Rockaway, November 3rd.

Neighbor 1, to 666 Burger crew: “Thank you for bringing warm food and beautiful women to the neighborhood!”

Neighbor 2, to Neighbor 1: “Don’t try to take any of these girls home.”

Neighbor 1: “I can’t. I don’t have a home to take ‘em to.”

A week ago, with 666 Burger in Rockaway.

Franz lives in Zone A. There was four or five feet of water through the lobby of his building, but when there was cell service enough to send texts through, he was making fun of some pompous neighbor for not moving his BMW S series to higher ground. He was stuck in his apartment until the flood waters receded, and then made his way to a family member’s home on Roosevelt Island.

Frank’s mom lives in Rockaway. He grew up there.

There was never any doubt that they would go to help, but this is why Rockaway, rather than Staten Island or Red Hook. Also, Red Hook seemed to have the greatest number of volunteers, since it was easier for less affected Brooklynites to get to. They wanted to go out on Thursday or Friday, but were struck by how hard it was to find gasoline to power the generator. My roommate offered them a chance to siphon from his 3/4 full tank, but apparently, not all cars are siphonable. I spent hours glued to the internet and texting friends and acquaintances who drove, trying to find someone with an older model or a jerry can.

In the day the truck sat idle, Franz talked to businesses to see how they could help. Warby Parker, an eyewear company, and Mishka NYC, a pop cult-y boutique, stepped up and generously donated to cover expenses for food and propane.

By Saturday, a friend of a friend who runs an autobody shop drilled and drained a gas tank to fuel 666 Burger’s generator. We could now cook and charge phones for people. Our crew met at Restaurant Depot to load up on food and water. (RD is a secret to most of the civilian world, but if you have friends with a restaurant/business account, you should exploit them for the relief effort. Your food budget will go twice as far as if you purchased from a consumer wholesale club.)

Frank was dubious of the number of volunteers who showed up. There were eight of us in total, a number sure to stress out the shocks on the burger truck. I was dubious of the number of us. Frank brought his truck to manage the extra cases of food and a few extra bodies. We had to stop for fuel at the Robin Hood of body shops en route to manage.

En route, what we saw was shocking. Broad Channel was piles of debris. A glance at the bay side showed the bellies of small craft protruding from the reeds. Yards had tipped boats next to the houses. Everywhere, mountains of debris.

Traffic slowed and we were surrounded by lines of cars. The ones with brakelights on were packed with volunteers and stuffed full of donations. The ones that weren’t moving had fogged windows and hip high lines of mud from the floodwaters.

At a standstill in traffic, one of the guys started cooking for the crew. We wouldn’t have time to eat once we got there. As the sandwiches made their way up front, we crept past a couple of NYPD officers directing traffic in biting cold. I asked the officers if they wanted a couple of hot sandwiches. One started to decline out of politeness. Her partner eyeballed her and I handed them my & Franz’s lunch through the window. (Sorry, not sorry, Franz.)

We pulled up near a midway point between St Francis and another relief station. We appointed two expert crew members on the grill and split the rest of our group to canvas the neighborhood and tell people we were there. People nearby queued up immediately. Farther out, we were glad for the extra manpower, because people cleaning out their homes with no electricity need to do it during daylight hours and don’t have time to break to walk 5 or 7 blocks for food. I took the harbor side, talking to neighbors and taking delivery orders. A neighbor painted signs on downed boards with the location and “FREE HOT FOOD” and held it in the back of Frank’s truck while he drove the other side of the peninsula. We planned to stay ‘til dark, but people kept coming. We stayed ‘til they didn’t.

claytoncubitt:

After Sandy in Rockaway NYC (by David Borenstein)

There’s such a strong link between New Orleans and New York. The creative vitality. The dizzying gulf between the haves and the have nots. The similar immigrant mix even resulted in very closely related accents. And now, they share a struggle against hurricanes, especially in the marginalized poorer neighborhoods.

This video documents some of the current struggles in Rockaway, from the ground with Occupy Sandy.

As the food truck rattled down Metropolitan in Queens, there was a mob of men in puffy bomber jackets and knit caps, clamoring for something in a garage. Several arms raised, as if to get the attention of someone inside.

As we passed, I could see a still shrinkwrapped. The bottom was a stack of boxes. At the top, about a dozen cherry red 5 gallon gas canisters.

Belle Harbor residents made some intimidating and funny signage after the storm.

NYPD haul their own 1000 gallon fuel tank in #Rockaway. Other than auto headlights, their safety light towers are the only source of illumination on the peninsula. They run on generators.

Dark falls fast here. I left the church long before sundown, because I wanted to get back to the truck while I could still see obstacles in the walkways. The sand in the roads slowed me down considerably. In the time it would take me to walk a mile on the streets of my Brooklyn neighborhood, I had only managed seven blocks through streets which were now debris-littered sand dunes. Walking in the road would have been dangerous, as most of the auto traffic was from giant dump trucks with low visibility, long braking distances and not as much traction as they would have on streets not covered with sand.

I stuck to the sidewalks, running under any trees with overhead branches. A man passed me and gruffly admonished me for not wearing a mask. I didn’t have one, and my lungs felt it. Wind whipped dust and sand everywhere. I could feel the grit on my teeth.

Dark started to fall. Really fall. Next to the road, car headlights gave some respite, but down every side street was a thick blackness.

Ten blocks from where the truck was parked, National Grid workers had generator powered lights in the street. One of the workers approached me. He told me to put my camera away and rush to the other side of the peninsula.

“It’s not safe here. “See those streets down there? Bad things are happening there every night. Forget about taking pictures and get to the bay side. There’s police activity there.”

I shoved my camera inside my coat and crossed. I walked fast along the sidewalk, but the gravity of his delivery impressed me. Within arms length, shopgates twisted and opened into blackness. Probably the storm, but possibly looters. Glass doors left crackled and crumbled. I rushed to the center of the road to walk there.

On the bay side, cars were gridlocked, trying to get back to the mainland. I had to get back on a sidewalk, back to walking alone in the dark. I considered knocking on car windows asking for a lift to the polling place. Just when I was about to give in, I could see lights up ahead. There were bright towers of lights over the polling place at 104th, and the soft red glow of the counter light at the food truck. Whatever bogeymen, real or imagined (or possibly FEMA), were lurking in the dark, they were back there. Here was light and heat.

Carrying essentials home from the donation center.

“We got a good thing goin’ here.” - Frank, caretaker of St Francis de Sales for 40 years.

Frank has two purple hearts for his service in Vietnam. He’s happy that he has a place to come after Sandy. St Francis is a major distribution hub for donations to The Rockaways.

Tuesday, November 6th, 2012.

Smaller casualties.

Rockaway, Queens.
November 6th, 2012.

Homes in Rockaway Beach.

November 6th, 2012.

Belle Harbor, Rockaway.

November 6th, 2012.

A house parked on top of a truck on the beach.

Rockaway, Queens.
November 6th, 2012.