T'aint Likely

 The week after Labor Day is always a busy one, but I started mine off with a bang. 

…Literally. My street blew up.

I was in the shower when I heard one huge thudding BANG followed closely by another. The metal clasps rattled on the shower curtain rod, and I could still hear them softly tinkling as, with conditioner still in my hair, I grabbed a towel and ran for the nearest window, more than half-expecting to see one of the buildings on fire downtown.

After all, this is New York, and it’s September. One unfortunate side effect to living in Manhattan is the subconscious but ever-present anxiety about bomb threats and terrorist attacks. Many a date-night has been thwarted by suspicious packages in Times Square or unidentified boats on the Hudson that came too close for comfort. Especially in September, and especially with the tenth anniversary of 9/11 right around the corner.

Needless to say, I was pretty rattled, and on high alert. 

After a close inspection of the downtown skyline from my living room window, I didn’t see anything out of place. But then I heard the sirens and bleating of firetrucks not so far away from my apartment. Actually, wait a minute…the sound grew closer and louder until I realized that they were not just nearby, but turning onto my street.

Busy night on W16th Street

At this point, my inner journalist took over. I threw on some clothes (conditioner still in my hair, which I only realized later when I found myself brushing through silky goo), grabbed my mini recorder, and ran downstairs to the street below – all eleven flights, remembering that, in the instance of a bomb threat or fire, an elevator is the last place you want to be.

Down on the street, I was met by a line of police and about a dozen fire trucks, choking off the entire section of W16^th street where I live, one avenue to the next. People walked slowly toward the scene down the street, led by a blaze of fire and already coughing from air heavy with smoke and electricity.

At the scene

Someone asked:

“You think it was a bomb?”

…And that’s when I heard it:

“T’ain’t likely.”

Now, for those of you (aka, most people) who don’t speak Mainer, this is about as wharf-tongue as they come. The term, obviously, means, “no, it’s not likely,” but there’s an undertone in there of “you’re screwed, good look with that” as well.

Normally, it’s a funny down-home-ism that my dad and I like to joke about. My best friend’s dad, who is a lobsterman, uses it as a response for almost anything (although, unlike me and Dad, he’s usually not joking).

But in this case, it wasn’t funny at all. It was an instant source of comfort during a scary and uncertain time. 

As I found out eventually, the explosions were not a huge deal or attack of any kind. A manhole blew on my street (a result of extreme underground pressure from the crazy humidity we’ve had this summer) and ricocheted onto a nearby car, which exploded…and then caused another car to explode before hitting a powerline. Okay, yeah, it actually was kind of a big deal, but nothing like a bomb or attack (thank goodness).  

But hearing that familiar phrase — “T’aint likely” — down there on the street made a lasting impression. It’s like walking through a crowded airport overseas and spotting someone wearing your favorite sports teams’ baseball cap. Unexpected, and oddly comforting.

At the source: Bailey Island, Maine

As the fire died down and I walked back into my building (where I would be for the rest of the night because the street was sealed off and the police wouldn’t let us leave), I passed the Mainer-speaking man as before, and smiled.

“I wonder if they’ll have it cleaned up by tomorrow?” I asked.

“T’aint likely.”