Michael Greenberg returns to the Rockaways, where he grew up, a week after Hurricane Sandy hit.
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Furniture lay on the street in soggy, reeking heaps—the pathetically intimate sight of defiled mattresses and stuffed chairs mixed with mounds of foam, roof shingles, Halloween decorations, and soaked, grease-streaked insulation. Groups of people waited in ankle-high puddles for buses that seemed never to arrive. Here was a drowned cat, there a pit bull with flaming eyes chained to a wrinkled Ford. ‘We Shoot Looters’ read the sign on a house protected by a barricade of storm-mangled cars.
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