Dear Friends,
It was 9:30 Monday morning when the lights went out under a clear, cloudless sky. There was a loud pop from my speakers before my computer shut down in a whir of spinning fans. A few seconds later, everything in my apartment connected to an electrical outlet was well and truly dead. I had already looked outside, but I looked again: no rain, no clouds. A power line might have gone down, but such things are rare in Florida, what with the lack of twisty turny roads and slippery slushy snow. Circling the building, my suspicions were confirmed: the power wasn't out; my power was out.
To make a long story short, it turns out that, though I've been paying an electric bill for quite some time now, I never actually performed the necessary steps to transfer the electricity into my name. And so it was that, eight months after I moved in, the electric company decided to turn off my electric despite the fact that I have paid my bill punctually for the duration of my stay, and furthermore opted to alert me of their dissatisfaction by ensuring that every meat and dairy product I owned would be spoiled and discarded.
Oh well. The milk was at its expiration date, anyway.
Irritation aside, I must admit that their tactics were effective. Within an hour of learning what had happened, I had transferred the electricity into my name and paid a sizable deposit, the purpose of which still eludes me. The nice lady on the telephone assured me that my electricity would be reconnected within forty-eight hours. I wanted to ask her what century she thought we were in; forty-eight hours without electricity? Instead, I thanked her and hung up. Thankfully, the company that provides my water is not as troublesome, and so I poured myself a glass and read a book until I was ready to go to work.
I returned that night to a pitch-dark apartment. I'm used to using candles, so light wasn't an issue, but I wasn't able to cook, either. I ordered Chinese and read by flashlight until I fell asleep. In the morning, I woke in a position that somehow restricted blood flow to both my arms. I sat up in bad and twisted my body to swings my limbs into positions that (presumable) would revive them. Soon both arms were being stabbed with hot needles, but I hardly minded, since I've always had a minor phobia of one night breaking a limb in my sleep and not knowing because the blood is cut off. The hot needles were more than welcome.
Refrigerators do not work without electricity; neither do water heaters. I was reminded of being in Haiti, compulsively glancing at unlit digital clocks and bathing with a washcloth and a bucket of lukewarm water. At that moment, I had a very strange realization. You see, when I talk to people about Haiti, it's not uncommon for me to describe it (somewhat reverently) as a "once-in-a-lifetime experience." Oddly, the first question I am asked is, frequently, "do you want to go back?" And at that point, I think to myself: what about "once-in-a-lifetime" did they not understand? Typically I offer a non-committal affirmative, maybe because I feel that's the answer expected of me. But really, how should I know? It wasn't exactly recreational.
So I was trying to reach the middle of my back with a washcloth, reliving any number of Haitian moments, when I realized: yes, I want to go back. Yes, I love that land, that people. And I was surprised by how happy that made me.
I got home tonight and the electricity was back on. I threw out half the contents of my refrigerator and checked my e-mail. But no matter how I try, I can't quite bring myself to regret the experience; after all, learning something about yourself is worth any amount of rotten eggs and uncooked chicken breast.
------
See pictures of my apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 813-313-6573.
Peace,
Dan
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
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