Orange Alert

Orange Alert, everybody. Avoid crowds. But go shopping. Keep the economy strong. Have an emergency plan in place. A central location for you and your family to meet in the event of, oh, I don’t know…an explosion? The deadly release of a new Ben Affleck movie? Wash your hands, please, but masks are for the Jackson family.

September 12, 2001, I went to the gym. I have a lifetime membership to Bally’s Total Fitness. As it turns out, a person can live a lifetime in just under five hours a year, three of those in the hot tub. But I digress.

I had resolved that my life would forevermore be one long act of virtue. I hit the treadmill, then the weights. As I struggled to switch plates on the barbell, a rather studly man took pity on me and offered his assistance. He had flawless skin, the color of Ceylon tea, and his arms swelled in beautiful rounds out of his T-shirt. His back, held strong and straight, moved gracefully into powerful legs. His body was a temple, a sculpture, a shrine to decent living and strength.

He set the bar and stayed to spot me. He talked a little bit about the use of free weights and I noticed that my friend had an accent. Now, I’ve never been off the continent, and I am not what you’d call a citizen of the world. I am, however, in the people business, and I like to hear of other places, even if I can’t go there.

So I gave Handsome my best line. “Sounds like you got an accent there. Where are you from? North or South Dakota?”

His eyes clouded over and he said, “Why? Are you afraid that I am a terrorist because I sound different? I am from here, same place as you.”

I was horrified that I’d offended him and I tried to explain myself. “I was just curious about where your accent comes from. About where you come from and—”

“I’ll tell you where I come from,” he said quietly, still angry. “I come from a place that has known true devastation, true terror. Look, what has happened, it is tragedy. But it is not devastation. If it were, you and I would not be here right now; we would be fighting to live, to eat. Let me tell you about where I come from.

“Where I come from, people have the grace to starve to death. Here, if catastrophe reigned, the rich would eat the zoo animals, the middle class would eat their dogs, and the poor would eat each other.” And with that, he stalked off.

I looked down at the fat pooling in my waist and thought, “I don’t have the grace to starve myself for two hours.” Then I thought: “Oh my God, he’s right!” And, like it or not, that man’s words haunted me as I feebly completed my workout, mind reeling, my eyes furtively darting round the room. Bally’s turned into Cub Foods.

At first, I settled on the Costco-size person, and then I realized that my normal bulk shopping habits wouldn’t fly in the event of grid failure. Fun-size people would have to do—a more “European” shopping pattern, just buying enough for the day ahead. And suppose there were no market. Could I go “Ventura” and hunt the deadliest prey of all? Honey, I can’t stalk celery. And the only thing I’ve ever killed is time.

Extreme situations force the strength or weakness of a person’s character out of the spider hole. One thing’s for sure: Disaster will come, be it up close and personal or worldwide and cataclysmic. Is it possible to duct-tape your heart to withstand suffering? Can you buy enough batteries to keep it beating until it heals? How do you go about your life while being prepared?

This past holiday season under Orange Alert I thought about my gym buddy. Since then, I read the papers a little more carefully, and I still wonder where he comes from. Thing is, it could be a few different places, where grace lives.