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SEPTEMBER 11 - A DAY TO REMEMBER
for it was the day that I . . . was on my way. . . to breakfast that is. The morning of September 11, 2001 I awoke to the sun blazing in through the window. I overslept. I was to meet one of my co-workers at a local casino for breakfast. He wanted to talk to me about "something important." He could confide in me, he had felt. He knew me to be an open-minded, caring listener who would hold no bias as to what was troubling him. I usually watch a bit of news in the morning (CNN) while I sip my coffee. But not this morning, I was already late.
I hurriedly showered and dressed and left the house for the five-mile drive to the casino to meet Mike. As I put the car in drive, I wondered again, what was so urgent, so pressing that Mike demanded my presence so early in the morning.
Seeing it was the anniversary of my re-birth, of my second chance at life, I was at peace with myself as I drove down the silent street. This day is too silent, I thought. Eerie, really. I reached down and turned on the radio. "Silent Lucidity" was playing. A perfect song to a perfect mood, one of tranquil reflection. Nine years ago on this day I was saved. Nine years ago, Hurricane Iniki hit Kauai head-on and stopped me from going there to kill myself.
I was riding to the beat of Silent Lucidity, the words, "if you open your heart for me," when the song was rudely interrupted by the radio announcer. At first, I thought, you jerk. But then, his voice gave way to strain, to harsh emotions, to a dirge that sent my car careening almost out of control. Planes crashing into buildings . . . .The World Trade . . . .The Pentagon . . . . Wait, this is some kind of cruel joke, a prank, an Orson Welles -esque prank. Perhaps another War of the Worlds. Heck with this station, I flipped onto another. Same thing. . . .Passenger airliners had crashed into the two World Trade Center buildings. . . . No, can't be!
That's it, this is a nightmare. I'm still at home sleeping. "No, you're not, Mr. Fico. This is as real as the hurricane that pounced on your beautiful Kauai, your heaven on earth. The place where you were going to end it all. This ain't no dream and it ain't no joke."
But why? Why on my day? Why on the day that I'm to celebrate my rebirth?
I pulled into the casino parking lot. Tears were falling down my cheeks. I felt disoriented, cheated. I sat in my car, frenzily flipping the dial to every channel. Up and down the dial and back again, like a crazed mathematician taking it out on a deranged slide-rule. Too much, my ears had taken enough of this punishment.
I kicked open the door of my innocent Saturn Car and staggered inside the casino. It was eerie. The usual sounds of the slots were nullified; the roll of the dice non-existent. People all around, they were frozen. At the bars, the televisions hung in agony. Pictured there, the collapse of innocence. Into a plume of white, the World Trade tower had toppled. And now, pandemonium. Running toward me, like calzones rolled in flour, people, all kinds of people. The young, the old, the black now turned white; the white morphed into ghosts; the ghosts into bakers.
Dizzy and shakened, I searched for my friend Mike (name changed). Finally, I found him. Sitting there with his pedophilia, he was oblivious to what had happened, to what was happening. The images on the television seemed not to faze him; he was too self-absorbed with his own situation. As I pulled my chair across from his, he began: "I want you to promise me that you won't repeat to anybody what I'm going to tell you." But somehow, I already knew. I already had figured it out. But what could I do? What should I do?
And another plane had fallen. This one in Pennsylvania. What the hell is going on? The end of the world?
The anchor, unanchored before his camera, tears, too, running down his cheeks. Roll the tape. A short History. Blazing fires, thick black smoke, people jumping from the towering inferno. My eyes are glued, my heart undone. Mike, he sits there, begging me to look at him. I do. "I have lust for children, " he says. I am sickened. He needs help, the world needs help. Two and a half thousand miles away, people are dying, are dead, cremated well before their time. The anchor, he looks at the camera, at me, at Mike. Mike is blind. "I was accused of taking liberties with children back where I lived. That's why I moved here." What do I say to him? It's very serious, I want to help him, save him, save innocent children, save the world.
Smoke everywhere, panic, pandemonium, the sounds of sirens, then dead-silence. Eerie, really eerie. Again, coming toward me - people, covered in soot and pulverized remnants of what was - I look away . . . The waitress, forced to smile, sets down our coffee. For a second, she looks at the television, shakes her head, then sprints across the floor to another table. Now, coming in through the casino, the sound of coins falling down the chute. Somebody had hit the jackpot. A moment of triumph, a moment to congratulate. Mike, he's oblivious to the small triumph, he doesn't seem to care. After all, it wasn't he who hit the jackpot. I look away from him, look back up at the television.
. . . The tower is falling, a nuclear explosion. How many people have been killed, I wonder. I look again at Mike and say to him, "This is terrible. All those people killed." He shrugs it off and returns, "What do I care, none of them are related to me." I am shocked, sickened, I want to vomit. This guy, he is lacking a conscience. I can't help him, maybe nobody can.
I want to leave this place, go somewhere where there's sun, trees, laughing children, happy mothers and fathers. I want to leave this world. Just like I did nine years ago. But I can't. I'd be stopped again. God has the power to stop me. I know this. No, I will stay. I have work to do, lots of it.
I drink down my coffee, my cranberry. Mike, he's about done with his triple stack and four-egg omelet. The check comes. I reason that a five dollar tip is reasonable for the weary waitress, who looks to me, like she has three or four children at home to feed. Mike, he wants to leave just a dollar. Selfish, is he. But not on my anniversary, not on this day. I throw down a five on the table. "Mike, I'm out of here."
As I walk through the casino, I hear: "A free spin of the wheel." I keep walking. Outside, the sun is blazing hot. I look up at the sky like I always do. A few wisps of clouds, but that's all. Not a flying machine in sight. As I drive under the flight path to McCarran International Airport, all is silent. I drive on, heading for home. In the distance, the towering mountains line the horizon. At least, for now, they're impenetrable. I drive on, my thoughts everywhere. "Spin the wheel! I turn onto my street. Children laughing, mothers and fathers watching closely. I wave at them, they wave back. Perhaps they don't know.
posted by
RICKYJFICO_PASSIONTHRU_U
on July 26, 2003 at 6:16 AM
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