Brutality Report - Waiting for a 9.2

Nineteen years ago, I was working in a small supermarket in the south when a truck hit the building. It wasn't a full crash—some hee haw had just misjudged the distance to the loading dock. One ominous shockwave rippled through the aisles, knocking over the crackers I was stacking. Later, in the break room, I learned that the building hadn't been seriously damaged, and that it was perfectly fine to call rural southerners "hee haws" behind their backs.

Now that I live in California, this incident remains the benchmark by which I measure all seismic events. Every earthquake I've experienced has felt like a truck smacking a building. It just depends on the size of the truck. Some quakes are like a child angrily hurling a Tonka Toy truck at a wall. Other quakes are like a grownup angrily hurling their child's Tonka Toy truck at a wall. Still other quakes are like that same grownup angrily gunning their Pueblo Gold metallic Ford F-150 pickup truck into a wall. The 1964 Anchorage quake—a 9.2—probably felt like a California-sized goliath super space truck ramming the loading dock of all Mother Earth.

This was not what I'd expected when I moved here. Being from the east coast, I anticipated a more dramatic buildup for such tremors. In my imagining of a personal quake experience, I'd always pictured myself in one of life's milestones—accepting a Daytime Emmy, delivering an elevator baby, knuckle deep in my first proctology exam—in which cataclysmic natural force would have maximum ironic impact. In the distance, a voice would yell "EARTH-QUAAAAAAAAKE!" Only then, properly warned, would the floor explode and I'd fly through space in glorious slow motion.

Maybe a 9.2 is like this. If you look at photos of the Anchorage deal, it's not hard to imagine a leathery old Gorton's fisherman-type yelling something comical as he zipped through the air like Peter Pan. Perhaps he warned the other flying pedestrians and motorists and local businesses in a way that brought some temporary levity to their situation.

If you think about it straight on, even a catastrophic, Anchorage-strength quake doesn't seem like such a huge deal. It hits, you make sure you're not under an overpass or in a Home Depot, you survive, FEMA hands out big cardboard checks, life goes on. What is a brutastically big deal is the buildup. Like all good torture devices, the more you think about it, the worse your dread. It's a great way to spend some insomnia time.

Here's something else I hadn't planned on: some quakes are small. Insultingly tiny. Far more wee than even a matchbox truck bumping a doorframe. Go to the online federal California-Nevada Fault Map and you'll see dozens of sparkly little squares marking the latest gastric gurgles of the Earth's ceaselessly churning guts. Sometimes these teeny tremors register as something almost barely perceptible, as fleeting as deja vu.  Often, these nano-quakes do not herald a 9.2.

If, like me, you have moved to California from someplace less jiggly, you may be forced to rely on your pets for seismic warnings. Sometimes this works. Occasionally when they bolt upright and stare in shocked bewilderment —as if Robert E. Lee's ghost had just strolled through in a snorkel-thong— it really will be a microquake. Sometimes it will be a precursor to a larger quake. When this is the case, they will do that  ridiculous Scooby Doo running-in-place thing. You will amusedly chide them for being idiots. Then the great quake will be upon you.

Previously - Goddamned Fucking Shit that Doesn't Fucking Work Right

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