Earthquakes happen all the time here, but most are so small that nobody feels them. And in general, Californians don't feel earthquakes unless they're strong enough to rattle dishes. I say this because there have been a few earthquakes that I felt immediately, only to look around my office and see the native Californians typing away as though our desks weren't shaking. Meanwhile, we transplants look at each other with do-you-feel-this surprise, mixing excitement with fear as we wait to see how shaky things will be.
Before moving to California, I'd never experienced an earthquake. Midwesterners worry about floods and tornadoes, but not earthquakes. The New Madrid fault gave off a shudder in 2008, and my parents felt it all the way in Michigan, but its quakes are infrequent. It is a largely impotent seismic villain, so nobody thinks much about it. Here in San Francisco, though, I frequently imagine potential disaster scenarios.
For instance, when I go to the dentist, I am barely in the chair before mild anxiety sets in. Initially, this is because I feel awkward having the handsome dental hygienist scrape tartar from my molars. But as he goes off to look at my x-rays, the paranoid earthquake fantasy strikes, and I imagine all the ways things could go terribly wrong. The office is in an older building, so maybe it hasn't been retrofitted, and what if the quake happens when the dentist is drilling? It would take only one twitch of the fault to make that tiny drill punch a hole through my left cheek. I'm not into body piercing.
Or! I could be at the ob/gyn for the yearly exam. Feet in stirrups, paper cloth over my legs, pap smear in progress. The doctor turns to pick up a swab, and then — get ready to rumble! The lights start swinging, the plastic-uterus visual aid falls off the table, and as my body tenses in panic, it forces the speculum to fly through the air before hitting the poor doctor in the eye. Meanwhile, the ceiling collapses, covering me with dust and debris. Soon, the local action-news reporter is live on the scene. As she describes the valiant rescue efforts going on behind her, a firefighter hears my muffled cries. "Bill, I think they've found another survivor," the reporter will shout as the rescue crew begins digging toward my weak cry for help. CNN picks up the feed, because if there's one thing cable news loves more than disaster, it's a human-interest disaster story. "We've almost got 'er," a rescue guy yells. Cheers all around! The camera zooms in just in time for viewers to watch the rescue team remove the last of the rubble, revealing my spread-eagle pose in high definition for the whole world to see. Later, I am fined by the FCC for indecent exposure.
What? It could happen.
Before moving to California, I'd never experienced an earthquake. Midwesterners worry about floods and tornadoes, but not earthquakes. The New Madrid fault gave off a shudder in 2008, and my parents felt it all the way in Michigan, but its quakes are infrequent. It is a largely impotent seismic villain, so nobody thinks much about it. Here in San Francisco, though, I frequently imagine potential disaster scenarios.
For instance, when I go to the dentist, I am barely in the chair before mild anxiety sets in. Initially, this is because I feel awkward having the handsome dental hygienist scrape tartar from my molars. But as he goes off to look at my x-rays, the paranoid earthquake fantasy strikes, and I imagine all the ways things could go terribly wrong. The office is in an older building, so maybe it hasn't been retrofitted, and what if the quake happens when the dentist is drilling? It would take only one twitch of the fault to make that tiny drill punch a hole through my left cheek. I'm not into body piercing.
Or! I could be at the ob/gyn for the yearly exam. Feet in stirrups, paper cloth over my legs, pap smear in progress. The doctor turns to pick up a swab, and then — get ready to rumble! The lights start swinging, the plastic-uterus visual aid falls off the table, and as my body tenses in panic, it forces the speculum to fly through the air before hitting the poor doctor in the eye. Meanwhile, the ceiling collapses, covering me with dust and debris. Soon, the local action-news reporter is live on the scene. As she describes the valiant rescue efforts going on behind her, a firefighter hears my muffled cries. "Bill, I think they've found another survivor," the reporter will shout as the rescue crew begins digging toward my weak cry for help. CNN picks up the feed, because if there's one thing cable news loves more than disaster, it's a human-interest disaster story. "We've almost got 'er," a rescue guy yells. Cheers all around! The camera zooms in just in time for viewers to watch the rescue team remove the last of the rubble, revealing my spread-eagle pose in high definition for the whole world to see. Later, I am fined by the FCC for indecent exposure.
What? It could happen.
Labels: doom, neuroses, san francisco
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