In Cedar Rapids, Iowa, ’45 Minutes to Grab What You Can’
CEDAR RAPIDS, Iowa _ The lady with the bullhorn was clear: “You’ve got 45 minutes to grab what you can.”
The 25 or so tenants of Plaza 425 nodded in agreement Saturday _ eager and anxious to return to the downtown office tower that they had evacuated three days prior when floods left about 450 blocks of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, underwater.
Pressley Henningsen and Tim Semelroth took a deep breath. With a law office on the 11th floor, they felt water damage was unlikely, but no electricity meant no elevator, so a hefty hike awaited them.
As the group entered the 12-story building, flashlights flipped on, illuminating the long route up the stairwell. Some groups dragged dollies. Henningsen and Semelroth slung only backpacks. “It’s too hot for all that,” Semelroth said, as two men struggled up ahead with carts.
Dark humor shone through most of the way up, especially as the caravan passed floors housing FBI and IRS offices and a U.S. bankruptcy court.
“Don’t go in there unless you want to be on America’s Most Wanted!” someone shouted down.
“I could clear my record!” another joker jested.
If not for the heat, darkness and musk (Cedar Rapids residents have been encouraged to skip showers to conserve water) the event would’ve proved a jovial workout.
Henningsen and Semelroth eventually made it to their wood-paneled offices, which feature panoramic views of the swamped city. The lawyers say quickly that they wouldn’t have to worry about court dates soon, at least in Linn County _ both the federal and local courthouses appear water-logged, at least up to the first floors.
“It’s kind of amazing how quiet it is,” Henningsen said. “Even when you go camping, there are generators and such making noise. This is just complete quiet.”
The men grabbed their files and packed all perishables in their fridge into trash bags. With no garbage service for the foreseeable future, they crammed the bags back into the warm, silent appliance.
Making their way back down the stairs, they saw they had it easier than others. One tenant, trying to free a computer server, had punched through drywall, which coated the electronics. Upon reaching the parking level _ the lobby is underwater _ the duo learned that luck wasn’t fully on their side either: the building manager informed them it would be at least a month until anyone could return to work.
“That’s bad,” Henningsen said with a grimace. “Some of our clients get their disability checks sent here, and with no mail…” he said, trailing off.
No mail is just part of the new reality here, along with closed highways, shuttered summer schools and discussions on where to get the best, free tetanus shot.
As the men strolled down the skywalk out of the building, they walked above the playground where Semlroth’s daughter usually has pre-school. A plastic jungle gym sat submerged, except for its peak.
A Little Tyke flag flew atop at surrender.
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