Flood Fun, Part Deux

The second of three massive storm cells has just come through, depositing at least an inch of rain in Franklin, Indiana, which was devastated by flooding six days ago. We just got word that they've evacuated downtown again. The Johnson County Prosecutor's Office, the one that was condemned, has flooded again.

The second floor of the Franklin Museum of History used to be an auditorium, but now it just has paintings on the wall, a really big antique bicycle with a 3-foot-high front wheel, and a bunch of history-related antiques sitting on the stage. They were all moved up here from the water-damaged basement.

The Prosecutor's Office has set up shop here until they get a permanent new location. Two professional IT guys came in and threw together a computer and VoIP network. Pretty impressive for only two days' work. However, they cover IT for the whole county, so they couldn't stay.

My brother-in-law, Carlos, is a deputy prosecutor for this office. I came down with him to volunteer to make sure that the tech needs of the office were fulfilled.

Carlos just went with two of the office managers to the sheriff's office to retrieve some files.

So here I sit on my butt, waiting for his return so I can get the flock out of here. Carlos told me to dress nice so I could do a follow-up on a job application. Bad advice; now I have to worry about wading through an inch and a half of water in 80 dollar shoes.

I keep staring at that rudimentary bicycle with the giant wheel. I yearn to take that ancient device downstairs and ride it out of town. He'd keep my feet dry, and in return I'd give him a chance to ride again. I'll even spray him down with WD-40 so he won't squeak or rust. His handlebars stretch wide like open arms of a long-lost friend. His seat is shedding a tear of vulnerability, equated only by a middle school boy who stammers through a proposition for a date from his crush; Hopelessly waiting, seconds stretching into lifetimes, for her reply.

It was so quiet for so long, the museum employee in the doorway scares the crap out of me, and I jump from my chair. We talk for a minute. She soon leaves, but the damage is done. She has reminded the bicycle of the way things are--How he cannot leave his lifestyle of preservation. Even if he made it outside, he'd never hold up in today's fast-paced world. I watch the bike abandon his anthropomorphic soul, resigning itself to the fate of a model while dreaming to be a machine.

This is what it's like to be in a flood.