Darkness descended on the denizens of Providence one brutally hot evening in mid-July for approximately seventy-two minutes during a city-wide blackout. While some of it may have spilled over into the neighboring towns of Cranston and Pawtucket, it remained tightly within city limits, affecting every neighborhood, side street and main thoroughfare. Experts would later attribute it to a combination of mini-catastrophes. First, a powerful rainstorm would sweep through the city, accompanied by high winds that brought down power lines. Concurrently, and despite the rain, it was an unusually muggy ninety-three degrees out, even at sunset. This, in turn, would leave an entire populace scrambling for their fans and air conditioners, overwhelming the city’s transformers. One by one, the wards went dim. Smith Hill fell silent, the East Side grew eerily still and the West End was enveloped by the night. Television sets shut down abruptly, storefront signage blinked off and the normal Friday night fanfare of the capital city came to a screeching halt. It was 8:04 p.m.; power would not be restored until 9:16 p.m. The following is a fictional account of that time span.
For seven-year-old Wendy, the otherwise nondescript bodega on Broad Street, was the center of the universe. The fact that her father, Emilio, single handedly owned and operated the establishment meant that she often spent more time there than at home. It was her after-school haven, where she would occupy a small desk and chair behind the front counter. She would busy herself with coloring books while watching her father serve patrons until closing time. Then, they would walk back home together, hand in hand. The bodega was a neighborhood institution, frequented and beloved by almost all within a four block radius. It was the local pit stop for busy parents planning dinners, teenagers seeking snacks and the elderly hunting housing essentials. Emilio seemed to know everybody, beyond the superficial. He remembered names, birthdays and intimate details. Even at seven, Wendy would marvel at his ability to weave magic with mere word play, wooing the clientele while working feverishly. The blackout hit less than an hour before they were due to lock up for the night. There had been no customers at the time, only Wendy and her father there when the store went dark. Instinctively she let out a startled shout and jumped in her seat. “It’s okay, amor,” her father reassured from somewhere in the ambiguous abyss. Within seconds he had produced a flashlight beam from the shelving beneath the register and wielded it towards her. “Just stay behind the counter. I promise, you’ll be fine.” She did as she was told and watched as he produced a baseball bat from a rear shelf, then proceeded to shut all of the iron-grate fencing that covered the outside, effectively locking them inside. She had never seen her father so scared as he posted by the entrance, bat in hand.
…
Fourteen-year-old Derek had already grown bored of his chosen circle of friends, and it had only been their second outing collectively. The quartet of older boys were seemingly the most popular in school, flippant and rebellious in the face of authority. Their first time out, he accompanied them to the mall where they made him keep a lookout so that they could shoplift. On this night, they’d inexplicably found themselves outside of a long-shuttered jewelry mill, hurling rocks through the windows just to hear the glass shatter. There was no real rhyme or reason as to how or why they’d even ended up there. A half hour into the senseless vandalism, the city blocks unexpectedly and very suddenly went pitch black, all at once, all around them. Every nearby streetlight above them went dark, as well as every neighboring house. A stunned silence stopped them briefly as they exchanged nervous glances. “The fuck happened?” one inquired angrily. “Did we just do that?” another wondered aloud. “It’s a blackout,” Derek interjected. “Look around. It’s the whole neighborhood.” “Sick,” a third cohort exclaimed while exploding into laughter. “We should go break into that sneaker store.” “That’s dumb,” another offered. “That place is already closed. It’s sealed tight with grates.” “The bodega down the block is still open,” one boy said menacingly. “If we go now, he can’t call the cops and there will be no alarms. We can grab a bunch of shit and be out.” Derek felt a knot in his stomach swell at the thought. He was friendly with Emilio from the bodega; almost everybody in the neighborhood was. He was always smiling and never hesitated to extend credit for groceries when his clientele needed it. “I am not going,” Derek said with a sense of urgency. “I just remembered; I’ve got a thing.” He trailed off vaguely and provided no further explanation as he darted off amid their confused stares.
…
In this era of payphones and pagers, Calvin felt like a prince among the people of his South Providence neighborhood. He was only twenty-one years old and had quietly amassed a stockpile of small bills, concealed beneath the floorboards of his basement. What he did to acquire this humble nest-egg was anybody’s guess and ambiguous at best. He discreetly employed a half-dozen local boys in their late teens. Collectively, yet clandestinely, the unit sold a host of illicit items to passerby and familiar faces while patrolling the streets. The seven of them would fan out across the South Side and just stalk like a pride of lions, with Calvin always centered somewhere in their orbit. This is how they would find themselves on the night that the lights went out. Not long after, they naturally gathered under the darkened awning of a pawn shop. “What happened,” one of the runners asked. “The power is out,” Clavin said simply. “All over the city.” “What do we do?” Do we stay out?” They looked to him for direction; Calvin’s tone was nonchalant. “We stay out. This doesn’t change anything.” There were collective nods all around before they noticed the boy sprinting towards them. Calvin recognized him immediately as Derek, a neighbor boy he had seen around the block. He had never tried to recruit him and avoided doing business around him out of respect for his hard working parents. “What are you doing out here,” Calvin demanded. “Go home.” Derek struggled to catch his breath. “I came looking for you. You know those guys that I’ve been hanging with?” Calvin snickered. “Those punks from your middle school? I told you they were trouble.” “I know. They’re about to do something stupid. They’re on their way to smash up the bodega while the power is out.” Calvin charted the remaining course of the evening out quickly. “Change of plans, boys. We go post outside of the bodega.” They were there within minutes, Derek included: eight young men lined up in front of the corner store. From the darkened interior, a young girl named Wendy watched intently through the gaps in the metal gates. She would hear her father exhale in relief at the sight of the impromptu militia. She would wonder why they just hadn’t gone home to begin with. Years later, as an adult, she would understand: he simply refused to abandon something he had worked so hard to attain, build and sustain with own bare hands. •