We Manaloosians have been a bit anxious this week, watching and preparing for our imminent doom as it inches closer in the Atlantic. I suppose I'm not helping, reporting on the storm daily in the Manaloosa Shade. The feeling is akin to that experienced by a banana about to be dropped into a blender as part of a protein shake. Poor banana. In this metaphor a Hurricane is the approaching blender, and we are both protein and banana. At least that's the story I'm going with.
And if the buildup to a monster storm isn’t nerve wracking enough, this one has slowed, moving toward the coast at just one mile per hour. This means that evacuees can easily run away from the approaching danger. In fact, they can just turn and walk. No need to wait in long gas lines. Just bring an extra pair of sneakers.
This is not meant to diminish the real horror being wrought on Puerto Rico again for at least the last full day. Those poor souls have a devil parked on top of their little archipelago, tearing apart comparatively flimsy structures with the savage force of a powerful tornado. Shelter and pray as they might, they must face death now and an uncertain future later. Meanwhile, we elbow each other away from cases of water that we probably won’t use and wait in gas station lines at the last minute because we never learn.
Tom Ferrell rolled the dice when he gave up his cozy, frosty nest in the north. The very real danger of slipping on ice and being found just a bit late, tongue frozen to the sidewalk during a last cry for help as mitochondria quit functioning, is the final humbling event he chanced by living there. Here in the south, we develop an intimate relationship with that eighty percent liquid we’ve always been told we’re made of. Outdoor activity in Manaloosa can drain you without warning. Jane Stroke sneaks up with far less warning than her cousin Jack Frost, who cutely nips at your nose. Here you’re suddenly face down and with any luck soon being pumped full of electrolytes at a local ER. If not, oh well, you can brag in Heaven that you swam in January in your Earthly paradise.
He sits in the drive through at one of several local ice cream shops that give free treats to local cops. His rotates on a schedule so as not to make him seem over eager to take advantage of one of his only perks. Most of them offer a unique range of flavors and textures. Most Manaloosians are either confirmed or aspirationally pre-diabetic.
Tom pulls away from Dairy Queen. They’re open despite the approaching disaster. And on the chance that he'll never enjoy another Blizzard on Earth, his personal testament to the struggle between good and evil, he'll pass through the pearly gates with one question for Saint Peter: “Is there ice cream here?”