"Please Make It Two Weeks From Now"

1.
"Please make it two weeks from now."
I used to summon that up like some type of chant when I was younger. Looking up to the heavens, I would silently plead with whoever might be looking back down to take me away from this terrible moment, transport me no less than two weeks into the future where everything would be alright again. Terrible moments at that age came with far less consequences. It would take much longer than that to get over the events of 9/11. For those of us lucky enough to survive that catastrophic day, it will literally take a lifetime.
I'm not a survivor, at least not in the truest sense of the word. My story would not have made the headlines or the television news. I worked in Manhattan that day as I do everyday in an office some fifty to sixty blocks north of where the unthinkable had taken place.
"It was a beautiful September morn," Reception Mary, a retiring Mary Poppins like character began, telling her story to the camera for a video that I would wind up editing months later. Mary's simple words faultlessly described the beginning of what should have been nothing more than a perfectly normal late summer workday.
Seven years have elapsed since that day. It had taken me five of those years to launch this site, to return to the joy of writing, a passion dating back to my childhood. Return to Innocence; my first entry here, celebrated a simpler age, a tale of teenage love and a first kiss. I've often pined for the simplicity of those days. Now I would settle for just a return to complacency, a time where as a society we often viewed the tragic horrors of events in faraway lands with a detached interest before returning to our otherwise carefree lives. There is not an evening that goes past when descending into New York City's Penn Station for the short commute home I idly wonder, is tonight the night? We are supposed to go on with our lives, enjoy the freedom that living here has to offer, never let the terrorists take that away, but one cannot help but to wonder, what next.
When?
The Psyche of America changed on that dark day. The horrors of overseas had inexplicably transcended the great distance, right to our own doorstep.
Courage, bravado, denial.
It can't happen here.
It did!
And it changed us forever.
Six days later, I returned to work, far more cognizant of my immediate surroundings, paying particular attention to the location of emergency exits within the tunnel my bus drove through every morning, as it passed underneath the East River from Queens to Manhattan. New York City seemed strange to me on September 17th. It was quieter. The incessant honking of horns, now absent, the rushing click clack of shoes on the pavement, now in no apparent hurry, the typical buzz of Monday morning, post-weekend conversations seemed muted, careful, somber. The pulse of the greatest city in the world had changed, slowed. People nodded to one another in silent understanding, grimly offering a mutual hello as if this was something that should always have been a part of the everyday. It was the beginning of a new workweek, a new era. Only six days had passed, less than a week, yet now a lifetime ago.
On September 13th, my wife; a fifth grade school teacher returned to work. I insisted on driving her the few short miles, adamant that she stay away from any form of public transportation. Smoke continued to rise from Ground Zero, traveling Northeast over the nearby boroughs, drifting past the movie theater where only three days earlier while returning to the car we paused to admire the sun’s descent as it silhouetted the Manhattan skyline.
"Look, you can see the World Trade Center from here," I had said offhandedly.
Only three days.
Now, a lifetime.
Neither spoke as we crested a rise in the highway not far from that same multiplex, 1010 WINS, the all-news station playing on the radio. We rarely listened to AM radio. Now the need for information, answers, something to make sense of the madness far outweighed that of any need for music or entertainment.
I turned around and headed for home after safely depositing my wife, unable to imagine what her day might hold in store, having to deal with students who were even more confused than we were. It was another perfect September day, the type of day that I would normally have spent outdoors lazily reading for a couple of hours. That thought had never entered my mind. Something as simple as reading seemed selfish. Manhattan was still a scene of chaos, and I was too fearful of even considering a trip there. Buses, subways, bridges, tunnels, all things we had taken for granted now seemed to be a threat. I turned on the television and watched the unending news coverage, knowing that I was not the only one who felt cowardice. Staten Island; a borough of New York City was in a temporary lock down, all bridges closed as authorities moved on leads to terrorists that may still be in the area. It was mayhem. Scared and confused, alone in our bedroom, I turned on the computer, sat down and began to compose an e-mail. I had no idea at that moment to whom I was writing it, but the idea had seemed right at the time. Let me get this down in writing, the horror, the memory, all of it while it was fresh in my mind. Let me tell my story, everyone's story, the story I’d come to think of as that of the average New Yorker. It wasn't egocentric, it was therapeutic. In doing so, I was returning to the safety of something I had once been so passionate about and had neglected for so long. I was returning to a place of comfort, somewhere deep within my roots. I began to write. What follows is a recounting of the darkest day in our lives as seen through the eyes of someone watching it unfold on television, while the unimaginable was unfolding not around the world or across the country, but close enough to have been across the street.
2.
My earliest recollections of the World Trade Center date back to grade school, and a drive into Manhattan. In the distance lay the twin towers, under construction, defiantly rising high above its downtown counterparts. Several years later, 1976; I distinctly remember the return of King Kong to the Big Apple in the Dino De Laurentis remake, the movie posters showing the giant ape straddling the two towers, a scene that I was disappointed to find out never actually materialized in the film. 1987 marked the year that I had finally gotten around to visiting the site. Living on nearby Long Island, the New York City skyline was all too easy for me to take for granted. As a seasoned commuter in 2001, I rarely lifted my head from whatever book I was reading as our bus approached Manhattan morning after morning. September 11th proved no differently, starting out as just another non-descript workday in a career I had begun nearly ten years earlier. Robert Doherty’s Area 51 had been entertaining enough that I hadn’t realized we were nearing our destination until the interior lights of the Midtown Tunnel were racing past my window creating a strobe-like effect. I had become so used to it, that like the majestic Manhattan skyline it was wholly unnoticeable. It’s ironic now looking back, that on that very morning I was in a sense returning to innocence, having just re-connected with a long lost acquaintance I had met over twenty-five years earlier. I was thrilled to have found her name on the classmates.com database the day before, and ecstatic at discovering her response in my inbox just twenty-four hours later. I had wasted no time in vigorously typing a long-winded e-mail, trying in vain to catch up on over a quarter of a century. The summer weather continued to hold strong and I showed no remorse whatsoever in temporarily shirking the day’s responsibilities, making my personal endeavors the top priority. An intercom message from an upstairs co-worker quickly ended my jubilant mood.
“Did you guys hear anything about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center,” she asked.
“What,” I answered, my curiosity instantly aroused?
“Yeah, supposedly a plane hit the towers. Maybe two planes. Is the TV on?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Check it out and call me back.”
I hastily completed my e-mail and moved to the front room.
“Phyllis just called and said something about a plane crashing into the trade center,” I informed another co-worker, hurriedly moving across the room to turn on the television.
Our building, not wired for cable or satellite forced us to watch TV the old-fashioned way. The little reception we could get was with a vintage pair of “rabbit ears.” My initial thought like that of everyone else hearing the report for the first time was that it must have been a small propeller craft. My curiosity quickly turned to uneasiness when NBC; a network we usually received a decent signal from showed nothing but snow. I switched up to ABC with the same result before advancing the channel selector further to check in on two of the local stations, neither of which was broadcasting.
What the hell, my mind now raced?
Descending down towards the lower channels, I was finally able to get a picture on CBS. We were stunned into silence looking at the image of the gaping holes in both buildings, the angry black smoke rising above. I had barely registered the message I’d received just a few seconds earlier about the possibility of two planes, until the station replayed the recent footage of the second aircraft careening into the tower. I could feel my heart pounding, trying to catch up with the number of beats it had missed in the short instant that it had stopped beating! People began filing into the office, to get a look at what was happening, nameless faces from other offices on the floor. The news anchors were now talking of terrorism. It was a word, which up until that morning didn’t hold much weight here. The station continually cut back to another view, a long distance angle taken from somewhere further uptown, the Empire State Building prominently displayed in the foreground.
Please, I thought, don’t let me see a plane hit that as well.
When the news broke shortly after 9:30 of the crash at the Pentagon, I could feel the beginnings of a slow panic rising in me.
THE PENTAGON!
How was that possible?
I was scared, but rational. Looking around at the others, their eyes still glued on the television, I quietly exited and headed downstairs to the ATM. I couldn’t fathom what I may need money for, but at that very moment it seemed the most logical thing to do. I returned to the office telling the others they would be wise to do the same, my idea dismissed with both indifference and a slight amount of ridicule. We watched in disbelief when the south tower crumbled to the ground just a few minutes later, barely able to comprehend the magnitude of what was impossibly becoming worse. I looked out our second story window at the street below, listening. It had taken nearly a minute for the dull rumble of the downtown collapse to reach our twenty-seventh street location. The erratic state with which the broadcasters were both receiving and airing information had only added to the pandemonium following the collapse of the north tower and the crash of Flight 93 in Pennsylvania. An innumerable amount of planes remained airborne and unaccounted for. Getting out of the city was not an option at this point, but I could no longer sit idle. Finally acting on my earlier advice, several people went downstairs to the bank, now forced to wait on impossibly long lines. Instinctively I took a video camera and headed out to the street where there was now an endless migration of people heading north on foot. I briefly caught sight of a girl I had done some editing for only a week earlier, creating a photo and video montage for the upcoming wedding of her sister.
The world had been so normal then.
Our eyes met for only a second. Fear could barely describe what we were feeling. The look on her face was something I would never forget. Turning in the opposite direction towards the wall of thick grey and black smoke, I had a hard time remembering whether I had ever been able to see the Twin Towers from that particular vantage point. With the bridges and tunnels now reopened to outgoing traffic only, I apprehensively made the decision to get out. The city was obviously an unsafe place to be, but the thought of me herding on to a crowded underground subway was paralyzing.
What wasn’t a target, I worried?
I joined the dour parade and began walking uptown, still unsure of what route I would take to reach what I'd hoped would be the safety of the outer boroughs. The 59th Street Bridge while not the most direct route, would at least keep my head above water. If I continued along my present trajectory, I would pass by Grand Central Station, a major commuter hub and possible target. Veering to the west would take me through Times Square, to the east, the United Nations. Which path would prove to be the safest? Was anywhere safe?
Three fighter jets roared past, abruptly shattering the eerie silence of the grim exodus. I quickly turned watching them disappear beyond the grey clouds of destruction behind us, realizing now, that this wasn’t happening on television or a movie screen. This was the real thing!
“Free rides through the Midtown tunnel,” a civilian yelled from a nearby street corner, quoting the handwritten text from the sign displayed in front of him. Opting for the fastest way home, I hesitantly turned east, heading towards the very same tunnel I had indifferently passed through not more than six hours earlier. Traffic police stopped cars with empty seats at the tunnel entrance, instructing drivers to take passengers through. I climbed into the back of an SUV with three others. No one spoke much, each of us nervously waiting for that first glimpse of the literal light at the end of the tunnel. Reaching the other side safely, we went our separate ways. I could hear the sound of my footsteps as I crossed what would normally have been a traffic-congested roadway at that time. Towering above me stood an immense video screen. Generally, it would show ads or commercials to a captive commuting audience. That afternoon it displayed a single word.
Peace.
I was still wary of taking any form of public transportation, but it was only a few steps to the Long Island Railroad. Thankfully, it would remain above ground for the short ride to my hometown. A near empty train awaited on the equally vacant platform, the diesel engine at the front purring quietly.
“Making all stops,” the conductor resignedly said, waving me inside.
I sat alone, away from the scant few, staring out the window, nervously contemplating the safety factor as the car slowly filled around me. Commuting is not for the weak of heart or claustrophobic, something I had never been concerned about, yet as the coach was quickly nearing standing room only capacity, my unease began to grow. The arrival of two men, whom I had assumed were contractors or construction workers, broke the bleak silence pervading the crowded car. Squeezing into the middle of the aisle, they reached inside a plastic bag loaded with cold beers and popped open the first of what was obviously just the beginning.
“Here’s to revenge,” they toasted.
Anger, I considered. The range of emotions I had seen displayed on the multitude of faces that day had yet to include anger.
It added to my growing uneasiness.
The closing doors sealed my fate.
“Local stops, this train is making all local stops,” the conductor’s voice emanated from the loudspeakers.
Please don’t let those be the last words I ever hear, I silently pleaded, my heart pounding.
With every minute, every passing mile, I could feel my apprehension beginning to ease a bit. Finally stepping off the train a few minutes later, I followed the lead of the two construction types, and started for a nearby drinking establishment before heading home to my wife. The crowded, noisy room provided a brief respite from the long day of stunned quiet, though the multiple televisions often reserved for sporting events, displayed the smoldering wreckage in the city I had left behind, a sad reminder that any hint of normalcy ended there. I ordered the largest beer I could, and moved away from the bar, making room for the next lucky individual to have survived the day.
“My dentist was in the World Trade Center,” an older woman standing next to me lamented. “They were on the concourse level,” she continued. “Downstairs, where all the shops were? I hope they got out okay. They have an answering machine. If they could just leave a message so we knew…”
I was incredulous at first, before realizing it was either her state of mind, or the alcohol talking. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was no answering machine.
There was nothing.
A second beer and a shot of Jack Daniels later, I turned on my walkman to catch any news updates and began the mile long trek towards home. Within mere minutes of leaving the bar, other news began to filter in. There were reports of bombing in the Middle East. My heart froze. I had lost count of how many times it had stopped beating that day.
Retaliation already?
Can we do this?
I ducked into a small bar, now only a few blocks from home, to see what was unfolding. The local crowd inside was riled up, making it nearly impossible to hear the television coverage.
”Take that,” one reveler screamed!
The bartender, a quiet Irish girl who always smiled, had tears streaming down her face. I couldn’t think of anything to say that might comfort her, and felt a pang of guilt walking out to leave her with these people, but my wife was home waiting. My phone call from a pay phone more than hour earlier had come as a big relief to her, knowing that I had made it safely out of Manhattan. She would be well past the state of worry if I didn’t materialize at our front door soon. It was the second time I had experienced anger that day, her wrath towards me well deserved. We spent several hours afterwards watching the unending news coverage, awaiting word from the president. Exhausted, with little hope of falling asleep at anytime soon, we retired to the bedroom, turning off the lights and the relentelss assault of the ongoing television coverage, silently worrying what kind of world we would be waking up to come morning.
3.
American psyche changed on that dark day. Similar to my initial reaction with the ATM, I had insisted that we maintain a full tank of gas in the car at all times. The following day we drove out to a Long Island beach. I still had the video camera and wanted footage of the battleships approaching New York Harbor to safeguard the city from any further acts of violence. Walking across the dunes, I could hear the seagulls and smell the ocean, a peaceful moment interrupted seconds later by the imposing sight of the charcoal colored smoke still rising several miles to the west. Later that evening, in the backyard I had grown up in as a child we sat at a table with relatives and friends, sharing our collective experiences. The silent sky, devoid of air traffic in what was an often heavily used flight path on the approach to New York’s Kennedy International Airport added an eerie element to the forced conversation. By Saturday, the 16th, planes were flying again in a limited capacity. Now, sitting outside our Queens apartment, I tried in vain to return to the world of Robert Doherty’s Area 51, my concentration continually broken by the sound of low flying aircraft on the approach to nearby LaGuardia Airport, a sound I had become mostly oblivious to that now held an air of menace. A month later, in October, on a brief overnight trip to the Jersey Shore, I held my breath driving over the Verrazano Bridge, a two-mile span connecting Brooklyn and Staten Island.
Here we are, Seven years later, on the eve of another dismal anniversary.
I still wonder, when?
It’s a different world now.
We had harbored some serious doubts before bringing a child into a world where the value of human life meant so little. He'll have his moments of reckoning, his days of consequences, be them great or small. I can only hope that he’ll never have to look up to the sky and plead with whoever might be looking down,
“Please make it two weeks from now. "

Boom! It was over

I miss the days when life used to move in slow motion. In a desperate effort to make the most out of what was unbelievably the last day of summer, my son and I got an earlier start than usual in getting out of the house. Walking alongside, watching him pedal a bike he is quickly outgrowing, we spent our leisurely journey happily rehashing some of the finer moments of a summer season that has gone by entirely too quickly. His rapid-fire reminiscing fades a bit, while I temporarily, albeit involuntarily, tune him out and forlornly take notice of the faded remnants of a Yard Sale announcement stubbornly stuck to a lamppost, fighting to stem the tide of the inevitable in much the same way that we are doing. I can't say that I still relish the arrival of summer in much the same way I had when I was younger, but I do hate to see it reach its conclusion in much the same way I'm sure kid's do when they're facing that long dreaded first day of school. At what point did life begin passing in a blur, lending some credence to the old saying, flash before my eyes? I still recall a long ago conversation with a co-worker during my tenure at Hofstra University. I had idly commented on how quickly the summer seemed to have passed. She forewarned me that as you get older, time moves at a far more rapid pace. I offhandedly dismissed that, thinking to myself, no way! These are the best years of my life right now. This will last forever. It doesn't.
I have this habit now of attaching a theme to each summer, in an effort to keep them all straight in my mind. Last year, for instance was The Summer of Potter. J.K Rowling's final chapter of the beloved Harry Potter series was certainly the media event of the season, if not the year. You could not walk anywhere through everyday life without seeing someone reading The Deathly Hallows. 2008 will always be remembered as the Summer of Dorsey, though I didn't see anyone else with his or her head buried in a Dorsey book. Tim Dorsey is an author who makes his living in the genre of Florida fiction. With the exception of Laurence Shames, another author of the same ilk, I usually don't follow this type of work. The outlandishly over the top characters and situations can get tiresome. Shames, at least keeps this in check somewhat. The appealing thing about the Dorsey novels is his penchant for Florida history, which he seamlessly weaves into every storyline. I've always dreamed of escaping to Key West, and living the Parrothead lifestyle. I generally prefer to take my literary Florida excursions during the winter months, but as I was desperately in search of a theme to catalog the Summer of 'o8 for future reference, July seemed as good a time as any. Here we are in September, five Dorsey's later and in great need of a break. With the unofficial end of summer, comes my unofficial end of Dorsey, at least until the New Year.
Cabin Fever is an ailment that usually strikes my wife and me shortly into the onset of winter. Entertaining a five year old who will quickly be bored with his recent cache of new Christmas gifts is no easy task. With the prospect of little snowfall in our area, he starts longing for the warmer weather shortly after the holidays. The weather has yet to show a hint of changing yet and he’s already asking me when we will make our next pilgrimage to Pennsylvania. This year, by unanimous decision, we returned to the land of the Amish. He fondly remembers last year's ride in a horse and buggy and the exciting journey aboard a genuine steam train, yet he talks mostly about swimming in the motel pool and playing in the playground in his pajamas.
I guess it really is the little things.
This time around I had wanted to try something different, with the hope of making a memory for him that would last forever. Rather than a motel, we had chosen to stay in a log cabin on the property of the Mill Bridge Camping Resort. A built in pool, playground, canoeing, and the opportunity to sit outside by a campfire seemed a great way to take his Pennsylvania mindset to another level. It was sleeping in a loft that he will remember most about his return trip to the Pennsylvania farmland. My wife is not really into the whole great outdoors thing. Bugs and the lingering smell of charred wood on both clothing and person kept her from joining the two of us around the fire, where we stayed one night until well past his bedtime. I never would have thought it possible to actively converse with such a young mind for such an extended period. Two days later as we were pulling out, I watched his pensive face in the rear view mirror, feeling a bit of his sadness at the prospect of returning home, while wondering at the same time whether my dad and I may have shared a similar bonding experience when I was that age. Should my little guy ever take the time stop by here and read about his dad one day, I hope that he will remember that night with as much warmth and fondness as I do. I always worry about his teen years, and how that will inevitably affect the bond we share now. He started Kindergarten this morning. His infant and toddler years have gone by in the same blur that this summer has. Long before he had come into our lives, my wife and I just beginning a relationship that would span a lifetime, country music radio was alive and well in New York. Summer seemed to last just a little longer back then, though I no longer harbored the illusion that this will last forever. It was during that time when country artist Robert Ellis Orrall had scored a minor hit, that as cliche' as it may sound, sums up this long winded (yes, another one) entry perfectly.

Like stepping off the corner on a busy street,
Like a pretty girl can knock you off your feet,
Like a change in the weather, or the drop of a hat,
BOOM! It was over, just like that.