by Alan, TS
“Boring?” Marisol asked.
“Yeah. For the First Avenue tunnel pipeline.” He explained, “We constructed a shaft to lower down the TBM, and we bored a tunnel through the rock up to 36th Street. There’s a shaft there where we extracted the TBM––”
Marisol was slightly dumbfounded. She didn’t know anything about how tunnels under the city were constructed, unlike myself who knew a great deal. “What’s a TBM?” she asked, interrupting, hoping he would explain.
“A tunnel-boring machine,” he said, without truly explaining. “Pipes for steam and BPL—that’s broadband over power lines,” he directed to Marisol, “were installed within the newly cut tunnel…”
I think David actually enjoyed his job. He seemed to exude enthusiasm and way too much information anytime someone asked him about the tunnel system. From rock star to engineer. I’m sure this wasn’t in his lifelong plan, but he seemed happy.
“We’re lucky, because all the tunneling from 20th to 41st Street is bored, not open cut, and twelve feet in diameter with clearance for us to walk through,” David concluded.
“What’s an open cut?” Marisol asked, another question I was sure was going to extract another long response.
Julie answered. “An open cut pipeline involves the excavation and burial of a pipe usually no deeper than twenty feet. We also call these cut and cover tunnels.”
David hadn’t told us everything. He forgot to mention that once we got to 20th Street, we would have to descend down a shaft, which would eventually place us eighty-five feet underground.
The three doors were before us once again. He opened the door to the right, which was marked Shaft – 20-2, revealing a platform overlooking a precipice. Only a hip-high railing stood between a deadly fall and us. If it were in me to commit suicide, this would be the quickest and easiest way. I could prevent a long agonizing death by ending it, but suicide had always unnerved me. In all my time as a paramedic it was the one thing I couldn’t comprehend, no matter how many papers I read on it. It wasn’t my lack of understanding of the why; it was my inability to grasp how someone could purposely hurt one’s self to the point of death.
As I looked over the edge, a shiver came over me. I equated it to my uneasy feeling of committing the act, rather than the onset of my imminent undeath.
One side of the platform held the doorway to a small freight elevator; the other was the entrance to a ladder. There were no graduating steps as before, just a ladder straight down the vertical passage with small platforms at different intervals for resting.
“So, we have to go down to go up?” I asked.
“There’s no other way.”
“Thank the Creator there’s an elevator, or how the hell would I get Max down there?”
David pointed.
“Are you kidding me?” I said.
David was pointing at a heavy-duty wall-mounted hand-crank winch.
“That’s a six thousand pound capacity winch with an eight millimeter galvanized aircraft cable, just in case there’s no power and someone needs to get lifted to the top.”
“Odd, you should mention no power. I was thinking. Exactly how long do we have until the power grid fails?”
“You want worst case, or the optimistic scenario?”
“How about both?”
“Most of our city’s electricity in generated by combined-cycle gas turbines, which includes a steam generation component. Without operator input to control systems that correct for minor problems or routine fluctuations, they could possibly operate unattended for two days. Within four to six hours there will be scattered blackouts and brownouts in numerous areas, within twelve hours much of the system will be unstable, and within twenty-four hours most of the city should be out. That’s worse case.
He moved toward the elevator and pulled down its slide-up, two section wire mesh gate.
“Best case, hope that the operators and utilities have had sufficient time to take measures to keep the power going for a while. The first thing would be to isolate key portions of the grid, redirect power to essential areas, and cease power delivery to non-essential areas.
Fuel supply would eventually be a problem. Natural gas plants would be most vulnerable to failure since maintaining the gas wells, balancing the gas flow, and otherwise keeping the pipeline system intact requires considerable effort. Once we lose our fuel supply, we’ll go down.”
“That doesn’t give us a lot of time to get through the subway tunnels.”
David motioned us to the elevator.
“Why?” Julie demanded to know.
“When the power fails so will the sumps,” I told her. “Without the sumps pumping out all the water that gets into the subway tunnels, it will accumulate under the tracks and in two hours, all train traffic would have to halt. Within three days the subway tunnels will be completely flooded. You’re looking at thirteen million gallons a day, without rain, that the transit system pumps out.”
David explained as we entered the elevator, “On older tunnels yes, but not this one nor the ones we came from. We have an extensive backup system in place if the grid goes down. We should be safe for a while.”
After he closed and secured the gate, he pressed the down button. The elevator car stood still.
David was surprised when the car did not move. After pressing the button two more times, he cursed. He checked the elevator gate to make sure it had been properly secured, but that was not the problem. Undiscouraged, he re-opened the gate and stepped out. We watched as he flipped up the lever on a power box. He again stepped into the elevator, secured the gate, and pushed the down button. The elevator remained motionless.
“Shit,” was his response.
He exited the car again and approached the box, opening its cover after he pulled the switch arm to the off position.
“Hey, J.D.,” he called to me. “Lend me your multi-tool.”
I removed the tool from the pouch looped through my belt as I walked over to him.
He carefully grasped the tubular buss fuse with the pliers attachment and the fuse collapsed under the pressure.
“Shit,” he said, again. He handed me my tool and closed the door to the fuse box.
Normally, I would have made some smart-ass comment about the fuse situation, like pointing out how circuit breakers are easier to reset after a failure situation has occurred, especially since you only need to flip a switch. Except I saw how frustrated David was becoming over the inoperable elevator. Instead I said, “I take it you don’t have another one.”
“We always leave one or two inside the box, just in case. But the construction services mechanic must have dropped the ball.”
We left the platform and went directly across the hallway. David unlocked the door to our left. It was a storage room. He turned on the light.
“Wow. A goldmine!” I sarcastically exclaimed.
The tiny room was nearly empty, with the exception of an empty wooden spool used for metal cabling, a few pipe fittings, several scraps of piping, pieces of block and tackle, and what appeared to be several large canvas tool bags all strewn around the dirty floor.
“Did Robert Goulet mess with your stuff…? Is there a bathroom somewhere?” I had consumed a large amount of water and some of it had to come out.
“Robert Goulet?” Marisol asked.
“No,” David confirmed what I was pretty sure of. “But there is another storage room down below with a slop sink. If we ever get to it.”
“Who’s Robert Goulet?” Marisol asked again, insisting on an answer.
“What’s the point?”
“The point of what?” David asked.
I said, “Exactly!”
“Futility, I guess. Thought maybe there’d be something useful in here, like a fuse.”
“Why did Robert Goulet mess with David’s stuff?!” Marisol blurted out.
“It’s an obscure pop culture reference. When your blood sugar and energy gets low, Robert Goulet comes and messes with yo
ur stuff. Satisfied?!”
I had been brusque in my reply. My short temper was out of character, and I did not know why I had been curt. I quickly apologized. “Marisol, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” I wiped the perspiration from my forehead and addressed David. “Now what?”
Something on the floor caught David’s eye. He held it up. It was a small piece of rounded steel bar. “Problem solved,” he said.
At the fuse box David placed the steel bar into the fuse clips, closed the box, and engaged the handle. I was prepared for the worst—an overload—but it was all good. We loaded into the elevator once again and descended.
Finally, I was urinating, relieving my uncomfortable bladder. The slop sink, however, was not a sink at all. It was a square cast-iron floor sink, with grating inset into the floor and rimmed by a six-inch high curb. But it had running water.
When I finished, I opened the door to let them know they could enter. They all stood in a line against the wall. It appeared everyone needed to go.
The storeroom contained more items and was better organized than the previous one we visited, but not by much. The construction crew had left behind a small amount of galvanized piping, a few empty acetylene and oxygen bottles, some wiring, fittings, several tools and other minimal sundry items. Most were neatly binned and hung. There was even a partial case of small water bottles stacked on top of an old grey colored metal desk.
I didn’t expect water and I wasn’t about to find a stash of old fallout shelter biscuits. So I sat on top of the desk and pulled out a bag of beef jerky with barbecue sauce from my backpack.
“Anyone hungry?”
Max gave me a whimper and a paw.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He whimpered again and cocked his head.
I gave the bag of jerky to David, and he held it out to Marisol while I retrieved a few treats out of Max’s pack.
“You think you’ve earned these?” I asked my canine. Max let out a loud bark in confirmation. “Wachten op,” I told him, as I held out a treat. He patiently waited for the command allowing him to take it. I followed with “Nimm behandeln,” instead of nimm futter, which I used for his meals. He took the treat gingerly from my fingers.
As I was kneeling I glanced at the desk drawers. What’s in the desk? a voice inside my head asked. I pulled on the large bottom right drawer. It was locked. My nosiness was piqued.
“There’s no reason to lock a desk down here, unless there’s something important in it,” I said aloud.
I looked around the room and spotted Julie examining a large, heavy pry bar, which she had found. I took it, wedged the flat end of the tool into the crevice of the drawer, and yanked. The bottom drawer popped open, snapping the cheap locking mechanism.
Clean white t–shirts, nicely folded and carefully placed one on top of another. Score! They were my size: large.
I pulled off my dirty tee and threw it on the floor. I would miss that shirt. It was one of my favorites, which I had purchased the summer before at the Second Avenue Street Fair.
Marisol was watching me. At first my ego said she was studying me because she thought I was hot. I do have a ripped chest, cut abs, and well-defined arms, but then reality set in. I realized she was looking at my scar, a hole and incision in my left pectorals. The wound was a reminder of a once youthful arrogant behavior, which continued to grow until fate deflated it. I wasn’t always conscious of my scars, but Marisol’s look of curiosity and sympathy reminded me how I had let things get out of control. I strived to never let it happen again, but I seemed to be grasping.
I continued to search the drawer. If I were lucky there would be some deodorant in there somewhere. I was beginning to smell quite ripe. As I pulled the rest of the clothing out of the drawer, I couldn’t believe what I saw.
“Holy shit! Look at this!”
David was as astounded as I was. It was an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. I was a loyal Jack Daniel’s drinker, though I did partake in the occasional drinking of Bushmills Malt 16 Year Old. Tennessee whiskey was my drink of choice, like it was for Frank Sinatra. And if it was good enough for the velvety crooner…
“Damn!” he exclaimed. “Anything else as good as that in there?”
The whiskey had been lying on a bed of towels. I pulled up the towels and underneath I found six clear plastic tumblers, a bar of scented soap, used, and a tube of a sensitive skin, clear gel deodorant, also used. I put on some deodorant and dressed. There was nothing else of use or in the remaining drawers.
David and I sat on the desk and shared the bottle, while Marisol sat in the desk chair with Max by her side. Julie went through the bins and cabinets, gathering what she thought might be useful. I offered everyone the opportunity to share in my bounty, but the girls weren’t interested.
David lit up a Marlboro cigarette.
“That shit will kill you,” I told him.
He replied, “If I’m lucky,” and proceeded to take a long drag.
I raised my glass and toasted, “Dance as if no one were watching. Sing as if no one were listening. And live every day as if it were your last. Sláinte mhaith to you.”
We slugged them back and I re-poured.
“Sláinte mhaith?” David asked.
“Gaelic for good health… Okay,” I said, then took another gulp of Jack. “Time to challenge your movie quote knowledge. I’ll start off easy on you,” I told him, and recited a line about a surprise visit and some ultra violence.
“C’mon, that’s easy. A Clockwork Orange.”
“I said easy. Okay, give me one.”
David thought for a moment, took a sip from his cup, and said, “¿Quién sabe?”
“El Chuncho. A Bullet For The General.” I shot him back a line about being an Irish bastard and getting fucked.
“Juan Miranda, Giù la testa. That’s my favorite Sergio Leon film. However, my favorite line was delivered by James Coburn.” He recited the quote about revolution and confusion.
“Okay, how about this…” I gave him a line about having an intelligent conversation that ended with “I’ll talk, and you listen.” It was from a 1990s Dennis Hopper and Kevin Costner film.
“Deacon, Waterworld.”
“Damn it. I didn’t think anyone saw that film. How about one more?”
“That Bubba Ho-Tep quote got your panties all twisted…? Sure, go for it.”
David was correct, I had my twat in a knot over his Bruce Campbell line. I didn’t like being bested. I needed to at least even the score with him. “Okay, I got it.” I gave him a line from a cult indie film that mentioned floating away like a butterfly, and the wastelands not being any place for a kid.
“Six-String Samurai with Eddie Falcon as the sword-wielding, guitar playing, Buddy Holly/Elvis Costello look-alike.”
“Son of a monkey’s ass,” I said, frustrated.
“I’ll give you one more shot.”
I paused for a moment. I needed to stump him. I had to come up with some film he would never have seen. Thought about the film Freaks, then remembered he was a Ramones fan, so that was out. Princess Bride? No, too easy. Reefer Madness, Eraserhead? No, too cult, he’d definitely get it. Then it hit me. I knew a quote about a place beyond, beyond, and bidding a genie to appear. I was sure I would get him on this.
He didn’t respond immediately. He had a puzzled look upon his face as he thought about what film it could be. Had I stumped him? Had I actually done it?
Then he said, “The 7th Voyage of Sinbad.”
“Son-of-a—You paused. I thought I had you.”
“Nope. Ray Harryhausen, the pioneer of Claymation. That linger was just me contemplating which Sinbad film it came from.”
We were enjoying ourselves, having a moment of relief from the chaos above and the uncertainty of our future—at least their future.
“How about top ten bands and/or artists?” I asked. “You first.”
I held out my glass to my new comrade for another pour. We raised our glasses
once again and gave one another cheers.
“Top ten… well, I can tell you my number one favorite is The Misfits.”
“They don’t have to be in order,” I said.
“Okay, but my number one favorite is still The Misfits… Misfits, Cannibal Corpse, L7, Skatenigs, Ministry, Judas Priest, Pussy Crush, Bauhaus, KMFDM, and Rob Zombie… Now you.”
“That’s a lot of death metal and industrial bands, considering your band was ‘Moroccan roll’.”
“Things change. So what about you?” David asked.
“My list is rather eclectic… Paul Williams,” I began, but was immediately interrupted.
“As in Swan?!” David asked with excited curiosity.
“Of course,” I told him.
“Phantom of the Paradise is one of the greatest American musical films of all time.”
“I concur. Okay, so, Paul Williams, Harry Connick, Jr., Jim Steinman, Elton John, Joe Jackson, Chicago… Shane MacGowan, The Tiger Lillies, David Bowie, and Gary Moore.”
David asked, “Gary Moore? Who the hell is Gary Moore?”
“Guitar player… Thin Lizzy.”
David looked at me dumbfounded.
“How can you not remember him?” I asked. “You opened three shows in Ireland for him.”
David shrugged and poured himself another drink. “Those European tours we did were endless parties. I don’t remember much of them.”
More than half the bottle was gone.
“Jeez, I’m buzzed. And I gotta piss again. Hey, Julie. Find anything?”
“Yeah. Lots of stuff.”
“Yeah, but nuts and bolts don’t count. I mean useful, like that emergency kit on the wall you’ve walked by four times.” I couldn’t wait any longer; I had to go. “Alright everyone, I gotta use the sink. Just a warning.”
When I returned David was arranging the crowded desktop with the items Julie had set down: tools, flashlights and other possibly useful objects. Her foraging expedition seemed to have paid off.
“All right,” I said to David. “What’s your plan?”
“Pack this stuff up in the totes and head down the tunnel to Amtrak.”
“We catchin’ a train?”
