I had read about the house explosions, the fires, and the poor girl who died, but all of that was just the news of the day. I chided my brother for texting me that my neighborhood was on the news, something about gas leaks. “That’s not us,” I told him. “That was across the way a bit.” Even when the fire department knocked on the door to inform my wife our gas would be cut off in a few hours for at least three weeks, I just shrugged. We were in the impacted zone, not the evacuation zone, after all.
The helicopters changed my mind.
When I drove into my Midway Hollow neighborhood on Thursday evening, I noticed more people — more walkers, more chatterers, more kids kicking balls in front yards while parents watched on. I chalked it up to the first pleasant day of weather in weeks. But then I stepped out of my car and heard the chuffing of helicopter blades overhead — one, two, three, four news choppers — and I understood why everyone was outside. It felt oppressive and unnerving. I wondered if fish look up at fishing line bobbers and feel that same sort of disquiet. Fish know there’s safety in numbers, and maybe my neighbors were looking for schools of their own.
Up until the helicopters, the Atmos Energy event was nothing more than a news story that turned into a mild inconvenience. Yes, our heat, hot water, and stove would be off for about a month, but it’s not winter, I told myself, and maybe our house won’t blow up. But corporations and government entities are great at turning mild inconveniences into stressful sagas.
The fire officials and Atmos reps urged my wife to call the hotline with any questions she might have. When I walked into the house on Thursday evening, she handed me the number, knowing I would have all her questions and more. I dialed and was connected to a chipper Atmos rep who, she told me, would do everything she could to assist me. I asked for more information about my specific location: Would workers need to enter my house? Would Atmos need to replace the line from my meter to my house? What would be done to protect the new landscaping and deck I’d built in my backyard? Could she tell me more about how the reimbursement program worked? The answer to each of those questions was the same: “You’ll need to head to one of the in-person locations for more information; would you like that address?” It was a quick conversation.
We walked the half-mile to the Walnut Hill Recreation Center. The line of people snaked beyond the building, around the parking lot, and out into the nearby park. Camera crews were interviewing several of my neighbors. The reporters looked disappointed when each of the residents remained calm. Overhead, two helicopters beat the night air.
I struck up a few conversations to pass the time. One guy was there to get free money. He’d heard Atmos was just handing out checks for more than $1,200 every week and he was going to get his. A woman with a baby said she was afraid to keep her newborn in the house and needed help getting a hotel. Most people just wanted information. After an hour, we’d only moved a few feet. I flagged down an older man leaving the rec center. He’d been in line for four hours. We went home.
Walking back, we counted 13 Atmos work trucks. It was dark, but each work area was lit up like a movie set. Workers yelled commands at each other so as to be heard over the machinery. Backhoes were digging holes and scrapping concrete, and the “beep-beep-beep” of earth movers in reverse punctuated it all.
We sat on our bed, shoulder to shoulder, not talking. Outside, workers pulled up a nearby alley like a thread-bare carpet, lights flashed in and out of windows, and the helicopters looked on from above.
Turns out, there was enough lukewarm water left in the water heater for both of us to take quick, frantic showers. We finally got to sleep around midnight, and we started our Friday by making our way back to the rec center. The line was only an hour long this time, and the Atmos staff and city volunteers were happy, polite, and consoling.
But they weren’t informative, and my frustration turned to low-level anger. The unfortunate girl who sat across from me thought I’d be pleased to collect my gift card pre-loaded with $1,250. I could take out up to $500 each day, she told me, smiling. I pocketed the card and asked if she knew how my block would be impacted. Would workers need access to my yard? Would they give notice? When would they get to us? What if they damaged my yard, my house, or my precious 70-year-old live oak? They probably would need access to my my yard; of course they would give notice; I don’t know when you will see them; any damage done would be corrected. They would “make us whole.”
“How do you make someone whole if you kill his 70-year-old tree?” I asked.
She looked unsure, sensing a trap that her ample coaching couldn’t avoid.
“We’d get you a new tree, but it won’t come to that.”
“Does Atmos have 70-year-old live oaks?”
“Umm.”
“That’s all I’m getting at. Our definitions of ‘making you whole’ aren’t the same.”
We went in circles a few more times. She took my number and promised to have a supervisor call me. I never heard back.
***
We woke up with a start on Sunday morning. Someone was knocking on the door hard enough to send our two cats growling low to the ground and looking for places to hide. I threw on some clothes and greeted an Atmos worker. He wanted access to my yard to disconnect my meter.
“I thought you guys were going to give us at least a day’s notice before trying to get access to our yards?”
“I just need a couple of minutes to disconnect the meter, sir.”
***
I hovered over the poor guy while he worked, making notes as he trampled my fledgling irises and broke branches off my butterfly bushes and sage.
“Will you have to tear up my yard?” I asked his back.
“If the line is in good enough shape, they can slide the new pipe right inside it — a lot less invasive.”
“Do you know if the pipe is in good shape?”
“Not yet.” He stood up to leave. “Good luck, sir.”
Still, he’d given me more information than I’d acquired in the first 72 hours.
***
I took my first cold shower this morning. I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I’ll die three days sooner than before I turned the nob and stepped into the ice chips.
It’s now 9:46 a.m. on Monday morning. My wife just texted me: “Helicopters have been back at it this morning, which is awesome.”
This is just a mild inconvenience, I tell myself. A family lost their house and their little girl. So I have no room to complain. But still. If there’s one thing that’s worse than a cold shower, it’s uncertainty. How many people live in the 2,800 homes affected? Maybe 6,000? More? There are a lot of us who have practically no idea what the coming weeks have in store, what our property will look like when the work is finished, what will and won’t be left standing. The rest of you can follow along at home, I suppose. The helicopters are here to record it all.
