated the decision to take a sort of frontage road where traffic seemed to move in both directions. That flow turned out to be illusory about a mile and a half later as we came upon a downed tree across the road and the source of returning traffic a series of turn arounds. Executing my own three-point turn, our poor little car was nearly the victim of a rude or over-anxious driver who slipped around the front end just as I was about to go forward and complete the turn. I can only suppose she was looking for dinner, as well, frustrated in that effort much like ourselves.
Escaping that blockade, we backtracked to a roundabout that let us onto a favorite road that we used to refer to as The Double-Secret, before the numerous subdivisions that have grown like aggressive cancers across our community rendering it Not So Secret, but still a great shortcut most of the time. Naturally, this proved to be blocked by a fire engine perpendicular to the road about a mile into that route. Another three-pointer, less eventful this time, back to the roundabout and the only other choice of escape route. More downed trees spotted this drive, but none completely blocking traffic. All of us drivers treated these minor obstacles just like our beloved four-way stops; we politely took turns getting back and forth.
Successful on this attempt where we saw that traffic signals were working, boosting our hopes for a successful salad run. But the pesky detail of not being able to call in the order… As we approached the correct intersection, four lanes all four ways, we still insisted on making TWO left turns with no signals to stop ANY traffic, only to find what we both feared and somehow expected but would not accept without eyes-on validation. It was closed.
In spite of various fantasy scenarios in which we could hold a flashlight for the employees to make the salads and overpay with cash, we drove off to continue our search for a nonexistent replacement. Although we did find another sub shop open and their salad, while no match for the gold standard that is Sub Station II, was actually pretty tasty and stood in adequately. Still, the urge, the fascination, the gnawing need must be satisfied. Another day.
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