My friend Ito keeps one photo on his desk in Tokyo.
It's a highway in Mississippi, taken the day before a hurricane hit the Gulf Coast.
On the left side, the northbound lanes are solid red taillights. Bumper to bumper. Families getting out. Mattresses tied to roofs. Dogs in back windows.
On the right side, the southbound lanes are almost empty.
Except for the white trucks.
Hundreds of them. Bucket trucks. Line trucks. One after another, as far as the camera can see. Ohio plates. Michigan. Indiana. Tennessee. Pennsylvania. Kentucky.
A whole country, driving the wrong way. On purpose.
Ito works for a power company in Japan. Two years ago, his company sent him to Louisiana to study how Americans restore electricity after a hurricane. He thought he'd be studying equipment.
He was not studying equipment.
He arrived with a clipboard and a brand-new hard hat. The crew from Michigan took one look at him and made him the coffee man.
He took it very seriously. He says it is the most important job he has ever had.
On the first night, a man from Michigan who had never been south of Indianapolis was handed his first crawfish. He stared at it for a long time. Then he said, "Buddy, I'm sorry." Then he ate forty.
They worked sixteen-hour days. They slept in their trucks, in a church parking lot, in the heat. They called each other "brother." They called Ito "Coffee." By the third day, Ito answered to it.
And everywhere they went, people came out.
An old woman walked down her driveway in 95 degrees with sweet tea in mason jars. Twelve jars, for twelve men. She had carried them two at a time.
A church fed 900 linemen jambalaya. A little boy stood at the end of his road and saluted every truck that passed. Every driver saluted back.
And when the power came back on, a whole street went outside and screamed. Not clapped. Screamed. Like the Saints had scored. A grown man ran out of his house in his socks, in the mud, with both arms in the air.
Ito had never seen anything like it. In Japan, when the lights come back, we bow and say thank you. Here, they lose their minds.
Ito asked the crew leader why they do it.
His name is Wade. He's 58. Thirty-four years on the line. This was his 22nd storm. He has missed Thanksgivings. Christmases. Most of his kids' birthdays.
Wade spit, wiped his face, and said:
"Because somebody's grandma's on oxygen, Coffee. And she don't care what state my truck's from."
The night Ito will never forget was a Thursday.
Almost midnight. Wade was forty feet up in the bucket, finishing the last line on a dark street.
His phone rang. His daughter. She was turning seven that day, back in Michigan. He'd promised he'd call before bedtime, and he was late.
Wade answered it. Up there. Forty feet in the air, in the dark, in the middle of a ruined street in Louisiana.
He said, "Happy birthday, baby. Hey. Wanna see something?"
He turned the phone toward the houses below him.
And he closed the switch.
The whole street lit up. Porch lights. Kitchen windows. A ceiling fan starting to turn. Somewhere, a TV. Somewhere, a dog barking at the sudden light.
And the street went outside and started screaming.
On the phone, a little voice in Michigan said, "Daddy, did you do that?"
Wade said, "We did, baby. Daddy's turning on the lights for some other kids tonight."
There was a long pause.
Then she said:
"Okay, Daddy. Go do the next one."
Ito was standing at the bottom of the truck, holding a coffee. He says he did not drink it. He just held it, and cried, and pretended it was the steam.
He flew home a week later.
He brought back pages of notes about trucks and transformers and crew rotations. His company liked them very much.
But the thing he really brought back is that photo. Red taillights going one way. White trucks going the other.
Under it, in Japanese, he wrote one line.
"This is what a country looks like."
On his last day, Ito asked Wade if he was ever afraid. Driving into the storm while everyone else drives out.
Wade shrugged.
"Everybody's leaving, Coffee.
Somebody's gotta drive the other way."
To every lineman. Every firefighter who went up the stairs. Every nurse who stayed for the double shift. Every farmer who brought the tractor. Every guy who heard "storm's coming" and went looking for his boots instead of his car keys.
You drove the other way.
You've always driven the other way.
A man in Tokyo has your picture on his desk.
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