August 22, 2003 In the dark By URIEL HEILMAN NEW YORK Until the moment it happened at a little past four in the afternoon last Thursday, no one even had an inkling that something could go wrong. Computers were humming, conference calls were running, traffic was moving, bloggers were surfing - and then, in an instant, everything stopped. The lights went out. Phone lines went dead. Computer screens went black. Elevators stopped. Trains glided to a halt. Air-conditioners went quiet. For the first time in 26 years, Times Square went dark. All across the Northeast, "the grid" went down. In my office in midtown Manhattan, the sudden quiet instantly threw us into a state of confusion. Our first thought was that a circuit-breaker must have blown, but a quick check around the building confirmed that we were not alone in our electric immobilization. Across the street, we could see similar scenes of bewilderment as people scurried around trying to figure out what was going on. Then we looked down. Below us, a scene of disarray that would grow worse as the day progressed had just begun to unfold. Car horns were blaring as busy intersections quickly turned into nightmarish traffic jams. Across the way, I could see office workers glued to their windows, watching the developing bedlam below. Within an hour, the people were pouring into the streets. New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg had announced that the power outage-which we soon learned extended to Toronto, Detroit, New Jersey and Cleveland-would last at least a couple of hours, and most New Yorkers had decided simply to go home. Only getting home wasn't so simple. I was among the fortunate ones. As a resident of Manhattan, the worst-case scenario was that I would have to walk down 17 flights of stairs and trek the 70 or so blocks home, which wouldn't take much more than an hour. But for those who lived outside Manhattan-or, worse, outside the city-getting home turned into a maddening, exhausting ordeal. The trains that flush millions of commuters out of the city each evening sat immobilized on their tracks. The ferries that crisscross the rivers around Manhattan Island were overrun with frustrated would-be passengers. And the sidewalks and avenues that cut the grid between the city's towering buildings were a mess of swarming humanity. Matters were even worse for people already on the trains. In most cases, passengers had to wait more than an hour before being permitted to climb out of the cars and walk along the tracks. In railway tunnels and on the New York City subway, evacuations had to be carried out in pitch-black darkness, in oppressive heat, and with the stench of sewage in the air and garbage and rats underfoot. On the streets above, buses sat paralyzed in traffic as pedestrians flowed around the motionless vehicles, a great mass of humanity moving toward the island's exits. A few good Samaritans-or maybe just some corporate office types dying for their moment in the sun-took to the intersections to try to direct foot and vehicular traffic. Those who were able to escape the island generally did so on foot; for many, the commute home that evening took longer than did the entire workday that preceded it. Throughout the afternoon, the congestion in midtown eased little. The streets stayed jammed as thousands of commuters, unable to make it home, eventually settled down in spots on the sidewalk, lay down some newspaper and, after a time, closed their eyes. Gradually, as the sun set, the city of New York went dark. For most city dwellers here-who over the years have learned to incorporate the unexpected into their routine-the blackout provided an occasion for behavior normally anathema to New Yorkers in the daylight: People started being nice. Perhaps it was the cover of darkness. Perhaps it was the common bond we felt at all being thrown simultaneously into the same predicament. Whatever it was, the occasion allowed us to do things normally off-limits to the New York sensibility. Strangers began to talk with one another. Apartment dwellers emerged from their buildings for spontaneous block parties. People took melting ice cream out of their now-disabled refrigerators and offered free food to passersby. The few who had cars offered rides to people they didn't know. Some shopkeepers offered pedestrians water at a steep discount. A spirit of comradeship reigned. There were, of course, those who took advantage of the power outage to make-or steal-a quick buck. A few stores were burgled, some peddlers sold cold drinks at a premium and a few livery cab drivers upped their prices. For the most part, however, law and order and the kindness of strangers was the order of the day. And when day became night, New York was ready to party. Local watering holes, realizing that their stock of beer was growing dangerously warmer with every passing minute, offered libation at half price. Restaurants began cooking whatever food was at risk of going bad and sold it at hastily erected stands on the sidewalk. The whole city smelled like a barbeque as fridges and freezers were emptied of their contents and grills were fired up on sidewalks and on rooftops, on fire escapes and in courtyards. Police and citizens alike seemed to understand that some unwritten rules applied during blackouts. Police looked the other way as people wandered outside of bars with drinks in their hands-a practice normally forbidden under New York's strict public-drunkenness laws. Fire hydrants were busted open so people could get relief from the heat. Nobody complained as noisy sidewalk parties lasted long into the night. In my neighborhood, the entranceway of nearly every apartment building had a cluster of people sitting in front of it-Indians in traditional clothing splayed out barefoot on blankets, Mexicans kicking back with a few cold beers, yuppies singing along as a battery-powered radio played. Somebody fired a few outlawed fireworks into the air, and there were a few oohs and aahs as the variegated display in the sky temporarily illuminated the dark night. On one Manhattan block, a rooftop barbeque and an impromptu party on the sidewalk complete with disco ball and homemade margaritas joined together in song. One of the party-goers chose a ditty he thought any good New Yorker would know: "I had a little driedel!" he yelled from atop the roof of his apartment building, which was about 10 stories high. "I made it out of clay!" came the cry from below, flashlights shining from the sidewalk into the clear night sky. "And when it's dry and ready…" prompted the group up top. "Oh driedel I shall play!" sang the group below. Somehow or other, for one night, New York became a small-town community. With their televisions powerless, their stockpiled food and drink going bad, and their air-conditioners disabled, New Yorkers had no choice but to venture outside and seek the company of their neighbors. And because phone service was so spotty and people were unable to reach their friends-some phone lines were not working and the cell-phone network was so overrun that few calls got through-people had to make new friends close to where they lived. So the groups that gathered on the city's sidewalks were not long-time buddies but newly acquired comrades, thrown together by circumstance and the nature of cramped Manhattan living. Guitars came out, chairs were unfolded, and people sat together under the starry sky. Though there was a full moon, it was the first time so many stars had appeared in the Manhattan sky-normally refulgent with the lights of the city below-since the last blackout, in 1977. On my block in Manhattan, midnight came and went and still the parties continued. Cold drinks ran out, candles burned down to their stubs and flashlights went dim as the batteries grew weak, but still people stayed out, enjoying the rare company of their neighbors. A little past midnight, as I wandered back to my apartment from a delightful get-together a few blocks away, I passed groups of people sitting on the stoops in front of their buildings. One group, comprised of about six or seven people, bid me greeting as I walked by, and I responded in kind. "We're a group," one of the women said smiling, gazing up at me as I stood over her, her flashlight in my face. "Would you like to join our group?" I ducked the flashlight's beam and looked around at the people seated on the ground. "Sure," I said, and slid down onto the sidewalk. Almost two hours would pass before our little group broke up, but not before we had exchanged email addresses and resolved to regroup for brunch a week or two hence. The hot night was not easy to bear, with the sticky Manhattan heat keeping thousands of us tossing and turning in our beds. I didn't sleep much before dawn finally broke and the first few rays of light spread across the quickly receding darkness. Then, at a little past 6 a.m.-I can't remember if I was asleep or awake-there suddenly was a great whirring sound and I opened my eyes to find my fan slowly starting to turn, the air-conditioning awakening from its long slumber and the lights on my illuminated clocks all flashing 12:00. The power was back. It would take the better part of Friday for electricity to be restored across the New York metropolitan area, and the better part of the weekend for it to return to some parts of the Midwest. What took about eight seconds to fail took about three days to fix. New York gradually got back on line, but there was a sense that-somehow-the city would never be the same again. And then, on Monday, we saw that it was pretty much the same after all. And all we had were the stories. ----------------------- And then there was 1977… By URIEL HEILMAN When the lights went out in New York on July 13, 1977, during the area's last major blackout, darkness settled over a very different city. New York was mired in an economic crisis, the urban landscape was in a state of rapid decay and in that hot summer New York had been transformed into a city of terror, as a serial killer known as Son of Sam stalked innocent prey. The culprit three decades ago was a bolt of lightning, and the chaos that followed in the 25 hours before the lights came back on might as well have been punishment from the gods. Widespread looting and violence ensued. Storefronts were broken into, their entire contents unloaded into eager, thieving hands in broad daylight. Cars were set afire as neighbors watched. Violent gangs roamed the streets, checked only by a police force handicapped by insufficient manpower. By the time the lights went back on a full day later, some neighborhoods in the city were left in tatters. Places like Bushwick, Brooklyn, still have not fully recovered from the devastation of that day. The cost of the damage was about a billion dollars. Almost 4,000 people were arrested. More than 1,000 fires were set aflame. This time, by contrast, the city was much calmer. Indeed, after the trauma two years ago of the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, the "Blackout of 2003"-as it inevitably has come to be called-seemed merely to be a mild inconvenience. Last week's day of chaos, unlike the terrible one that changed the face of this city two years ago, was marked mostly by perseverance and merriment. There were only a few instances of looting, squad cars cruising the streets all night were able to maintain general calm, and, instead of violence, the biggest concerns were how to keep the beer cold, what to do with defrosting meat and when the air-conditioning would go back on.