The Great Flood of 0-4

This morning I went about my normal route, driving up Delsea Drive to the Dunkin Donuts in Deptford, past Five Points. Now, in doing this, I pass quite a few other Dunkin' Donuts, but that is my Dunkin Donuts. We all have our own. The one closest to my house, about a mile and a half always gets it wrong and the lady that takes my money doesn't always give me correct change. I don't like them, they're shifty. So, I drive along Delsea Drive, stopping at lights instead of sailing along Rte. 55 going way too fast, hoping there are no cops hiding in the brush.

So, back to this morning. I was doing fine for time, although, if you know me, I am chronically late. I arrived nice and early and there was no one in line. I ordered my coffee and extended a $20. The guy at the register asked, "Do you have anything smaller? I don't have any $1s or $5s, everyone has $10s and $20s this morning, it's the weirdest thing." I said I didn't. He said, "Okay, pay me tomorrow, I know you'll be here."

Now, as much as I appreciate the courtesy, I hate to owe money to a store. So, I fished around my wallet, counting my change. Every night, I dump my change into a dish on my desk. I always do. I always have. Eunice and I use our change to go on vacation. I know it sounds nuts, but this has financed many a vacation for us. We are religious about it. We're big on the dumping of change. If I ever have to borrow from my change dish, then I replace it. Not only do I dump my loose change, but I make change to replace what's taken.

So, this morning, I took out six quarters. See, I park at Ferry Avenue Station in Camden and because I go to work at 10, all the parking spots close to the station are taken. However, there is a pay lot right near the station that costs a dollar to park very close. Otherwise, I have quite a far walk in the morning. On days where it's rainy, like today, or when I'm running late and don't want to miss a train, I'll plunk four quarters into the rusted old machine and park close to the station. It's worth the buck. But, because the machine is ancient, sometimes it rejects my quarter, so I try to have back up, hence the six quarters rather than four I fished out of my change dish.

So, having begrudgingly parted ways with my six quarters, I was resigned to walking the long distance to the station. I had plenty of time to catch my preferred train. I shrugged it off, but was mildly annoyed. "Damn them," I thought, "They're supposed to have money, it's simple." But then, I sobered up, "Oh well, you could use the extra walk and it's no big deal, so what if they didn't have the change."

So, no harm, no foul, I arrived at the top of the stairs onto the platform and heard the familiar chime signaling an approaching train, "Bing! Westbound train approaching, please stand back. Bing! Train to Philadelphia making all station stops. Bing!" I boarded, busted out my newspaper and forgot all about the episode.

At the end of my day, I got off the train at that very same platform. I was walking down the usually crowded staircase when the foot traffic just stopped about 3/4 of the way down. People were staring slack jawed and getting out their cell phones. Since I'm oblivious, I pushed passed some people and walked to the turnstile.

The station lobby was packed full of people. I thought we were locked in, or that perhaps there was a SWAT maneuver outside we were all observing. Then I looked. And the parking lot was flooded. Now, I don't mean that there were puddles or water streaming by. I'm talking about cars, hundreds of them, covered in water up to the windshield or higher. The water level had completely covered 4 of the 6 steps leading up the station office. People were standing on the top 2 steps, some others, though very few, were wading out, waist deep into the oil-swirled, irridescent water.

I looked out incredulously. It was too much to absorb, no pun intended. It was intense. I had never seen anything remotely similar in my life, at least not in person. Sure, we've all seen typhoon pictures on the news where some Caribbean island is virtually washed away and the inhabitants are kyaking to their neighbors'. But this was downtown Camden! Suburban New Jersey for crying out loud!

So, I was looking, of course, for my car. I couldn't see it at all. Usually, by the time I get to the station, most cars are gone. Again, my work hours allow me to miss most of the rush hour traffic. By 6:30, when I get to my car, the lot is gutted. But today, no one could leave. Not only was my vision blocked by other cars, but by the rising flood waters.

I called home and everyone already knew about my predicament. I suppose the choppers over head were broadcasting the sights. As I stood on the steps, I thought about the diseases afloat in the water and decided, "Screw it, go for it, you have to see how the car is." But there was a lake before me. A dirty, lake that I couldn't even see the bottom of. I hiked up my skirt and went for it. I tried to walk along the sidewalk, but was still waist deep. I was soaked up to belly button. I thought about the nasty water seeping into me, imagining all the microorganisms making their ways into my orifices. Ewww. I was disgusted, but I'd committed and I had an audience. I couldn't turn back after getting soaked.

I pushed on and found some higher ground, so I was only in thigh-deep water, pushing through, walking all the way to the back of the long lot. I saw people in water up to their navels trying fruitlessly to push their cars. People had actually opened their doors, let in the water, just to pop it into neutral and push. Morons. There are a billion restaurants in Philly that they have been dying to try. That was my thought. If this is how it looks when I get to my car, I'll go back to my office, put my suit on so I have dry clothes, and go to a fancy restaurant with the book I bought on my lunch break. I'd treat myself and maybe call a co-worker and spend the night at her place.

These were my thoughts as I walked through the flood, laughing like a madwoman at all the futile efforts of the stranded, cracking up, loud and hysterical at our shared misery. I looked around, watching people crying, huddling at the station on top of the steps, packed into the station, more trains coming and depositing the stranded. I watched the roads surrounding the station, with water a foot high, storm drains unable to keep up.

Then I saw it. The back row, the row where my car waited. Only the end of the row was visible. And the water was low. Only up to the bottom of the door. Hallelujah! I thought, "I can open the door!" Then, as I walked, I saw the waterline lower and lower, until I finally saw my car. It was one of about a dozen cars on dry land. There were about 10-12 cars whose tires were on dry concrete. I could not believe mine was one of them. Apparently, the lot is elevated toward the rear. Who knew? Though, I have noticed that sometimes, when I park back there, my door won't stay open. It rolls closed when I push it open. I never really thought about it. I usually just stick a leg out and prop it open.

So, I'll be damned. How about Dunkin' Donuts running out of $1s and $5s? If I had taken them up on their offer of credit, I would have been out to a delicious dinner by now, probably sipping a latte in a cafe, reading Middlesex. How about that? You know, it's kind of creepy in a way, when the circular pattern of life, the rhyme and reason complete their beautiful crescendo right in front of your eyes. It's amazing. I'm grateful.

And here's the another fun little part of the story, if you'll permit me to keep going...

My dad works a mile from the train station, but he starts work at 6:00 a.m. so he's outta Dodge by 3:00 p.m. He leaves for work at 5:15 every morning. I don't know about your town, but in my town, there's no traffic at 5:15 a.m. But dad is an avid hater of traffic. He drives his little red Corvette through back roads, rural, residential streets, neighborhoods, maxing out at 35-40 mph. He says, "I avoid all the traffic, I get to work in 40 minutes flat every single day." Now, mind you, that it takes me 20-25 on the off chance I go to work early, at rush hour. So, he drives 15 minutes out of his way to avoid nonexistent traffic. Yet another of my dad's quirks I can't help but mock.

So, tonight, with the roadways flooded, I found myself unable to take my familiar route home. So, what did I do? I called dad, "Dad, how the hell do I get home from Camden on the back roads?" Dad talked me through it like he was sitting there next to me. He knew all the streets, all the landmarks, all the neighborhoods. "Now, you'll see a green fence on the left, that's Holly Ave. Do you see the Commerce Bank on the corner? Go through that light and make the first left..." I made it home in 40 minutes flat. And I'll never make fun of his route again.