BRANDON GARCIA: The calm before the storm

I wanted to snap some photos of my neighborhood before it got blown away.

Sure, the forecast was gloomy for us in central McAllen --- heavy rains were about an hour away (according to my colleagues at The Monitor, who F.Y.I. are working 24-hour shifts for the next three days. Props, y'all.) --- but the sky was still clear and indigo and innocent enough.

I guess I could have been taping the windows or figuring out what to do with the eight glass tables in my back yard. It wasn't my original plan. Disaster is best awaited at a bar, but I called around and none were open, not even Simon Sez.
So after some sulking, my dog's poor-me face sparked some inspiration. Half a Bud Light later I was out on the dark downtown-area streets with an ancient yellow Lab and my little camera. As all of you were counting candles and slicing the Spam open, I was getting funny looks taking pictures of street signs and car washes.

I've been so OVER Dolly since 3 p.m. My editor, bless his soul, becomes somewhat of a hurricane himself during weather crises. I spent most of the day in my cubicle as sweat oozed from every pore of the newsroom, thanking God I only have to deal with non-deadly topics like Raven-Symone and Art Walks these days.

Before I switched departments back in March, I spent years designing pages deep into the night after major disasters and breaking news had happened, bosses hovering over me, looming deadlines lingering over them. For years, I wrote headlines like "Emily Draws Nigh" and "Bret's Coming: Run For Your Life" only to watch a few drops of rain stain the next day's front page, which dried quickly in the sunny daylight. No hate mail, please, it's all in the past.

I'd rather drown than shop at our major chain grocery stores and super centers at times like these, and overall, Dolly hadn't been able to wipe the enduring wrinkles of apathy off my face. I daydreamed that instead of a hurricane, it turned out to be a buxom, Botox-ed blonde who sings about Appalachia thundering toward the bay atop a casino boat, sparklers searing her hair.

Drivers stopped and stared as I stood there at 11:30 p.m. taking pseudo-artsy pics of First Baptist Church. Unfortunately, there were no prostitutes in Archer Park around to fling drunken insults at me, but plenty of honks interrupted my photo shoot of the Neuhaus Tower. A lone bird swept overhead and I remembered a story my Grandma Bebe told, about a bird flying backwards during Beulah.

I would pay to see a flock of sparrows or a single chachalaca flailing in reverse tonight, even though Bebe would slap me for saying that. My other grandma would, too, and she saw even more during that small-scale armageddon back in the 1960s. What's become a sure-fire conversation topic for people who were there is merely a frustration for me. The end of the world seemed on its way every summer, and every time without fail, it's been a false-alarm that's left my family with more duct tape than we'll ever need.

Now, Miss Dolly, you've got some big shoes to fill. Do you have the right stuff? You showed up out of nowhere and scared the pants off all the TV anchors. Check. After lunging for us from the Gulf, you now seem to planting yourself for a pounce. Check, that's pretty unnerving.

Of course, you've got the momentum of The Beulah Prophecy on your side. Art thou the Storm That Makes Us Forget The Last Big One?

Alone on its streets, I felt connected to my dark city in a way I don't usually. Tonight I feel like we're all villagers padding the castle walls as a fearsome marauder knocks on our gate. I think it's the story beneath the story, the bedrock beneath the swirling pool of memories, of distraught birds and storm shelters.

Instead of hating you for not using your blinker or dragging your kid through the mall, I want to fill you in on the newsflash about tornados in Cameron County. I want to help you fill a couple of sandbags and put them in your car. I want to ride through this storm with you, next to you, once my stranger, now my neighbor in a flood of fear and excitement.

Brandon Garcia is editor of Valley Life and Festiva. You can reach him at (956) 683-4461.

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