I was sitting at work in my cubicle when Dana exclaimed “Oh, my god…a plane has hit the World Trade Center!”
I heard her straight through the Radiohead that was blasting from my Sony CD Walkman. Dana was a nice lady, but she had a moist and frequent noise snort that drove me nuts, so I usually tuned her out. But I heard her loud and clear and knew something was up.
I thought about it for a moment and pictured a small biplane bouncing off the building and exploding, some novice caught up in a dare or just some suicidal disgruntled employee.
I found myself teetering around her cube as she spoke on the phone with her Mom who was getting news from her TV. Nothing was on the internet yet. Dana was generating a crowd of disbelief.
I rarely sat in my cubicle the rest of the day. Everyone was roaming around restlessly as the news slowly trickled in. When new headlines appeared online, people would shout them out loud. The large boardroom became the sole place to view the live footage on TV, but it was mainly occupied by Vice Presidents. I was just a lowly Web Designer that had been at the company for just over a year, so I stayed away from their lair of media.
At lunch, I went with the fellas to Soprano’s Deli and sat outside in the gorgeous 72 degree day, eating pristine gourmet Italian sandwiches, chatting with the Italian waitress as usual, but all with a dazed wonderment. We gazed at the sky that was usually filled with planes and jet streams and saw nothing but blue skies.
My parents were somewhere flying across the Atlantic Ocean from Spain, heading back to Philadelphia from vacation. I had been dog-sitting for the past ten days at their new condo in Media, PA. I was enjoying the short commute to Newtown Square, PA, and an escape from Manayunk where I lived with two friends. After work, I spent most of the time hanging with Bridget, a short haired Border Collie, or recording music on a 4-track cassette recorder.
I eventually got a hold of my parents. They had to make a u-turn over the Atlantic and head back to Spain. While flying they were notified that America was attacked, but had received no initial details. Eventually, a stewardess presented a fax to people questioning what was going on. My Dad said he was enraged and wanted to sing the Battle Hymn Of The Republic, while my Mom was primarily tearing up and in wondering where Shanksville, PA was and if it was close to anyone she knew.
When I got home, I really just wanted to watch the news and find out more about what had happened, but I had a date lined up with a girl, Eliza, that I had met on Match.com. It was the first girl that I had met through online dating and this was to be our second date. She was from Argentina and loved to spend money on high fashion, jewelry, and perfume. Why she dug me, I had no clue.
We had tickets to go see her favorite band, Ben Folds, at the Theatre Of Living Arts on South Street. I was hoping she would want to cancel, or that Ben Folds would cancel, but no dice. I didn’t even care for the music of Ben Folds, and couldn’t name one of his songs. The show goes on.
I met Eliza at a coffee shop. She was giddy and jumping up and down. She was the same age as me, 27, but I soon felt fifteen years older than her. She spoke of the day’s terror as if it was intestinal flu, a national inconvenience at best, and she was hardly jaded. I felt like anything dealing with art, music, and words of fiction were to be put on hiatus — at least for a week.
Ben Folds made a slight mention to the strange events of the day and soon the crowd started singing Happy Birthday. I had no idea what was going on, but it was Ben’s birthday as well and the fans that loved him so much wouldn’t let him sing another song without paying tribute.
After the show, Eliza insisted we wait for Ben Folds and his band to pack up and embrace the band as they entered their tour bus. At the TLA, there was only one way in and one way out for bands and fans alike. Two hours after the show, I shook hands with Ben Folds and took a photo of Eliza hip hugging Ben. He smiled through his exhaustion, and that was the last time I saw Eliza again.
I spent the rest of the week recording music, watching CNN, and wondering what neighborhood my parents would move to next. Their condo had strange rules and my Dad couldn’t hang his American flag out front. There was a nice path to walk Bridget, but that’s about all the community had going for it. They wanted to move on and find a new home.
A few days later I received a postcard from from Spain with my Dad’s enormous handwriting that simply stated “See You When”.
September Odds
I was sitting at work in my cubicle when Dana exclaimed “Oh, my god…a plane has hit the World Trade Center!”
I heard her straight through the Radiohead that was blasting from my Sony CD Walkman. Dana was a nice lady, but she had a moist and frequent noise snort that drove me nuts, so I usually tuned her out. But I heard her loud and clear and knew something was up.
I thought about it for a moment and pictured a small biplane bouncing off the building and exploding, some novice caught up in a dare or just some suicidal disgruntled employee.
I found myself teetering around her cube as she spoke on the phone with her Mom who was getting news from her TV. Nothing was on the internet yet. Dana was generating a crowd of disbelief.
I rarely sat in my cubicle the rest of the day. Everyone was roaming around restlessly as the news slowly trickled in. When new headlines appeared online, people would shout them out loud. The large boardroom became the sole place to view the live footage on TV, but it was mainly occupied by Vice Presidents. I was just a lowly Web Designer that had been at the company for just over a year, so I stayed away from their lair of media.
At lunch, I went with the fellas to Soprano’s Deli and sat outside in the gorgeous 72 degree day, eating pristine gourmet Italian sandwiches, chatting with the Italian waitress as usual, but all with a dazed wonderment. We gazed at the sky that was usually filled with planes and jet streams and saw nothing but blue skies.
My parents were somewhere flying across the Atlantic Ocean from Spain, heading back to Philadelphia from vacation. I had been dog-sitting for the past ten days at their new condo in Media, PA. I was enjoying the short commute to Newtown Square, PA, and an escape from Manayunk where I lived with two friends. After work, I spent most of the time hanging with Bridget, a short haired Border Collie, or recording music on a 4-track cassette recorder.
I eventually got a hold of my parents. They had to make a u-turn over the Atlantic and head back to Spain. While flying they were notified that America was attacked, but had received no initial details. Eventually, a stewardess presented a fax to people questioning what was going on. My Dad said he was enraged and wanted to sing the Battle Hymn Of The Republic, while my Mom was primarily tearing up and in wondering where Shanksville, PA was and if it was close to anyone she knew.
When I got home, I really just wanted to watch the news and find out more about what had happened, but I had a date lined up with a girl, Eliza, that I had met on Match.com. It was the first girl that I had met through online dating and this was to be our second date. She was from Argentina and loved to spend money on high fashion, jewelry, and perfume. Why she dug me, I had no clue.
We had tickets to go see her favorite band, Ben Folds, at the Theatre Of Living Arts on South Street. I was hoping she would want to cancel, or that Ben Folds would cancel, but no dice. I didn’t even care for the music of Ben Folds, and couldn’t name one of his songs. The show goes on.
I met Eliza at a coffee shop. She was giddy and jumping up and down. She was the same age as me, 27, but I soon felt fifteen years older than her. She spoke of the day’s terror as if it was intestinal flu, a national inconvenience at best, and she was hardly jaded. I felt like anything dealing with art, music, and words of fiction were to be put on hiatus — at least for a week.
Ben Folds made a slight mention to the strange events of the day and soon the crowd started singing Happy Birthday. I had no idea what was going on, but it was Ben’s birthday as well and the fans that loved him so much wouldn’t let him sing another song without paying tribute.
After the show, Eliza insisted we wait for Ben Folds and his band to pack up and embrace the band as they entered their tour bus. At the TLA, there was only one way in and one way out for bands and fans alike. Two hours after the show, I shook hands with Ben Folds and took a photo of Eliza hip hugging Ben. He smiled through his exhaustion, and that was the last time I saw Eliza again.
I spent the rest of the week recording music, watching CNN, and wondering what neighborhood my parents would move to next. Their condo had strange rules and my Dad couldn’t hang his American flag out front. There was a nice path to walk Bridget, but that’s about all the community had going for it. They wanted to move on and find a new home.
A few days later I received a postcard from from Spain with my Dad’s enormous handwriting that simply stated “See You When”.