Blog 17 - Essay 3, Draft 1

Essay 3, Draft 1

New Memories

It is inevitable. I must see for myself. Not to know what happened. I can watch that on the news. But to see what is left of a place where I had once felt so comfortable.

I leave the subway and already everything feels different. I smell the burning. It is not the usual building fire smell. It is more electrical although that is not it exactly. I take a minute to orient myself not having the usual landmark. I walk south. I pass a firehouse with a memorial. No one I know. I pass a store selling memorabilia. I am really not in the mood. I look it over and am assured that it is respectful.

* * *

I get off the escalator, step aside and smile. If I stopped in front of it, I would get bumped. People rush past, sure where they are going and heading directly there. I linger. “Coffee and roll please,” I say when it is my turn. I get a table, which there are plenty of at that time of day. People may take time to purchase, but not to sit. I sit comfortably near the escalator - a good look-out post. I imagine myself as Ernest Hemingway at a European café. Maybe I will meet someone I know and have an interesting conversation about bullfighting.

* * *

I come to a chain fence. Cranes tower overhead. The crowd is silent. Everyone stares. I hear sniffles. No one knows what do, what to think, what to say. Jovial teenagers come from the subway, and then fall silent.

I walk to my right. I need to be alone. I recognize little. Then I see the water. At least that looks the same. A nearby building looks untouched. Streets are gone. A police officer directs me to the memorial they show on the news and points out a tribute to the rescue workers. I walk over. I wish I had brought more tissues.

* * *

I go upstairs because I start at 9:00. I get off on the 5th floor, walk down a hall, and go inside. “Hi!” Jeff says with his usual smile. No wonder I love coming here. I take my seat and we start to gab. I make an effort to start work and look over my desk while we talk. Mail is not here yet. The boss is not here yet either. The phones are silent. I pour myself a cup of coffee that Jeff made and look out at the Lady with the Torch glistening in the sun. I sit down and we chat further.

* * *

I see my cousin’s name among the missing. I touch it. I am glad they spelled it correctly. I appreciate the acknowledgement. It is an assurance that they know to look for him although we have already held the memorial service. I sit down and watch others look over the names. I reuse a tissue.

* * *

“Did I show you my $30,000 finger?” Jeff asks. Of course, with that he gets my attention. I stop typing and look at his hands. “This one!” he says. “It is really my toe.” I wonder if he is putting me on although his finger did look like a toe. I asked him what he is talking about. He tells the story of how his finger got severed and it was replaced with a toe. The surgery cost $30,000, his father constantly reminds him.

* * *

I leave the tribute and from a distance see the memorial they show on the news. There are posters with pictures, just pictures or just photographs. There are flowers, written poetry and an assortment of personal items. There are requests for the missing with phone numbers for information. There are written memorials. Again, I hear muffled sniffles. I see my sister. I look again. Yes, it is my sister.

I call her name. She does not answer. I come closer and call her again. Her eyes are moist. She is surprised to see me, and I her. We look at the memorial together pointing out noteworthy details to each other. Her two friends come over and join us. I show them the firefighters’ memorial and my cousin’s name.

* * *

“You were here last night? When? You left when I did,” I inquire confused.
“I came back later,” Jeff replies.
“What for?”
Jeff moves his eyebrows up and down.
“What do you mean?
“I went out last night, met someone cute, and came back here,” he brags.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. I am telling you the truth. I needed a place so we came here. I have done that before,” Jeff states assuredly.
I am shocked.
“So what is the World Trade Center like in the middle of the night?” I ask, figuring I will get some little known information about one of the world‘s most famous places.
“Oh. The building is pretty much empty but security knows me. They are used to my comings and goings,” he explains.
Jeff is only a paralegal like I am. I don’t know where he gets the nerve.

* * *

We go to the Village for lunch. We pick a restaurant we have been to before. Everything seems different. It is hard to explain. The server seems distracted. Everyone has that Vietnam look in their eyes. I catch up on news with my sister and friends. We are glad we ran into each other, especially me because I came alone. They drive me to the train station. I guess this is what lower Manhattan will mean to me for a while.