When the Lights Go Out

by Erika Nanes

I’m lying on my bed in the semi-darkness, trying to fall asleep, when I hear it, a noise like air seeping from a balloon, a sound that is the sudden absence of sound. The hum of the refrigerator, the rattle of the tabletop fan squeezed onto the nightstand next to me—both stopped, both still. It’s night two of the heat wave, and, I realize, my apartment has lost power. It’s just me and the sweat beading at the base of my scalp, alone in the darkness.

I had been worried about this possibility. Unprecedented heat waves, like the one we were experiencing that week in Los Angeles, mean unprecedented demand for electricity. For years, California had dealt with this issue by instituting rolling blackouts meant to safeguard the power grid. I always turned off my window air conditioner during peak hours, just like the radio announcements said to do. I had assumed that I was doing it to protect other people. Yet here I am.

I fumbled for my flashlight, lit some leftover Hanukkah candles. But there was no way to turn on the fans I had propped on almost every table in my bedroom and living room. I shoved open the windows, but the air outside felt as thick and stifling as inside my apartment. I thought about sticking my face and hands inside the refrigerator to cool down, but realized that could speed up the rate at which everything inside—the leftover tuna salad, the coconut yogurt, the carefully-washed peaches—would curdle and rot.

The words climate change often conjure images of wildfires scouring hillsides, hurricane-force winds lashing palm trees. Dramatic visuals. But they also should evoke the stench emitted by refrigerators full of food gradually spoiling. Or the mildewed residue left when flood waters recede. Or the scent of wildfire ash floating through the air hundreds of miles away, along with the sweat from bodies mopping, bleaching, scrubbing to try to contain those smells.

These sensory realities are a reminder that decomposition shadows everything, all the time. It’s natural, and predictable. But, in a climate-changed world, other once-predictable cycles have become skewed. Now, cherry blossoms and jacarandas unfurl weeks earlier than usual; the birdsong outside sounds unfamiliar, as goldfinches and Northern mockingbirds nest further north than ever before. And summers stretch out, becoming longer and hotter.

“...Decomposition shadows everything, all the time. It’s natural, and predictable. But, in a climate-changed world, other once-predictable cycles have become skewed.”

I thought about all of this lying on my bed that night, along with a few questions, such as whether I should move, whether any place would be safer, what safety even means now. I imagined the vastness of the power grid up and down California and wondered how the people in charge of that grid made decisions about allocating electricity. Was a family in Lompoc currently relaxing in their air-conditioned living room because someone had decided to cut power to my neighborhood? Had I been able to watch TV uninterrupted last night only because students in San Diego had been forced to cope without electricity? And why hadn’t I asked myself these questions before?

I got lucky: My power snapped back on after seven hours. Of course, all of the perishable food had spoiled by then. As I scraped globules out of yogurt containers and sprayed refrigerator shelves, trying to dispel the sour scent of overheated food with a vaguely citrusy cleanser, I thought of all of the other people doing the same, all of us connected by the grid, all of us wondering when it will be our turn again.

Now, on the edge of the first summer since that heat wave, I worry about what the season will bring. I suspect that the first time I switch on my window air conditioner, I’ll feel that vertiginous sensation I’ve come to associate with the climate crisis, the awareness that everything I do to soften the edges of my daily experience—to cool my bedroom, say, or save myself a long walk uphill—might sharpen it for others. In the meantime, I buy battery-operated fans and stockpile canned beans. Maybe, in this new world, preparing for unpredictable darkness is the closest I can come to staying safe.

This is the first in a series of snapshot essays focused on the personal impacts of climate change.