My Sister Emily

I was asleep when our house began to sway at 4:58 a.m. Sunday.

The first thought that entered my head was, “It’s an earthquake.” The second thought that entered my head was, “There goes the tourist industry.”

“Hold still,” my wife said.

Cinelli assumes that any movement between the hours of midnight and 7 a.m. must be me wiggling in bed.

She sleeps without moving a muscle. I do not remain in the same position longer than 18 minutes. I sat up and watched her one night. Not a twitch.

I explained the next day it wasn’t normal for someone to sleep without rolling over occasionally.

She said, “How can anyone who hums in his sleep talk about normalcy?”

“I hum because I’m happy,” I said.

“You hum because you’re crazy.”

On Sunday morning she opened her eyes and said, “If it isn’t you, it must be an earthquake.”

It seemed to go on interminably. Light fixtures swayed like palm trees. Windows rattled. My stuffed barracuda fell from its shelf.

“We don’t have an earthquake preparedness kit,” Cinelli said. “What would Quirky Quake say?”

That again.

Quirky Quake is a cartoon logo of the Southern California Earthquake Preparedness Project. She uses him to remind me I have done nothing to prepare our family for the Big One.

I should have put aside fresh water and blankets and pinned an evacuation plan to the wall. Instead, I made up a kit consisting of vodka, vermouth, cigars and a can of smoked oysters, and to hell with Quirky Quake.

Paul Flores is director of the Preparedness Project. He told me once to forget standing in a doorway when the Big One comes.

I couldn’t believe it. I grew up trusting doorways. Stand in a doorway in an earthquake and close your eyes in a nuclear attack.

The thing to do, he explained, was to get under a solid wooden desk. “But hang on tight,” he warned, “because the desk might suddenly go shooting across the room.”

The doorway theory has been abandoned because during a quake the door is liable to slam open and closed several times and beat you to death.

Among the casualties was a newspaper columnist who was battered to death by his own door. His wife was too embarrassed to divulge his name but did mention that at least there would be no wiggling and humming in bed anymore.

“It can’t be an earthquake,” I said as we rolled with the earth. “Tom Bradley didn’t call for calm last night. He always calls for calm before a disaster.”

“Also the dog didn’t howl,” Cinelli said.

That’s a joke. Hoover never warns us of anything. Other dogs yowl their brains off. Even crickets crick their little hearts out. Hoover crouches in a corner and stares.

Schopenhauer, the pessimistic philosopher, said, “No good will come from relying on a silent, cowering, staring dog.” Hoover also drools. Less good will come from that.

The earth had barely stopped moving when my sister Emily called from Oakland. “Are you all right?” she wanted to know.

It is part of the Big Sister Syndrome. Whenever anything happens south of Buttonwillow she telephones and wants to know if I’m all right.

“I’m fine,” I say, “I’m drunk and in jail for murdering a whore.”

“Thank God,” she says.

Television was relentless in its coverage of the quake. The same news was repeated until it rang in your head. The same wrecked bowling alley was shown until it was burned on your brain.

We had guests for dinner that evening. One of them said if the media hadn’t dwelt on the earthquake, it wouldn’t have seemed as bad.

“Turn off the tube,” Cinelli said, “death is everywhere.”

The woodcarver Barry remembered one quake where a cat was hurled across the room, flat out, like a missile. He hates cats and recalled the incident warmly. “Whoosh!” he said, laughing and moving his hand in a flat line.

A big quake is a carnival for seismologists. They salivate at the first tremor and are in paradise for weeks warning about aftershocks. Lucy Jones and the Caltech Gang. Everybody stay tense, more on the way!

On Monday, the real aftershock came. The tourist industry is in jeopardy! Radio and television reported the quakes would cause a 4% dip in the number of visitors to L.A. this year. First the riots, then this. I don’t know how they figured the percentage. Perhaps Lucy Jones told them.

My sister Emily telephoned immediately. “I heard about the tourist problem,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m downtown strangling Quirky Quake.”

“Thank God,” she said.