I'm staring out my window, watching my four year old daughter on the swing. It seemed like we'd never get her to kick on her own but there she is, a seasoned veteran of the playground. Completely independent, needing no help from any grown up to climb or get a good momentum going. Back and forth, smiling, wind whipping through her hair, the sun on her face. It's ecstasy. It's all she needs or wants and it all goes downhill from here. Soon enough she'll be fretting over her wardrobe and what friend didn't invite her to a party. Before my wife and I know it, she'll be tossed into the same cauldron (a word I've been dying to use) of upside down plans and backwards ideals that we're currently fighting to make sense of. I wish I could change it all for her and her big brother who's fidgeting through 3rd grade math at this very moment, wondering how it will help him beat the "Temple of Kali" level in Lego Indiana Jones, but I don't know where to even start. I myself could use a little help beating the "Temple of Kali" level.
On September 11, 2001 I was an almost proud employee of Borders Inc. I had recently accepted the position of "guy who stands by the back door, smoking cigarettes and unloading shipments all day". A fine occupation for someone who, at that time, was still convinced he'd be on a cross country tour with his band in the very near future. I had just taken care of a shipment of CD's and DVD's and was bringing some paperwork to file in the office when I heard Marie say, "A plane just crashed into one of the Twin Towers." I stepped into her office and asked her to repeat that. She did and of course the usual follow up questions were asked. What kind of plane? How do you not see a building of that size? Was it an accident? The first radio report wasn't able to answer all these questions so I returned to my post with a mild confusion. When I arrived, I found Chris and Brian standing just inches away from a small radio we used for entertainment while stuck loading and unloading product. It was confirmed, a full sized jet had flown directly into 1 WTC. Our man on 660 AM was also unsure if this was an accident or an attack, for a plane of this size to fly directly into one of the largest man made structures in the world would need one of two things; A mad man at the controls or some sort of freak occurrence to take place. Everything stopped as we listened, not knowing what to make of this and sharing the occasional shoulder shrug. We slowly began to open boxes, keeping one eye on the radio when our man on 660 AM, with the same sense of horror we had when we heard, had said that a second plane had struck 2 WTC. All hell has just broken loose.
Immediately following this news, I rushed to the door, unlocked it and flung it open. In the split second it took for me to step out of the building and look west, I almost convinced myself that this wasn't for real or as bad as it seemed. When my eyes settled on the smoke encompassing the sky, time stopped. Sound silenced. Chris was standing behind me. "Oh my God", he said. I snapped out of my shock and tossed the keys to Brian. "Lock the fucking door!" I began running a mental list of friends and family. Mom and dad, here on the island. Both sisters, here on the island. Joe, just around the corner. Nick, still sleeping off the effects of last nights hoe down. Jon...in Manhattan. I called his phone and got his voicemail greeting. I hung up and took off for the office and arrived as Fred was trying to get a signal on the old television in the break room. He cursed as he struggled with the ancient box, twisting the antennas, hoping for some sort of reception. By now there was a small group in Marie's office, listening. Everyone in awe. I ran back to my spot and grabbed the phone to call Jon, only to hear his voicemail greeting again. I hung up and tried once more, this time leaving a frantic message. I returned to the radio, listening closely. President Awesome had made it safely to his big plane and was now flying to his secret hideout. As our man on 660 AM began to recap I placed another call to Jon. This time he answered. I asked him where he was. He had just reached street level outside of Penn Station, completely oblivious. He mentioned people running and crying and I told him what was happening. His first reaction was that this was some nasty accident. I assured him it wasn't then told him to watch his ass. Before hanging up, I reiterated the best advice I could give my close friend. "Watch your ass!"
Soon after, a third plane hit the Pentagon. Brian lost control, roaring and viciously firing an object into the wall. Less than a month removed from my twenty first birthday, I was nothing more than a scared kid at this point. I remember looking at Chris and asking, "What's happening"? "I don't know, Tony". His eyes began to water and we decided to step out for another smoke. We couldn't take our eyes off the sky to our west. The smoke now reaching as far south as we could see. I decided to lock up and asked to take a break so I may run home and check the television. I hopped in my '76 Malibu and hauled ass to my house just a few blocks away from the store. I entered to find my father in the kitchen, eyes glued. Ashtray overflowing. It was my first clear look at what was happening in downtown Manhattan. The smoke billowing out of the buildings, arms waving from the windows. FDNY and NYPD on the ground, frantically trying to save lives. Then the on scene reporters began interviewing eye witnesses. The first gentleman I saw claimed that the planes had no logos. No insignias. No windows. The split screen then came into effect as we all got a double dose of catastrophe. The towers on the left, The Pentagon on the right. My father turned to me and asked where the rest of the plane was. I just answered with a puzzled look. "The Pentagon. Where's the plane? The hole is too small." Begin all the conspiracy theory shit talking now but even he realized that obvious discrepancy. As I returned to work, I drove westward on one of Long Island's major roads, staring directly at the smoke when it almost looked as if it were changing somehow. The base of the plume seemed to grow wider. When I arrived at work I was told that 2 WTC was gone. Shortly after, Tower 1 fell then United 93 crashed into a Pennsylvania field.
I reached out to Jon again. He answered and to this day I almost wish he hadn't. I was happy to know he was OK but he was a wrecked shell of himself. Just thirty blocks away, he watched the towers fall. He informed me that his mother was on her way to meet him for she also worked in Manhattan. The next time I would speak to Jon was much later that night when he finally made it home.
The entire staff of Borders Westbury was huddled at the information desk. Everyone bringing some different piece of information they had heard. The rare customer would enter to ask if we had any additional information then to pester us about a book that had the word "THE" in the title and had something to do with a guy who had a thing. This whole part of the day is nothing more than a haze for me. I remember struggling with the notion of what would change after this and how we would move on, if we ever could. The only thing that sticks with me is a short conversation I had with my cousin Mike who was stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina at the time. He let me know that his stuff was packed and he was ready to move. I was overcome with emotion, immensely proud of him and hoping that he find his way out of this whole shitty mess OK.
The store closed early that day and we all went home to our families. The news channels were on when I got home. My mother was terrified. Both my sisters were terrified. I was terrified. I spoke to Joe that night and he gave me the OK on all his family members. Afterwards I just sat in my room, waiting. Jon called very late that night. "I'm almost home." I met him when he arrived and we stood outside his house, unable to ignore how silent the skies over Long Island were. Living below the flight path for arriving and departing flights from JFK and Laguardia, one grows so accustomed to the sound of airplanes that you don't hear them any more. Since that day, I have watched every airplane fly over head.
10 years. A significant period of time in a human's life. Small in the grand scheme but a sizable percentage for the individual. In this time frame, no answers have given myself any sense of relief. Is that really all it took? Nineteen guys with box cutters? To be honest, I was never impressed with the whole plan. Learn to fly a plane, then crash it into an important building. Children could do better and this was the fucking operation that shook El Numero Uno to it's knees?!
Since that day, it has been a steady dose of awful happenings. Tsunamis. Earthquakes. Volcanic eruptions. We all watched one of the greatest cities on the planet drown. Ladies and gentlemen, we can't even figure out how to safely operate a motor vehicle when it rains. We're gonna save the planet? Fix the economy? The last 10 years has taught me a lot about the species I belong to. Most of it not good. Corruption. Deceit. Personal agendas before public good. Greed. When our military rushed into Iraq, all I could think of was my cousin Mike and good friend Brian who were over there putting their asses on the line for something I'm not sure was real.
A near bright spot was presented to us this past May when we all got word of Osama Bin Laden's demise. We cheered. The bad guy was gone. Right? At first I didn't need visual confirmation but after a few weeks my distrust of the people who call the plays began to eat at me. Public enemy #1 was killed and all they did was throw him in the water. This piece of news puts our troops in more danger but they didn't want there to be a place for the villains to rally at. Or bulletin board material for when they come back. Priorities, folks.
So here we are. 10 years after. Another big threat is held over New York City. Kind of predictable actually. 2012 looming. Education and employment are in the shitter. Nothing but talk and piss poor execution coming from those we depend on to make things right. No end in sight to this new tradition of disappointment and disaster and all I can think of is sitting my ass in the empty swing next to my daughter and listen to her laughter.
To all those who lost their lives, their loved ones and who strap up there combat boots to march into uncertainty, nothing but love, respect and warm wishes. Your suffering is not in vein.
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