If this was an ordinary day, in an ordinary time, the story of powerless 711 Beach 6th Street in Far Rockaway, Queens, could have seen some ink in the morning papers. A network truck may have pulled up at the entrance, and then another. A post of a timely cell phone photo or clip may have caught share-fire and started a movement through social media. But Chelsea and FIDI in downtown Manhattan have their power back, and it's been nearly 2 weeks since Sandy made landfall, so we're way past the expiration date on any juice coming out of that carton. Sandy's not fresh anymore and the media has moved America's attention to a story that never gets old. Once upon a time, a high profile mister cheated on his misses...
I first heard about 711 from a friend's post on Facebook yesterday. (This friend must have developed some kind of weird immunity to the news media to still be posting stuff like this - a little concerning, if you ask me.) The post was a re-post from a gentleman who had volunteered there previously, describing the building's enormity (25 stories) and the large population of seniors inhabiting it. The post was an outright alarm, and its most startling message was this: "At 711 Beach 6 in FAR ROCKWAYS they carried out 3 dead bodies!!!"
I started to think it through. 3 dead bodies? How? No one was drowning there - we're talking about a high rise residential complex. 25 stories, no electricity, immobile ailing seniors up on the top floors - you do the math. And now for some advanced algebra - what oftentimes precedes death? That's right! Suffering. But on what scale I would have to see for myself.
As I entered the streets of Far Rockaway it quickly became apparent that the entire area was still without power. I saw 711 from a distance at first. Its windows uniformly grey, as in an abandoned building on death row, awaiting demolition. But being abandoned is far from what it was. When I arrived and entered the lobby, there was plenty of activity. Boxes of basic necessities and donated items left in the lobby by a series of volunteers and organizations were being scoured by residents to be brought back to their apartments. A gentleman pointed out the building super to me who through the circumstances of this disaster has been promoted by default to "fearless leader." As fearless leaders go, they are expected to have all the answers to all the questions, no matter how trivial. When I approached him he was busy trying to explain to two elderly Russian women who didn't speak a word of English that their flashlight wasn't turning on because the bulb in it was broken. I relayed the message, but they found this response to be absolutely impossible. Normally I would find myself laughing this off as standard Russian granny antics, but in this case, when everything else has already gone wrong and then your flashlight bulb breaks too, you can't help but wonder what probability's problem is.
I asked him general questions about the situation in the building. What kind of assistance is being given to the residents. How are folks on the top floors who are not in capacity to trek the stairs being provided for? Are they receiving medical care as necessary? The responses were all "calming," as though everyone is being taken care of, and unsurprisingly not specific. But what did I expect. Every person is their own story and set of needs, there must be hundreds of them there, and I know that my source doesn't speak all the languages in which some of those stories can be told and spends at least part of his time inspecting flashlight bulbs.
I started up the stairs. At around the 7th floor I ran into an elderly black woman on her way down. She carried a very positive spirit whose message if paraphrased plainly was "this sucks, but I'm okay." She couldn't say the same for everyone. She made mention of the 3 dead bodies, told another story of a woman who had a heart attack, and a third of her 500lb neighbor, who persuaded by his relatives, tried to leave the building but couldn't make it down the stairs and had to be taken out by the fire department. Wait a second mister super... these stories aren't really giving me that "everything is under control" feeling. If by "everyone is being taken care of" you mean you can get the FDNY to promptly remove folks that are dead or about to be dead, then you got some steppin'-up-your-game to do, and fast.
I kept trekking. Up to the top floor. I rang doorbells of doors behind which no one was home. Maybe they are home I thought, but can't get to the door or cry for help. Maybe I'm inches away from a paralyzed body of a helpless senior and don't even know it - but what can I do besides hope that no one's home?
I rang more bells, and some doors did open. The occupants of the first few assured me that they're fine and have everything they need. The hallway was cold, and when one woman opened the door I felt a burst of heat spill out of her place. She told me the stove was working. There was gas, and you could get it started with a match. Well, that's something.
The doors all had markings on them. A date of "11/9/12" and some line(s) that I assumed indicated that an apartment is vacant or not. I reached a door on the 23rd floor with two crossed lines, the number 2, the date and this: "1400 Russian Need Insulin." I rang the bell and received an immediate response. It was the barking of a dog, which was followed by a nearing voice attempting to calm it down. Then the sound of the door lock turn - before I knew it, the little fluff ball was wagging his tail and sniffing me out. He knew what was up and wasn't ashamed to bark it. "Yo this guy lives in Brooklyn and has power," he said in dog slang. "Go inside to daddy" (translated from Russian) the grandma now standing in the doorway ordered. The same warmth spilled out of the opened door of this apartment as did the previous one. I said hello and explained that I'm walking around and asking if anyone is in dire need of anything. She took this as an open invitation to tell her story, and I welcomed it. She was in the apartment with her husband. The husband uses a walker, and they're both very old - so walking down to the lobby is not an option. But that people do come around occasionally distributing the basics. Later I asked if they had any relatives that they could stay with. She told me she had a son who lives in Jersey and who just got power there himself the other day, but that it wouldn't really be realistic to go with him as getting down those stairs from the 23rd floor without an elevator would be near impossible.
She said there were soldiers in the building on 11/09 - they're the ones that left the markings on the doors. She told me about the insulin note. She said they need it, and that they were given it, except that they weren't given the injection needles - which makes the whole thing as useful as this one four letter word I know. Luckily, she said they have a home attendant who's been very good to them and staying on top of bringing all the necessities. She's due in on Monday with the needles.
At this point she was pleased to be speaking to someone, or anyone who would listen, and she invited me in. Her husband was sitting in the dark kitchen, his face illuminated by the light of a candle and the stove burners. We kept chatting, and I realized that I uh... had to pee. What I hadn't realized was that there was no water. I figured there was no hot water, or drinkable water, but I thought that there was at least cold water. So I asked to use the bathroom. She didn't object, although she did say "только по маленькому," which doesn't translate well from Russian, but basically means "go small or go home." No warning on the water, though I guess I should have put two and two together - but I didn't. I walked in, closed the door, turned on the flashlight, lifted the cover, and wanted to cease existing in that moment. One whiff later and I thought my wish was about to come true. The bowl was up to near the top with urine. Two week old urine. Reeking, disgusting, contaminated two week old urine. I dropped the cover and ran. The husband looked at me, knowing now that I know what's there, and with utter sadness said "and these are the conditions in which we live." I was appalled, and I wasn't afraid to say it. It was more than I would normally want to know, but it just came out of me "what do you do for number two?!?" The woman had no reservations about telling me. She described in full detail the process of using a handbag. I wasn't really listening though. As soon as I heard handbag my brain malfunctioned. Holy shit!!! What the fuck kind of American Dream was this?! Senior citizens being left alone on the 23rd floor to piss into a contaminated bowl of two week old urine and shit into handbags? And everything is under control, mister super? Mayor Bloomberg? Help Me Howard? Anyone?!?!
I moved on, knocked on more doors, heard more stories. One guy, not a senior but badly disabled and unable to carry much up from downstairs is dealing with not getting a lot of the necessary medication he needs. His local doctor's office is closed, and he's afraid to go to a hospital for fear of overcrowding and catching something else he doesn't need or want. His morale of the whole situation is low, whose wouldn't be? But it's not helped by hurtful words of the people who are supposedly there to help. Among the already full list of indignities all these people are enduring, he had to be there when a group of Russian volunteers knocked on his door and offered help, provided that he was Russian, because the Cold War is still on in Far Rockaway. "You know what else I'm not that you are? An asshole. Attention: calling all Russians and assholes to get priority assistance." Well, that's what I would have said in that gentleman's place, but of course I wouldn't be in it because I was lucky enough to be born in the USSR. But instead he just went back into his dark apartment and continued... not eating? That's right. He told me he was hardly eating because of the whole needing to go to the bathroom thing. I guess the handbag potty invention hadn't made it to his floor yet. I'm sure that when it does his appetite will do a cartwheel and spring back to life. So there you have it - sitting in a dark apartment alone, unable to get medicine, not eating to avoid having to use the bathroom, and waiting for American help, in America.
It got dark outside and the hallways were pitch black. I went back downstairs where there were still people scouring the boxes under the light of cell phones and flashlights. A young couple from the building started talking to me about the general shittiness of it all. They said the same things anyone would say, and they all meant "how is this possible?" On the way home I realized that not once during the entire time I was at 711 did I actually hear the word "Sandy." And it is because Sandy isn't the enemy anymore. Sandy is gone, and gone with her is the attention of the media. Gone to read explicit emails, because sex sells, and shitty handbags don't.