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| Lines for the distribution of food and clothing remained long in Coney Island, Brooklyn, on Monday. Hurricane Sandy has upended lives on the Eastern Seaboard. |
NY Times MICHAEL WILSON Published: November 12, 2012
In Coney Island, a 67-year-old man sleeps with plastic bottles from the bodega, filled with hot water, tucked in his armpits. Toilets unflushed by modern means for a fortnight have created a stench in the Rockaways that is so bad that one man keeps incense burning in his apartment day and night.
On Staten Island, people sit in “warming buses,” cozy and, like time itself these days, going nowhere. In a town in New Jersey where wells do not pump because the power is out, residents collect rainwater in empty jars. In Long Beach, on Long Island, a couple bicycles through the autumn chill to the charging station at City Hall to keep their cellphones powered.
Two weeks. Monday was the 14th day since Hurricane Sandy upended lives on the Eastern Seaboard, the longest two weeks of many people’s lives. Plastic bottles. Warming buses. Charging stations. These are just a few of the signposts in a changed world. Help is coming, the people are told, but some have lost the desire to trust.
“I don’t believe,” said Lioudmila Korableva, 71, a resident of a darkened Coney Island building project filled with older people.
“In the wall goes water,” she said, describing the humid conditions with her Russian accent. There is just too much moisture in the air. “The blanket is wet.”
Power companies in New York and New Jersey worked on Monday to free these remaining communities from the stubborn blackout. There was progress, with housing projects in Coney Island and the Rockaways flickering to life on Saturday and Sunday. There was light, if not heat. Families that had warmed their apartments with stovetop burners could now use the electric oven, with its door wide open. A woman used the burner for its intended purpose on Monday morning, handing her granddaughter a pancake on a paper plate.
New Jersey announced an end to gas rationing. Long Island Rail Road service returned to nearly prestorm timetables. Progress was everywhere, it seemed, but for the man getting his news from a radio with batteries, not here.
“I talk to God,” said Mark Kremer, the Coney Island man whose bedtime routine includes the hot water bottles. “What I did, to suffer like this?”
A former home health attendant, he climbs from his second-floor apartment up the pitch black stairs to the 12th floor, to check on his friend Asya Kaplan, 82, who fell in the hall a few days ago and opened up a gash at her hairline.
In the Ocean Village Apartments at the Shore in the Rockaways, there now exists a dividing line at the 10th floor. Below, there is running water. Above, none. A resident on the 14th floor, Lola Idowu, straps on her miner’s helmet with its flashlight and treks down to 10 for buckets of water, four times a day. The older residents have stopped flushing their toilets, neighbors said, and they gather in the lobby, bringing their apartments’ odors with them.
Only small children have accepted this new life in the Rockaways without complaint. Very small: Jayleb, a boy now one month old, has lived half his life this way. He sleeps in a duffel coat, inside a baby blanket that is under two quilts. “To even change his Pampers is an ordeal,” his mother, Tonya Ranero, 35, said.
In Long Beach on Long Island, a mother, Evelyn Hogarth, 32, frightened by the conditions in a shelter, returned home with her three children and ailing mother. “There are roaches everywhere,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”
Nearby, Michael Hardy and Denaya Hardy, both 38, celebrated their 16th wedding anniversary in the dark, between trips to the basement to fill a bucket with floodwater, to flush the toilets.
“We celebrated by eating rations and drinking water,” Mr. Hardy said.
Elsewhere in Long Beach, as he spoke, the National Guard handed out water at a shopping center. People brought dead cellphones to a charging station at City Hall, near the portable toilets. In the Silverton section of Toms River, N.J., the surge and the wind knocked out the 10-foot windows from Wayne Whitall’s home. His pool table had become a floating battering ram, knocking through a wall and landing in a yard. The boat was across the street, where he was trying to free it from debris on Monday.
In Seaside Heights after two weeks, a first: residents were allowed to visit stricken parts of the town for a few hours on Monday morning.
Wayne Cimorelli, an owner of Coin Castle Amusements and two restaurants in a three-story building on the Boardwalk, said his expectations had been raised when he saw a picture of the area before he returned. Then he entered his 21,000-square-foot basement and found six feet of sand and debris. Equipment was ruined. A $14,000 ice machine lay on its side.
“This is the nightmare that doesn’t want to end,” he said. “The longer we wait, the more disgusting it gets. I would imagine we are up against maggots and whatnot.”
A mile north, Danielle Feigenbaum, 49, sat outside the house her grandfather had built 60 years ago, the scene of countless Thanksgivings and celebrations. Now the house carried a bright orange sticker on the door. Condemned. “It’s just devastating to think that my mother grew up here, I grew up here, my daughter grew up here, but her kids won’t,” she said, yet tried to sound hopeful. “Well, we just don’t know.”
In the township of Tewksbury, N.J., with its 12-acre lots, stone walls, horses and wells, the notion of suffering is relative. But it is present.
Jon and Angela Holt, partners in both marriage and a small public relations firm, cannot pump water from their well until power is restored, a service traditionally late in arriving to the area. They collect rainwater from the downspout in empty kitty-litter jugs for the toilet. The world around them showers, and they do not, so they canceled a meeting on Monday, aware of their appearance.
They felt lucky compared with others facing so much destruction, but now, after two weeks, they find it difficult to explain how they remain in the dark.
“It is a struggle, whether you’re of means or poor,” Mr. Holt said.
Hours later, his power was returned.
A mile or two away, on Burrell Road, John and Tracy Rosendahl arranged to leave their powerless home to stay at yet another motel room. One of their young sons was urinating against the house Monday afternoon, as he had been instructed to do in the absence of a working toilet.
“They’re turning feral,” Mr. Rosendahl said.
In Coney Island, in the building for older tenants, a surprise: the lights snapped on at 1:08 p.m., according to Mr. Kremer’s clock. Just as quickly, the man who had asked God why he was being punished went from aggrieved to compassionate. “It says on TV not everybody has power,” he said. “I feel sorry for them.”
Then, after Mr. Kremer had spent three hours and one minute in the new world, the power went out again. Aggrieved once more: “Now I have to take everything from refrigerator again, put again near my window.”
Another resident in the building, Angelita Torres, 72, paused on her journey from the 14th floor, which took the better part of an hour because of her weak heart. Asked how she was doing, her face lit up like the flashlight her home attendant carried beside her.
“I feel good,” she said. “Thank you, God.” She paused, and added, still smiling, “I’m freezing.”