Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11

Does anyone remember the Hurricane Isabel? I do. It was devistating… devistatingly AWESOME! I lived in an upstairs apartment on Main Street in the fan area in Richmond.  My roommate and I invited some friends over, bought a bunch of 40’s of Hurricane (appropo) and watched the storm roll in from the roof of our apartment. It was pretty stupid, yes. And you’re right to think so. But I can say that I stood on the chimney with my face in a 60 mph wind guzzling a nasty malt beverage and watching mother nature topple huge trees, blow out windows and practically destroy a town. It was a very intensely invigorating feeling. Kinda like eating a Peppermint Patty, but not like that at all.

The hurricane caused some pretty serious damage to the neighborhood. Practically the entire town lost power for at least a few days, including the water treatment plant, resulting in an immediate city wide boil-water notice. We couldn’t even get running water our of our pipes for a few days, and even that water wasn’t safe to drink. Also, it was the middle of August and the temperature was in the 90’s. It sounds terrible, I know.

However, it wasn’t. It was like Spring Break, but in August and in my very own neighborhood. No one had to work, cause no one had power. Even if your office did have power, most people couldnt’ get to their jobs, because thier street was covered in downed trees. So, what do you do when your power is out, and you don’t have to go to work? You party. And people partied. Hard. Everywhere, everyone was on thier porch drinking whatever they had and grilling whatever food was in their refridgerators that was about to go bad.  People were hooking up like crazy.  Everyone was sweaty, stinky, dirty, and drunk but there was nothing anyone could do about it, because we didn’t have water.  We were all stuck in this terrible situation and everyone did what they could to make the best of it. Times were good.

Not completely, though. People were starting to run out of food because their refridgerators didn’t work. Ice became a highly sought after commodity. One day, I took three dudes in the back of my truck. We went to 6 different stores and finally found an ice truck unloading into a freezer. We bought as much as we could and brought it home to ice down the way too many cases of beer we bought at the same time. With that much ice and that much beer, we were the hit of the neighborhood for a night. By the next moring the ice was gone along with our sudden popluarity. Boredom set in like our hangovers.

The storm came through on a Tuesday night, and Thred was scheduled to play at Cary Street Cafe that Friday night. Somehow over the course of the next few days, I caught wind that the owner, Robyn, was hoping to be open that night, so I rode my bike over to discuss the situation. She told me that the bar didn’t have power, so having a band play wouldn’t work, and consequently, we were free from our obligation. However, she was gonna be open that night. Her plan was to scrounge up every last piece of ice she could get her hands on, light the room with candels and be the only place open selling cold beer. I thought that sounded nice, and wanted to be a part of it. So, I told her that we’d still play the gig, acousticaly.

Word spread quickly around town that Cary Street was gonna be open on Friday night and would have ICE COLD BEER. A large crowd was expected. I talked the dummer into joining me on acoustic guitar, and the two of us set up two bar stools in the middle of the room and just played whatever the hell we could think of to play.  We played everything we knew in that candle-lit bar.  We played a lot of stuff we didn’t know. We even let people in the crowd play songs. It didn’t have to be good, it just had to BE. The entire bar was singing along to whatever we were playing. Spirits were high despite the heat wave, lack of AC and destruction in out in the street. Everyone was just so excited to be there together after having survived a potentially devastating storm.

There were so many people in that bar drinking ice cold beer, that they ran out of ice cold beer.  So, Robyn ran out and bought a bunch more and stuck it in what ice was left.  That held out until right about closing time.  No one wanted to leave, and we didn’t want to stop playing, so we didn’t.  We kept that place open as long as we could.  Finally a cop walked into the bar.  We stopped mid song, and the whole room turned to look, seeing the candle light flicker off the badge on his front pocket.  He took his hat off, looked around the room and said, “I heard there was ice cold beer in here.”  Everyone laughed, and the music started playing again.  Robyn walked over, handed him a beer, and closed the front door. 

After the cop had finished his beer, he came over to us and said, “seriously, boys.  The bar’s not supposed to even be open right now.  I think it’s time to stop.”  I’m not sure if that was the case, or if he, being the only completely sober guy in the bar, was tired of listening to two drunk dudes howling over their guitars.  Either way, he was right.  We stopped playing, and slowly the room emptied out.

We didn’t get paid that night, but we didn’t pay for any of the beers, either.  I had made big points with Robyn, and over the next few years, she gave me preference over any other bands that wanted to play there.  We’ve done each other a lot of favors.  It’s a great place, Cary Street Cafe.  Go check it out sometime.  And if you see Robyn, tell her I said hi.  I bet I get a phone call next the next time a hurricane blows throught there.

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