GUSTO missed its first weekday of publishing last Friday. New York is a wonderful city, but it also has its problems. Now you can add power failure to the list. When the city went dark on Thursday we folded up our laptop and hit the streets. Can you blame us? Thursday night was a sigh of relief as New Yorkers realized that all the post-9/11 training and preparation, all the routines of collective trauma, could actually happen without anyone being injured or hurt. It was like going to the doctor and being told it's no big deal -- but still have to take a couple days off. So we partied.

Power began returning on Friday, with parts of the outer boroughs coming onto the grid first. Unfortunately, the Gusto corporate headquarters are located in Chelsea, which was the last neighborhood left in darkness until after 9 p.m. At one point in the afternoon, a radio announcer said the city was coming back to normal. Who was he talking about? I was still eating beef jerky and Pepsi for dinner. I went out on my little fire escape that overlooks Seventh Avenue. I could literally look uptown to see the bright flashing lights of Times Square, and look downtown to see the traffic lights in Greenwich Village. But all around me was darkness.

We've asked Gusto's contributors to write about their experiences during the blackout. Reading these stories is a peculiar form of schadenfreude, since so many New Yorkers were enjoying their own misfortune to begin with.

Harry Swartz-Turfle

***

It was about 4:11 p.m. when everything shuddered to a halt, and with two solid hours of work left ahead of me, the smell of melting motherboards that wafted through the office was like a merciful reprieve. The blackout had turned the mid-Manhattan skyscrapers into giant steel silos, and we flowed like grain down the stairwells, filling the lobbies, then the sidewalks, and finally the streets. We'd all been through this before and knew the city had to fall apart before it came together. Only this time, the Human Condition came in a gentler form -- stuck to your back like a sweat-soaked T-shirt or running down your brow in thick rivulets instead of falling from the sky in giant chunks of steel and concrete. I surveyed the streets, the seething and sweating faces weighed down by the sticky afternoon air, and made up my mind. I ducked into a cleaners across the street and swapped my biz-cas for some gym clothes I'd lugged along that morning. Fuck this, I thought. I'm going to the park.

It was slow going as I headed north. The office crowds that hadn't yet abandoned ship were clustered around their buildings, and the only way around them was to duck out into traffic. This worked until I reached Grand Central, where the clots of commuters had coagulated into a full-on scab. Just a block south of an abandoned bank of payphones, stranded would-be passengers lined up ten-deep to phone home to families and friends. "Yeah, ma, I'm fine. I dunno when I'll be home though. Just go to your sister's if you feel sick," one man barked into the receiver. For the most part, Altruism was in the lead. Near the corner of 43rd and Lexington, a woman had swooned from the heat, or maybe the commotion, and was being attended to by a crowd of onlookers bearing dampened rags and makeshift fans. Sure, we hadn't yet devolved into loincloth-clad cavemen, clawing and scratching our way to the perishable resources. But if nothing else, the heat had stripped us of our social graces. When a Hell's Angels wannabe gunned his throaty Harley clone and plowed through a startled outcropping of pedestrians, one woman whirled around and whipped a half-eaten banana at the back of his head. "Oh no you just didn't," she screamed as her peel, which had missed its mark, slid down the rear of a parked livery cab. A coil of hair had fallen from its perch atop her head and was lying, sweaty and matted, against the back of her neck. She had snapped, but in doing so, had salved our angst. "You PIECE of SHIT!" she bellowed after the long-gone offender. I wondered what would might have befallen the biker if the sun weren't a little lower in the sky.

The crowds thinned as I made my way through the 50s and into the 60s, where I stopped to inspect a small gathering outside the Bloomberg building. A cluster of News employees had gathered to plot the day's coverage. Despite my ratty gym shoes, my bright blue basketball shorts, and my tight white T-shirt, no one seemed to notice as I nudged my way to the center, where a gruff man with a beard appeared to be holding court. "Okay, I want you to look at the economic impact of this thing," said the editor to a reporter, who was fumbling with his now-impotent cell phone. "Tiffany's, Prada, places like that -- see what they're doing." Another reporter flipped through a list of municipal contacts and pretended to listen as another editor barked out hackneyed news platitudes meant to rally the troops. I stifled a yawn, craned my neck one last time for a glimpse of their prodigal leader (who was nowhere to be seen), and pressed on.

All signs of the blackout faded as I made my way into the park, past the pond across from The Plaza, past the dairy, and past a pavilion where faded curls of pot smoke formed into the shape of hand, extended an index finger, and beckoned like something out of a Looney Toons bit. "No thanks, disembodied hand, not today," I said. "Your loss," said the hand. Up in the Sheep Meadow, the din of the city dissolved. A trio of Men Sans Shirts worked themselves into a lather over a frisbee, trying impress the small turnout of sunbathing women scattered across the lawn. (The women all assumed they were gay.) I sat down next to one who seemed to have come straight from work: She had stripped off her blouse and was laying out in a khaki skirt and a purple bra. I wasn't there to gawk. She just happened to be far enough away from a likeminded but horribly hirsute man who had stripped down to his boxer briefs on the other side of the meadow. That's where I sat until sunset. The city was in chaos, 50 million people were left without power, and I was stretched out in the shade with some music and a book.

Matt Bean

***

The scene at 4:30 was a madhouse. While cars were still trying to follow basic traffic rules, pedestrians were going wild like a Charlie Chaplin movie. I was walking through Herald Square when I saw a bus full of Orthodox Jews stuck in an intersection. Thousands of people created a swarm of confusion around the bus and it looked like the driver had given up even trying to cross the street. Just then I saw a young kid in his teens and what looked like his grandfather. They grinned ear-to-ear as they scouted for the perfect moment to catch on film. "You've got to take a picture of that," the kid said as he excitedly pointed to the throng around the bus. "Not yet," the old man said. "We've got to wait until people get desperate. Soon people will get desperate and desperation will make good photographs."

Harry Swartz-Turfle

***

The day had started off oddly enough. Our receptionist had announced the day before that she would not be in, due to recurring gastrointestinal problems, recurring mental problems and the fact (announced by her boyfriend that morning) that her father had suffered a severe heart attack. All of these things were terrible - and so was the fact that I was forced to fill in for her. The day progressed until 4pm, and I was trying to figure out how I could step away unnoticed in order to make my therapist appointment before getting to a performance of the show that I directed in the Fringe Festival (shameless plug: Becky and Noelle: Investigating the Bucket). Of course, I missed both as the power cut at 408.

Everyone knows, flicker flicker fade, in some variations the power comes back for a few minutes, in some it does not. Slowly everyone figured out it wasn't just the building they were in at the time. My friend saw the lights at Rockefeller Center die, a classic Cineplex-Odeon precursor to disaster. But, as we all know, nothing really happened. I have heard different tales of the "disaster" that was Blackout '03 - one friend was in the shower at his health club in Chelsea (which could be great or terrible place to be in the dark, depending on your personal persuasion), one friend was in her pool on the 31st floor, one person was stuck in an elevator for a few minutes. Someone told me that Staten Island was without power, but why anyone thought that was important I can only chalk up to the 9-11 déjà vu shivers going around before things settled down. Conspiracy theories abounded, but in the end we still blamed it on the Canadians (which, now that Iraq has been conquered, is probably looking pretty good to the Development Department of Homeland Security). I myself played a rousing game of MasterMind while listening to the radio and enjoying the free gelato that was being given away before it melted. What a great Thursday.

However, the fact that I couldn't get in touch with any of my friends started to nag at me, and I decided that I would make the trek from my work in Brooklyn to the pre-blackout meeting place we had agreed upon, in hopes of finding my co-working thespians. Worming my way across the bridge in the staggered, hesitant single-file line of folks trying to get into Manhattan, struggling against the mass exodus out of the city, was sort of like being in a crowded Japanese marketplace - until the bridge began to sway. "Of course the bridge sways," you think to yourself, "it's a suspension bridge, its actually safer that it sways." All of these lovely, logical thoughts did nothing to help keep the crap out of my pants as I fought the urge to run screaming to the other side. Some people in our barely burgeoning line had stopped to grab the supports as our strides dissolved into a drunken stagger. But again, nothing happened - just another false alarm as they say, a natural reaction to the events of the day (these events resulting in half of Manhattan's pedestrian traffic being redirected across a bridge four lanes wide, but hey, a little sway now and again never hurt anybody).

The other side of the bridge was more chaotic. Everyone wanted to stand at the entrance/exit of the bridge and take pictures, make comments and just generally look at all the people walking across the bridge. You would think that in New York, people would get tired of looking at each other. But perhaps it was some kind of instinctual reaction, watching the herd in order to get a sense of how to behave, what to do - even if you lived in Manhattan and were at home, the sight of 400,000 people walking across that bridge into Brooklyn could be a sign that you should walk into Brooklyn as well. For safety's sake. Because everyone else is doing it.

Personally, my walk across the bridge started as an attempt to adhere to some kind of predetermined schedule, but quickly progressed into a desperate attempt to keep calm against the swaying walkway and the unknown state of things as the city and the whole eastern seaboard went on double-A. My friend Louise and I talked about the most positive self-affirming things we could think of -- she had just gotten engaged, we were both happy with our lives and the way that they were going, great jobs, no regrets, how incredible that we were going to be involved in a time and place that would be making history (again). Finally we crossed into Manhattan, parted ways and I was alone to obsess about as many worst-case scenarios as I could dream up. My anxiety returned. I realized that in making my way to meet my friends in Noho east, I was going on nothing but total assumption, not only about their safety and whereabouts, but also about the depth of their concern for me. I had no idea if they were there, if they were OK, or if I would be waiting for hours alone in a sea of aimless people as the city got darker and darker, if I had been abandoned, if I should just fend for myself and take off. Having nowhere else to go, I continued walking, my teeth bared.

I spotted the girls, and my joy at their boundless friendship was short-lived - they were way drunker than I was, and their being in the place where we agreed to meet was less about predetermination than it was about the several beefy dudes who had appeared on the scene, drawn to drunken female laughter like bears to a bag of White Castle sliders (myth has it that they can hear one low chuckle over a distance of several hundred miles). Unable to reach anyone else and having nothing other than beer to quench my now hearty thirst, I disregarded my nagging instincts and downed a few as the sun went down, the block lit up with the flicker of firelight, and the smell of hamburgers wafted thru the air.

Several hours later I realized that all those inklings I had had about East Village hipsters being one step from fratdom had been proven correct, and that this was probably not the safest place I could have put myself. Faces were illuminated from barbecues up and down the block, presided over by kids who at that point did not understand that there was a choice of water instead of beer, that the meat was probably bad but who were cooking it anyway, and that "wahoo" was not a formalized greeting. Women would stop between crowds only to be greeted with chants of "show us your tits!" - and illuminated by cold harsh flashlight beam. Some stripped down to cheers and whistles only to walk away naked into the dark city streets. The buses running uptown were obviously packed but there was one bus that swung by our side street several times and was greeted by cheers typically found at a WWF wrestling match. Each time I noticed that this particular MTA vehicle held only two passengers and a jovial driver who looked like a Russian Matthew-Barney type, and the surreality was not lost on me. I had consumed two hamburgers and decided it was time to find a way out of the madness.

As a rousing rendition of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" swayed through the air and someone threw up into my friend's purse, I stumbled, unable to see either the steps nor the sidewalk. When the lights go out, it gets pretty dark. I had had enough of the carousing, the stripping, and the free beer - wait what was I saying? Why was New Yorkers' first impulse to drink? And why was that a bad thing? If the lights were out then there would be no one to see people acting upon their base impulses. If I fall in a forest and it's too dark to see, then do I make a sound? And if I do make a sound and it's too dark to see me anyway then does it even matter that I fell? Is this actually the heart of Blackout '03 - that the quiet and calm is what happens when there is no one around to see all our posturing, so everyone decides to take a night off? The same frat house that I was trapped in was a result of alphabet city kids not giving a shit about posing as philosophy students and just breaking loose into their base habits and behaviors.

Somewhere else, the 40/40 club was dark and all the gangsters had gone home to balance their checkbooks and research their 401k. Somewhere else a vegan, quiet and alone in the dark, ate a hot dog, secure in the knowledge that no one would ever know. In the city where the gaze is upon you 24-7, everyone decided to just be themselves. The real question is not who turned out the lights, but how did there come to be the largest group of closet frat kids in America living together on 9th street in New York City?

Once I decided I needed to go home, it was simple - a bus ride uptown, a walk across the bridge, a cab caught once I was out of Manhattan, which took me to my door for the easy price of $5. The next day hearing about how Michigan still had no power or water and how all of Ohio's water plants had shut down the day before, I realized that we had it pretty good. I had walked through three boroughs in the dark in the past eight hours, had some beer, listened to some Beatles songs and narrowly escaped getting caught in the fraternizing rush for camaraderie.

How will I remember Blackout 03? I will remember it as the day the people of New York decided to take a day off and show their true colors - and luckily it was too dark to see them anyway.

Carrie Morris

***

Only one bodega in my neighborhood had a generator, and we all knew it. I stood in a line that snaked around every narrow aisle, holding a box of Entenmann's coffee cake, a box of cookies, a bag of tortilla chips, and a jar of salsa. This amounted to lunch.

As I waited in line a couple behind me looked over the sad assortment of food left for consumption. They made a half-hearted effort to look through a big box of beef jerky that were labeled "Primal Chew." The guy said to his girl, "No thanks, this whole experience has given me enough primal for awhile."

There's been a lot of conjecture in the media about vendors price-gouging hapless victims of the blackout. My lunch cost $15. When I told this to a friend from outside New York they were outraged. "How dare these owners jack up prices when the city is in need!" I had to calm him down and tell him that these prices are actually quite reasonable by NYC standards.

***

It was like being a kid again. Many people here moved to the city from the suburbs or the country and have strong memories of going into the night with flashlights. But this was the only time I saw people navigating Manhattan sidewalks with them. Sometimes it felt like a post-apocalyptic scene from "28 Days Later," but mostly it felt like going out into the country on a summer night.

It was eerie. Most of the streets were deserted and spookily quiet. You couldn't see what was in front of you, and sometimes you'd pass someone without even knowing it. It was like the helpless feeling of being deep in the woods and knowing other creatures are out there. Sure they're probably benign, but it's the not knowing that keeps you on edge.

At one point I could hear in the distance what sounded like a spring peeper. Most people in America know this little frog by its mating call in the spring, short little trilling flutters that repeat and repeat. It's a warm, comfortable feeling. As we roamed in silence, in the darkness, with nothing but flashlights and our backpacks, it felt like were on a journey through the wild. The spring peeper sound lolled us along. It felt adventurous and unknown, mysterious and natural.

Later I discovered the sound of the "spring peeper" was a police officer blowing on a whistle to direct traffic several blocks away.

Harry Swartz-Turfle

***

I have the strangest "why I was not in the city when the lights went out" story. Monday morning I was making breakfast early because I was set to catch a flight out to Chicago to see my now ex-boyfriend graduate from Navy school. I reached above the stove to get something from the cabinet, and my shirt caught on fire. It was like they show in the cartoons. I walked away from the stove and even started to get other things out of the cabinets before I realized I was on fire. Then I tried to "stop, drop and roll" like they tell you to when you're a kid. But I'm a lot bigger than your average child and there was not room for me to roll anywhere in my tiny kitchen. So I started yelling, and my dad came in and smothered the fire. I ended up in the emergency room... but did go out to Chicago (only three hours late!) When I got back from Chicago, I went to work on Wednesday, and then went to the doctor. The doctor called me crazy for doing all that and told me I should take time off from work. And that is why I was not in the city when the lights went out. I'll need a good strong drink in nine days when I am off these antibiotics.

Erin, via Lisa Pettibone

***

My favorite story about the blackout isn't mine but something I heard on the local NPR call-in show during the blackout. The Toys 'R' Us in Times Square claims to be the world's largest toy store. And when you walk into the store, you immediately see its claim to fame: a huge three-story indoor ferris wheel that glows and flashes like a 60-foot tall pinball game. Ordinarily kids play and get rowdy in the wheel's cars, taking pictures when they're at the top as their parents wait helplessly below.

When the power went off, many kids were stranded on the three-story wheel. Of course children are the first ones to appreciate the collapse of civilization. The kids joked and laughed in the darkness as Toys 'R' Us had to gather its beefiest employees at the base of the ferris wheel to manually move the wheel around. It was like synchronizing the building of the pyramids, with twenty strong men poised to burst their energy in order to move this hulking mass just a few inches at a time. Eventually the wheel made its way around and the children were plucked from their seats, having had a much more adventurous time than their parents.

***

I finally left work at 11:30 Thursday night and tiptoed in the dark down six flights of stairs into Manhattan as I've never seen it: dark, silent, with only faraway headlights marking the outlines of faraway buildings. I was heading for the Chelsea Lodge, five endless blocks away, up Ninth Avenue. I couldn't see any street signs, so I was counting the blocks in my head: "16th ... 17th ..." I turned onto 21st Street and started shuffling my way toward where I hoped the hotel was. I'd never been there and couldn't read the numbers on any of the buildings. I stumbled on, bumping into things, holding my breath at every voice in the darkness, clinging to the idea that the hotel would have some faint light burning. It did -- candles in the lobby. I was shown up to my room on the second floor, dropped my bag, and went back downstairs to the front steps of the hotel, where a few other people were sitting and talking. We didn't know who we were talking to, but it didn't seem to matter. A dark outline on the steps across from me identified herself as a tourist from Florida. She said she'd been looking forward to seeing Green-wich Village -- she pronounced it like that -- and asked me which way it was. Someone else said, "You can see Al Pacino down there sometimes," and I mentioned Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins. We sat in the dark and talked celebrities for a few more minutes. Then, using my cellphone to light my way, I fumbled back upstairs and fell asleep.

Matt Besterman

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