Gabriel Houck

A Hurricane on My Television

August 26th, 2005

I am sitting on my balcony in Los Angeles, listening to the rush of the freeways and the clinking of my neighbor’s dog’s collar as it trots around their concrete yard. It is a Friday afternoon. I am avoiding the living room because my roommate is watching the news, and the news is not good. Both of our televisions are tuned to CNN, where excited young newscasters are gesturing at weather maps. The sleeves of their hundred-dollar shirts are rolled to their elbows and their eyes are wide with a caffeinated exuberance that flashes: something important is happening. A steady breeze is blowing the ocean air inland. My dog comes out and presses her muzzle between the bars of the railing, licking her nose to the fishy smell of salt air and gasoline. I can hear bits of chatter from the television through the screen door, the voice of one anchorwoman fading in and out against the radios of passing cars.

I hear: Worst-case scenario.

Anne calls my cellphone and sounds upset. She asks if I am watching the news. She says everyone’s been asking about me and wants to know if I have talked to my parents. I tell her that I haven’t spoken to them since this morning, and that as far as I know, nothing has changed. A long pause follows, and I hear her take a few breaths through the static.

“Call me when you speak to them next,” she says, her voice a little shaky. I straighten my shoulders and tell her that everything will be fine. I tell her that I love her, that the dog loves her. She hangs up, and I scratch the dog’s muzzle as I punch up my drug dealer’s number.

Wind speed and intensity measured on the Saffir-Simpson scale.

My dealer does not answer. His voicemail is a static and pop recording of a song off of his car radio. I wait it out and leave a message. My dog starts to bark at a squirrel running along a power line, and by the time I get her inside, the neighborhood is echoing with a howling dog chorus.

Unprecedented since Betsy and Camille.

I lock the door and head for my room.


Life is slow in our apartment. We have two televisions in our living room. One is fixed to a rotating coffee table so that my roommate Matthias can watch Forensic Files while he cooks himself dinner. Our sink has standing water in it, and the wood veneer of our cabinets is sticky to the touch. Clutter sprouts up like moss, and it clings to the carpet and walls, encroaching on the paths we have cleared to connect one room to another. We are surrounded by everything, yet can never find anything.

I live with my best friend from college and my girlfriend of seven years, both of whom are rarely around because they work evenings. Matthias spends his time at UCLA’s neuroscience lab studying the spinal cords of paralyzed rats, and Anne wears herself out managing a hotel restaurant staffed with part-time movie extras and catalogue models. When I come home from school the lights are usually off, the dog is asleep, and they are both puddled onto the couch, bathed in TV blues. This is the dampening effect of our household. The dirty carpet, the smudged walls and low-light hum of appliances; all of it holds me captive once I step inside. It is a tangible feeling, a thickness to the air, like breathing steam in a shower. In these moments, I can see myself through Anne’s eyes, walking through that door into our dark hobbit-hole. It is impossible to miss my deceleration from the world of to living to the world of the sedentary. I can see my shoulders droop, my stomach relax and stretch against my t-shirt, and my eyes begin to glaze as the gears grind slowly to a halt.

I often think about how, when I was younger, my dad used to come home from work and immediately change into his running clothes: tiny old-man shorts, a t-shirt borrowed from my dresser, and a bright orange hat to make him visible in the night fog. Knowing what was coming next, my brother would disappear into his room before Dad re-emerged, stretching his gangly legs and trying to get my attention.

“Ready for a run?” he’d ask me jokingly. I’d give him a list of excuses as he tied his shoes. To him, my excuses boiled down to “high school is hard, and I’m tired.”

“For me,” he’d explain pensively, as if someone had asked him, “running is a way to process all the pain and frustration of the day. I run and time slows down, problems become clear; all the chaos just washes off of me.”

It sounded silly and trite, but I believed him. I remember standing in our front yard one evening, watching him disappear into the dark like a day-glow fishing bobber and wondering how parents and children could possibly feel so differently about such things.


“Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m glad you called.”

“Are you still watching the news?”

“Yes we are, and dad has the NOAA weather station on upstairs. We’ve spent the afternoon closing the shutters and boarding up, so it’s pretty dark inside. We’re saving the kitchen windows for last, because dad needs to have some real light in the house.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Yea, but you know how he is. You should hear him—he’s pretty convinced that the storm will turn east and take out Mobile.”

“What an optimist.”

“Well, your father loves the idea of those floating casinos getting hit. He had a piece published in the Times Picayune a few weeks ago about coastal development and regulation. He has an eerie sense of timing.”

“So, do you have a plan yet?”

“Sweetheart, we’re going to talk it over tonight and you can call us tomorrow if you are worried. Didn’t you say you had a dentist appointment today? The root canal thing?”

“That’s tomorrow, actually.”

“Your brother was scheduled to have some dental work done too you know; I think he’s going in next week and he is not too happy about it.”

“I’ll call him after tomorrow and tell him it’s a piece of cake, mom.”

“Good. Take care of yourself, sweet boy.”

“I will, you guys too.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, mom.”


Anne gets home around midnight with a hangdog look that means work was rough. She shoves a to-go cup filled with soup in the refrigerator and drops onto the couch to pick through her mail. I realize that she is talking, and has been since she came through the door, but her words are soft and out of focus against the TV screen. There is a graphic showing a cross-section of the elevation of New Orleans. The weatherman is sweating and pointing with his hand to the numbers onscreen. Then Anne is suddenly holding my hand and her voice emerges as if she has just pulled me out of a swimming pool.

She tells me about the grad school applications she got in the mail today. She is sincere, but her eyes are searching mine for a reaction, to see if this bothers me. I blink and talk into my shoulder so that she cannot smell that I have been smoking the last of the pot. We go on like this for a few minutes, each of our minds on something other than the words floating through the air at each other. She is first to break the standoff. I watch her go to the kitchen and pour a glass of merlot from the cabinet. She sees the empty pot baggie on top of the microwave and gives me a tired smile that seems to dot the period on our dwindling conversation.

“Smokey the bear,” she calls me, and takes her wine into the bedroom. I smoke the ash in the pipe until bitter flakes coat my mouth and try to imagine how different these dark rooms will be when she finally leaves me for good. I change the channel and fall asleep silhouetted against the white smiles of an infomercial.

August 27th, 2005

My older brother Cyprian is laughing me at through the phone, distorting at the edges because he gets terrible cell service. I am entertaining him by continuing to talk, my voice marshmallow-cheeked because of all the Novocain in my jaw.

“It’s a weird feeling,” I say to him, drool glistening on my lip in the sunlight as I walk up Venice Boulevard to the Dollar Mart. “It doesn’t hurt when it’s happening. It’s just annoying to have three sets of hands in your mouth.”

He laughs some more at my pronunciation of “mouth” and tells me that he isn’t as scared as mom thinks about his dentist appointment next week. I call him a liar but he ignores me, telling me instead that his new girlfriend has left New Orleans to be with her family in Virginia because of the hurricane. He says that the mayor has recommended that everyone leave, but since most of the city is already jamming the highways to get out, there hasn’t yet been the need for mandatory evacuations. I ask what his plans are, and he says that he is going over to Mom and Dad’s in a few hours to figure it out. He says his boss asked him and a few other guys to finish boarding up the office while he got out of town with his family. His voice now sounds uneasy, and I make some funny noises with my droopy mouth but get the sense he’s no longer listening. He says he’ll talk to me tonight, and I hang up, feeling suddenly lost in the afternoon sunlight. I pick up some knock-off Tylenol and head for the safety of home.

Cyprian having a girlfriend astounds me. When he told me about meeting her over the summer, I actually called mom to make sure he wasn’t making it up. Her voice warbled, her words skipping through the lines like a schoolgirl so fast that I just let her tell me the whole story all over again. We laughed together, and I pictured the smile of her words, the corners of her mouth turning as she spoke and her small cheeks all pinched and ruddy. Neither of us had wanted to get carried away, but it was impossible not to see this as something momentous, something like a very late awakening. She spoke with the force of twenty-nine hard years of worry gently easing from its prison, and with it, the knowledge that my wonderful, fascinating, intractable brother was finally, possibly, emerging from his. When there was nothing left to say, she just giggled in the empty line, her voice like water and electric waves.


I scored a goal on my brother when I was nine, a few weeks after I had been smuggled onto the 10 -12 soccer team despite my age. The coach was a German guy named Franz who ran a soccer clinic out at the lakefront, and my brother was the backup goalie for the other squad. I remember that I celebrated my goal on the field in front of him, and he just watched without moving, biting his tongue in the corner of his mouth until the coach came in and took us both out of the lineup.

I still remember that tryout because of the shame I’d felt afterwards, but also because Cyprian leaned overtop the front seat and talked to me the whole car ride home. This was new. My big brother did not talk to me. Life was at that time a constant, quiet war. He ate almost no food, was pathologically shy, and would retreat to his room when my father lost his temper and screamed at him to at least try his goddamn dinner or leave the kitchen. Because of a learning disability he did extra work with tutors and was enrolled in school two grades behind his age. When he turned thirteen he finally quit the swim team in a costly act of defiance against my father, revenge perhaps for force-fed carrots and nutrition shakes. Coded in his very name, Cyprian, were the seeds of his anger, this feeling of desperate separation from th