You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
An ice storm.
I step out the back door and immediately I know something is wrong.
The ice on the ground is half an inch thick. It’s slick like baby oil on linoleum.
It’s slick like a con man on Venice beach moving cocoa nuts.
I stop and immediately raise my arms, hoping traction holds and my balance kicks in.
I’m one of the Wallendas walking a tight rope.
I feel ice pellets smack me in the face. They are like frozen jelly beans mixed with sand.
I hear the thick metal work door shut behind me.
It’s a little unsettling. It’s lonely. It’s scary.
I’m staring into a wicked winter wind filled with anger.
Ice Storm 2015.
My task is to find a live location that illustrates the danger, the mess, the roads, the intensity.
I’m little overwhelmed.
I’ve only taken 3 steps. I’m only on the loading dock of the back parking lot.
I’ve been out in this all day long. But this is different, tougher.
It’s dark, and cold and I’m alone.
My mission, drive to a location to do three, maybe four live shots from 10pm till 11:30.
Yes we are in extended coverage on a Friday night.
Whose big idea was this?
People will be home, snug in their beds, not caring about road conditions.
But that’s not my call. My job is to get there and inform.
But getting there is the trick. The forecast has called for snow turning to ice.
The forecast is right.
The stairs are ice cubes. I feel my feet slip. It’s as if I’m wearing plates of metal on the bottom of my shoes.
I move slow. I’m three feet from the building and all ready I feel nervous.
This is not good, I think to myself.
I move slowly to the car. There is a slight grade and I feel my feet sliding on the ice beneath me.
I shuffle to the car, holding on for balance.
The side of my car is covered with a layer of iced over grime. The windshield is blanketed in frozen drek.
I pull the door open and there is a sucking sound, as the ice slowly lets go of the door frame.
It’s resistant, calculating, like an ex-wife still clinging to your bank account.
I crank the motor and it chugs like a blender loaded with cement.
I put on the defroster and hope that the little four-cylinder can crank enough heat to melt the windshield ice.
This could take forever. I use the ice scraper and break up the frozen molecular stew.
I get in my car and engage. The vehicle slides, the back-end fish tails.
I am barely able to get up the incline through the parking lot gate to the street.
The boulevard is icy, slushy, and my tires slotting into tracks carved by a hundred cars before me.
I get to the interstate and I’m doing 50mph.
Some cars are doing 15 mph.
Others are doing 65 mph.
It’s dangerous as water and slush spray onto my windshield like frozen peanut butter.
I am holding the steering wheel with a death grip. I feel the car wanting to get out of control. Each time, I lay off the accelerator and allow the vehicle to steady itself.
I pull into the Tiger Mart across from the Titans football stadium.
The Tiger Mart is closed due to dangerous conditions.
The parking lot is a solid layer of ice.
As I get out of the car, I immediately begin to slip. I grab hold of my car door for balance.
Wind is ferocious. Ice pellets are slapping me in the face.
It’s like a thousand hornets playing kick ball with my epidermis.
It feels like the end of the world. It’s dark and bleak and cold like the depths of despair.
10 pm rolls around. I should be energized. I’m empty. I’m running on fumes. I am going to talk about ice and slush and melting and driving conditions for the umpteenth time.
I have a shovel and I scoop up slush from the street and document the icy conditions in the unsalted parking lot.
This is my 5th live shot of the day. I am exhausted. I feel like I have run out of things to say.
How many ways can you describe ice? Slippery. Icy. Skating.
How about a frothy monkey of gravitational displacement.
I don’t say it. I don’t have the energy to.
I finish my 1st live hit.
“OK, thanks. We’ll see you back here in 45 minutes,” the producer says in my ear.
That’s when I notice my photographer. He has put down his camera. He looks to be in distress.
“What’s wrong, man?”
“I really gotta use the bathroom,” he says, his eyes seemingly watering in this icy typhoon. “I really wish the Tiger Mart was open,” he says swaying back and forth.
I look at my watch. We have 45 minutes. I look at the frosty road that leads to the bridge that crosses the river and heads into town.
“How bad?” I say not really wanting to drive anywhere.
“Bad,” he says squirming.
OMG.
What’s open on this God forsaken night?
My photog is gonna soil himself or we’re going to drive off the road. It’s a lose lose.
“Lock up the live truck. Hurry,” I say trying not to be too insensitive.
We cross the bridge and slide into an open shell station.
My photographer limps with a grimace into the market.
“Where’s your bathroom,” I see him ask.
The clerk points to the back.
Better get some room deodorizer I muse.
I check my watch.
I will spend the next 5 minutes watching patrons slip coming out of the store.
Conditions are terrible. What a horrific night.
I open my window and watch as the man parked below me, wearing cowboy boots slides to his truck. He is holding a gallon of water. I hear him scream as he loses his balance and barely hangs on at the bottom of the parking ramp.
He pours the water on his frozen windshield. It makes a slushy mess and does little to improves his situation.
He gets in his car and guns his engine. I see his windshield wipers trying to move the ice, but not gaining much headway.
It’s like a submarine popping up through arctic ice. It creates a space, but the ice is still every where, impenetrable.
The man is angry as he fights to get back up the incline to the store to acquire another gallon of water to try again.
By this time my camera man emerges. He looks relaxed, refreshed.
He pulls open the door, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
“You good?”
“Bring on the ice storm,” he blurts out.
I laugh. “OK, hang on. We gotta get back. We’re live in 15 minutes.”
“Ready,” he says.
It’s stressful, but somehow the trek back is easier.
We finish up the remaining 3 live hits and then comes the much awaited “You’re clear. Good night. Drive safe.”
We power down the live truck.
The mast is frozen and struggles to come down. As each section collapses upon itself, ice stuck in the tube below it condenses and shoots out like a sludge gun.
The drive home is excruciating. The highway is a slush pit, grabbing my tires, pulling me in multiple directions at once.
I get home. My home is dark and cold and lonely.
But it is home.
I lay in my bed and close my eyes.
I fall asleep with my clothes on.
I need to dream of something better than this.
Life’s Crazy™