In the last five years, September has become the month for bad memories. The beginning of the month starts off with Katrina and, of course, on Monday, we have 9/11.
As I was getting ready for work on the morning of 9/11/01, my friend Robby called me.
I said Hello, and he said, “Don’t go to work. Terrorists have slammed planes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.” Not that there could ever be anything funny about that, but I thought he was making a bad joke. He had to convince me he was telling the truth. “Turn on the TV,” he said. I thought I would click on the TV to find a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, our favorite show. Instead, I saw the first tower collapsing.
I remember saying, “huh, you’re right,” as if he had just told me some fact, either scientific or trivial, like, if you rub your bare feet against the carpet then touch metal you’ll get a shock.
My friend Shannon called me next. “There are several more planes that have been hijacked,” she said, “they can’t find them all. In fact, they believe one is headed for San Francisco.” I pictured a silver plane, streaking across the blue sky, filled with terrorists and hapless passengers who may or may not know their fate. I could see someone looking from their window seat out at the patchwork of land below, a bank of fog looming ahead, hiding our City from their view. That fog always struck me as something that looked impenetrable, yet you know it is no shield.
Shannon and I worked together and were driving in that day. We worked in San Francisco and lived in Marin County, meaning we would be crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, which, on that morning, might as well have had a “Slam the Plane Here,” sign on it as far as we were concerned.
“I’m not going in,” I said.
“Yeah, me either,” she said. Then she added, “wanna start drinking?”
“It’s 7:00 AM.”
“Irish Coffee.”
She came over and I made coffee. She pulled a couple of mini-bottles of Irish Cream out of her purse. She had collected them from some of the many flights she had taken, an ironic note. We were consoling ourselves with liquor from a United flight. We foolishly wondered if the hijacked passengers had started chugging the bloody mary’s after they realized they what had happened.
“My guess is that there is no in-flight service,” I said, needing to state the obvious.
It’s strange the things you say and think in times of profound crisis. Here we are wondering if hijacked passengers can at least get an early morning buzz on.
We went to Sam’s in Tiburon for lunch. My husband, who had left for the city earlier, returned. By now we knew all planes were accounted for and flights everywhere were grounded. We sat on the deck and looked out at the bay. We were still drinking. I think I was now slugging back cabernet. The mood on the deck was somber and quiet. The place was packed, and everyone was drinking, and oddly, eating French Fries, which would in another couple years suffer a period of disgrace under the moniker of Freedom Fries. We were all looking for comfort, whether it was beer or food. I heard a woman at the next table say, “it’s the beginning of WW III.” We smirked. Then I asked Shannon, a financial expert, what she thought this would do to the economy.
“Oh forget about it,” she said, waving her hands in surrender. “It’ll be in the toilet.”
“Oops, I guess are jobs aren’t safe,” I said. She nodded.
Later, we went back to our house, and I remember Shannon saying, “You know, I’m just so angry at Bush. I mean he’s just flying around in Airforce One, trying to stay one step ahead of the terrorists. What a chicken s&*t. Rudy Giuliani is running the damn country right now.” It was true. That day, for a few hours, too many hours, Bush was a no-show on TV. Not even a press statement to be delivered via someone else. You know, he acted the same way he did when the levies broke.
I don’t remember much of the day beyond that point. I would imagine it was spent in front of the TV, listening to reporters and pundits talk about the meaning of this and that and what would happen next and yadda yadda yadda. I'm sure alcohol was involved. And junk food.
Shannon and I later found out that both our departments were due to get laid off on September 11, but the company had thought better of it, and decided to wait a month before giving us the heave ho. She moved away and every now and then I get a Christmas card from her. She’s married and has a baby, something she always wanted to do. Her Christmas card is always a family photo, and in it, she smiles large and looks hopeful, like good years are ahead of them. I hope they are. Five years ago we didn’t feel so lucky, but here we are, down the road looking back. All this makes me realize something. I didn’t like George W. Bush or religious fanatics then, and I hate them now. I also don’t really like Irish Coffee.
