That Day

Skritch Skritch.

That's the way most days start.

The dog wants out. I look at the clock; 9:15. What the hell? I can get another 2 hours before I have to get ready for work.

Skritch Skritch.

She's whining now.

Working the 1pm to 10pm shift for a shady credit card company is never fun. The loons come out in full force after navigating 5 'o clock rush hour traffic, "WHERE'S MY MONEY!?!?" or the always charming "YOU ASSHOLES!!" are just some of the more common invectives slung our way. Thankfully after 8 hours of torture my mind has an uncanny ability to cleanse itself of the negativity as I exit the premises. As usual I head home. By that time my significant other has long since joined the realm of the sleeping. Dinner is served! peanut butter and jelly or leftovers are the cuisine of the night owl. I watch the rerun of the Daily Show around 11pm, Jon Stewart is ranting about Gary Condit or some such.

I doze off.

At about 3:30am I decide now would be a good time for bed.

Take out the dog one final time.

lock the doors.

hit the hay.

Skritch Skritch

We're back again, or "Back at One" as Brian McKnight, who's crooning on the radio at 9:15 in the morning, would say.

BRIING BRIIING!

The phone offers it's hauntingly familiar tone announcing that the morning call from the missus is en route. She works a schedule the complete opposite of mine. Meaning phone calls are the only means we have of couple-like interaction.

In most western cultures answering the telephone usually involves uttering the words "hello" or some other warm and inviting phrase but spotting the caller ID the mystique of who was calling had been shattered.

me : What's up?

her : Oh my god are you watching this?

me : What? I just woke up

her : turn on the TV, some planes hit the World Trade Center! we're watching it here

me : What the fuck?

her : gotta go, I'll call you later

To be honest what channel or who the anchor is makes little difference, they are all showing the same thing.

2 towers

2 columns of smoke

1 sense of burning anger in the pit of America’s stomach.

The pictures keep coming, one of the towers engulfed in flame and fire as a second plane smashes into the other. An airplane engine sits heavily guarded on the street below like some kind of visiting dignitary. The looks on peoples faces run the gamut of emotions; shock, horror, and disbelief, these are adjectives that America comes to know quite intimately in the coming days and weeks.

My initial reaction to the carnage, I’m ashamed to admit, was to crack a tasteless joke to myself. Upon looking back though that could be seen as nothing more than a defense mechanism to try and transform these horrible images into something my mind could make sense of.

After watching in seething silence for untold number of minutes I trotted off to work. Stuck in a kind of detached emotional void I went about my daily duties. The manager had a small radio with which we stayed in tune with the days catastrophic events.

“I hear there’s 3 planes they can’t find!”

“I heard that there was an explosion at the State Department”

Those, as well as many other gossipy rumors circulated that day. Looking back you could realistically attribute these falsehoods and snippets of misinformation to the often cited “fog of war”. Like it or not a war was started that day.

Once home I was glued to the TV for hours. Interviews. Footage. More Interviews. I had to see it all. Later when going to bed I made sure to kiss the missus , who slept soundly in our room with the TV silently tuned to CNN. It’s bedtime now, theres work to be done tomorrow. Lots of it.

Skritch Skritch

Damn dog.