I was walking down the hall, just about to open the restroom door when the lights wavered and dimmed, the elevators beeped madly and the air conditioning ground down to a halt. Emergency lights went on. I turned back to the office where we had a little laugh about building management.
Then the lights went off - and stayed off. People called around, a few family relations phoned the office, and we quickly had a picture of the entire Greater Cleveland area with its lights out.
We all left together. In the parking lot, radios came on. Much of the eastern United States had been affected. Frightening. Everyone wished the other good luck in their impending negotiation of improvised four-way stops and likely gridlock on the highway. I was lucky enough to be able to change my route to swing by the folks' for talk of the town over cold sandwiches (which reminds me, I'll need to canvas my refrigerator). There was absent-minded flicking of lights and corresponding laughter.
But for a brief instant when the office crew heard the news over the radio, no panic; the traffic shuffling through intersections was magnificently well-behaved with only about four-and-a-half bozos jumping someone's turn; my parents and I spent a grand total of ten minutes either talking about or listening to DJs talk about the blackout. Near D.C., my sister wasn't affected; she instructed my mother to send regular reports.
Back to the apartment. I took a hell of a colorful walk, then groped my way to bed with a flashlight.
Lights having come back up here and elsewhere, more than half of the country - those directly affected and everyone worrying about them - must be breathing a sigh of relief. Everyone except those with the cameras, microphones and penchants for journalism-award-winning chaos, that is.