Friends, readers and relatives from faraway are asking me what it was like when the earthquake shook us in New York last Friday.
How was it, they asked, when the entire town was stricken by fear, closed shop, and conducted no other business even after the earth shook. There was panic.
Rather than answer directly, I prefer to offer a deeper meaning for such events from a slice of Chapter 27 of my novel ‘’Compulsive” …as follows:
I knew this wasn’t any good on the day the blizzard hit. Nothing was moving. But I had places to go…the racing at Aqueduct.
“Everything is closed, shut down,” said the announcer on the radio, as I, Gil Gilels, was on my way. Stupid weather won’t stop me. I had horses picked out.
Dad had told me that God awaits each member of the congregation for services, expects them by name. Instead, He expects me at the racetrack. My house of worship, Aqueduct. My place of prayer, the casinos. That is where you will find me and that is where you can count on me, O Lord.
Now you get religion? A bit late, no?
So I drove, inch my inch, against the howling wind and the torrential snow.
I turned the radio back on, but voices annoyed me, music annoyed me. I listened for the news, and it was mostly the weather, how awful it was, and that it could take weeks to recover. The cost could run into the billions. Limbs and even trees had crashed into electrical systems and cars and even homes had been crushed. The governor was already demanding disaster relief.
This was the worst storm of the century.
The entire state was shut down and in Washington, DC, the federal government was shut down, here in the most powerful nation on earth, yes, here, even here all that can happen, all was helpless and futile when God pulled the plug. Wires and batteries held us together and we thought that was enough, but to nature that was lipstick and chewing gum.
One snowfall-and we were out of luck and out of business.
One report had it that members of Congress and the Supreme Court had fled their buildings and were scattered and on the run throughout the streets of the capital trying to find shelter. These, along with the President, the President of the United States, were the most powerful men and women on earth-and all of it was nothing but vanity. One snowfall and they were licked. What advice, what help could they give when they themselves were destitute?
There was more talk on the radio now about evacuations wherever traffic would allow and where the storm had not yet come rushing in. The highways were congested with panicked citizens fleeing their homes. Police spokesmen were saying they’ve never seen anything like this. “Armageddon” people kept saying. Airports were closed in five states.
“If you were fool enough to hit the road, forget about getting help,” said the announcer.
He only lacked my name. I drove until I could drive no more…marooned on a highway without end.
“Firefighters, police and the National Guard are doing the best they can, but they have their hands full.”
“You have to be insane to take the chance,” said his partner.
“But there’s always a few knuckleheads out there.”
“Yes, and they put responders at risk.”
“Right, that’s the height of selfishness.”
A new weather alert, that a new storm is looming, right behind this one. One wasn’t enough. This one alone had us in dire straits, me and the rest of the country.
Dear Lord, save me. See me through this one and expect me in the synagogue. You can bet on this. Count on me by name…Gil Gilels.
(Copyright Jack Engelhard from his novel, Compulsive.)
New York-based bestselling American novelist Jack Engelhard writes regularly for Arutz Sheva.
He wrote the worldwide book-to-movie bestseller “Indecent Proposal,” the authoritative newsroom epic, “The Bathsheba Deadline,” followed by his coming-of-age classics, “The Girls of Cincinnati,” and, the Holocaust-to-Montreal memoir, “Escape from Mount Moriah.” For that and his 1960s epic “The Days of the Bitter End,” contemporaries have hailed him “The last Hemingway, a writer without peer, and the conscience of us all.” Contact here.
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