When you hear a sound like a thousand terrible things screaming at you and feel your ears pop, and pop, then pop again, you can only do so much.  But you are stricken with the undeniable fact that you had damned well better do something–and had better do it faster than you've ever done anything in your entire life.

           Start by yelling at your girlfriend, "Get in the tub!"

           She’ll respond, "I have to get the cats."

           Don’t be discouraged. Simply scream, "Get in the fucking tub!" while grasping her with one hand, grabbing the mattress in the other, and bum-rushing the door to the bathroom.  In this small room, a claw-foot tub will gleam like a substandard savior–one who will not guarantee your entrance into the next world, but may allow you to continue living in this one.  

            
            Only a moment after entering the tub–before you have a chance to situate the mattress over your head–the instant arrives.  Everything goes horribly wrong.  With a little luck, the tornado is traveling at somewhere between fifty and sixty miles per hour.  As quickly as it arrives (just as your brain is beginning to process the overload of sensual input: the banshee wind, the smashing racket, the popping of ears, the acrid taste in the mouth, and the rattling boom of an explosion the likes of which you've never heard), the tornado is gone.  You are left with nothing but a comparatively awkward silence.  During this silence, begin to whimper and then attempt to hack and spit out the mixture of fiberglass, plaster grit, and dirt that has filled your nostrils, mouth, throat, lungs, pants pockets, and every other crevice in your body.

           It’s dark.  The electricity is cut off, and there are massive gas leaks.  You’ll recognize the smell.  At this point you’ll look up at the ceiling and see the sky.

            
            You won’t recognize the simple logic that once a tornado has passed, the chance of another coming close behind is astronomically implausible.  In fact, you’ll never again believe this. Nor will you believe any other statistical argument against the likelihood of a disaster affecting you personally, especially not the old wives’ tale about lightning never striking twice. You’ll feel the desire to do very little but flee–at a speed equal to that which only adrenaline of the highest quality and volume can fuel.  Luckily, just such a store of adrenaline is now at your disposal.

            
            As for your possessions, you may be surprised by the fact that you don't care about a single thing, other than that which will aid in your escape.  But recognize at least one economic reality, and appreciate the fact that you’ll need to find your wallet so you might pay for a hotel.  Looking around at what is left of your house will make the fact that you’ll never sleep there again rather obvious. As for your belongings, they can all go to hell.  Your girlfriend, on the other hand, will insist on finding the cats.

           The first cat is hiding behind the sofa.  It’s important to wrap the cat in a blanket, leaving only its head exposed.  By doing this, you’ll avoid being clawed to death while you make your way out on foot.  The other cat is still missing. 

           Remember to continue to cough and spit as much as possible to get the fiberglass out of your mouth, your lungs, and throat. 

           When a flashlight beam dances across the front of what is left of your house, and a neighbor you’ve never actually met, comes yelling, go ahead and shout back so he’ll know you’re alive.  Only then will you notice how shook-up you really are.  Hear the strain in your voice.  Feel the strain in your neck and cheeks.

            
            When you push yourself through the debris and out the front door, you won’t recognize your street.  The covered porch is gone, and you are used to seeing the street and your yard framed by this fixture…which brings you to the next problem.  There is no street, not even a lawn, because everything is covered with large pieces of buildings–especially black, shingled roofs and long strips of pink insulation. Pieces of houses and trees and the personal belongings of your neighbors have penned you in. They prevent you from easily reaching either of the now smashed and trapped automobiles in the “yard.”  One car won’t be where you left it, but in an area that used to be a fenced-in side yard belonging to your neighbor.  The other was crushed by a piece of flying debris–debris that has by this time, flown somewhere else.

           Now, there is the matter of climbing over all the roofs and broken, twisted trees to reach a passable portion of any of the nearby city streets.  Watch out for nails.  Yes, it’s dark. And yes the debris is heavy and cluttered, so this won’t be easy.  But the last thing you need now is a rusty nail though the bottom of your foot.

            
            On the street, flag down the middle-aged woman who is disaster gawking in her minivan.  Ask her to take you away.

           Upon your arrival at the safest place you can imagine–the art studio you rent in the dank basement of a large brick building downtown–place a telephone call to your parents.  Proceed to leave a sobbing message on their machine–though you are not a sobber, though you rarely cry for any reason.

           Soon after, a friend who lives nearby will arrive at your studio after going to your house and finding it smashed to pieces.  She’ll cry and tell you she thought you were dead.  You’ll say you thought so too.  When your girlfriend's mother arrives, she’ll cry too, and say that you saved her daughter's life.  Go ahead and nod.  Agree with her mother, because you’ll have noticed a large hole in the wall where your girlfriend had been standing–a hole made by a piece of roof that smashed through and crushed the foot of the iron bed frame. 

           Friends and family will gather around you late into the night.  Stay in the studio.  Fear leaving the safety of the basement.  One friend will bring you a pair of old boots to wear–another, comfort food from Taco Bell.  Around three in the morning they’ll finally convince you to go back, at least for your most valuable possessions–the other cat for instance. Your girlfriend will be attuned to their pleas, at least in regards to the cat. You’ll not share the importance they place on any item of value: not clothes or house wares, not electronics or photo albums, not even family heirlooms, your guitars, or your record collection.  Acknowledge that, yes, you know you live in a transitional neighborhood downtown.  Yes, you know it has started to rain again and without a roof or windows everything will be ruined if not looted first.  But to tell you the truth, at that point in time you really won't care about anything other than the fact that you are still alive. You will have survived something so violent and unpredictable that you’ll never look at anything the same way: not a two-by-four or a claw-foot tub, not a tree, not even a cloud. 

           In the days after, people will take you in.  Watch as a horde of friends and family descends on your ruined house to carry away your sorry, filthy, waterlogged belongings in hopes of salvaging something.  Your girlfriend’s mother will find a vibrator and pack it away without a word.  Take the time to tell them you appreciate them as they wipe everything you own with damp rags and Windex to remove the brown pasty crust the tornado applied to everything. 

           Time will pass.  Marry your girlfriend of many years, in part because you’ve been through so much together, and in part because she’ll need health insurance to pay for the therapist who treats her for Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.  Separate after only nine months and two dozen visits to her therapist.

           The last time you speak to her, tell her, "I saved your life once. I hope you do something with it." Say this, even though you no longer believe it’s necessarily true.  Say it because it sounds dramatic, not to mention fitting for such an end.  Officially divorce soon after, and move far away to a state where there are no tornadoes.  She’ll move in with the man she left you for.  He’ll have several cats of his own.

           Fill your new apartment with new things: new clothes and furniture, books and movies.  Eventually, you’ll collect enough junk to periodically haul things away to the Salvation Army. 

           In time, grow accustomed to living your life again. But never believe, as most people do, that you won’t be struck by lightning–even inside your house.  Refuse to touch anything electrical, or any of the plumbing during storms.  If this means holding it until the danger passes, so be it. The thought of lightning striking a pipe, crackling up your urine stream, and entering your body through it's most sensitive appendage, will be enough to give you urination stage fright anyhow.

           Nearly ten years later, you’ll be reminded of the vortex in strange ways.  One day you’ll open a record sleeve and find it filthy with grit and slivers of fiberglass.  Two months later you’ll open a book of poetry and find the same crud.  Think of your first marriage as a natural disaster.  Block it out of your mind.  Pretend it never existed.   

           Keep dozens of newspaper clippings, but never read them.  They’ll stay in the closet in an album your mother made for you.  When she hands you this artifact, she’ll say, "I know it's a little morbid, but you might want this someday."  One week after the vortex, shoot video footage of what is left of the scene.  In the grainy video, walk around the empty house, peering through holes into the sky, climbing over debris, and studying muddy splatter marks on the walls.  When the camera dips into the bathtub, be embarrassed by the waterlogged box of tampons.  Much later this will, of course, remind you of her part in this.  Luckily, this video artifact will sit in the closet too.  Don’t watch these images roll across your television screen.  Don’t allow yourself to be reminded in this particular way.

           Dream about tornadoes for a few years, though you’ll never again be hit by one–not even in your dreams.  In these dreams they are far off, but moving toward you.  In this manner, they will not be unlike the death you know–now more than ever–will eventually find you.  All this will leave you thinking about life and considering this: the beginning has already passed, and the middle is here.  This leaves us only capable of anticipating one aspect of life–that which impends. Like everyone else, the idea that your death is certain will sadden you. Unlike most people, you will glare at clouds suspiciously and carry a transistor radio that only delivers weather reports.  Constantly evaluate surrounding structures and topography for their ability to protect you from lightning, earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, divorces, and wildfires.  And remember this: more so than most people, you’ll brace yourself against these eventualities with a nervousness brought on by high winds, the proverbial grinding of teeth, dreams of coming vortices, and a disarming sense of immediacy in your fear of all things impending.