But, for this tale, I am thinking about nine days later. Same year.
Thursday, September 20, 2001.
The wounds were still gaping. And fresh.
What the hell was I doing?
As air travel was shut down indefinitely on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I had many thoughts. One of them rather selfish.
Crap, I am supposed to fly to New York next week. Boy, am I screwed now.
Amidst the ruins on my television set, I told you the thought was a selfish one.
I reluctantly made mental notes on how to potentially cancel my sojourn. Indeed, nobody knew that morning when things would get back to normal. Some could argue that normalcy has never returned completely. Would I ever see my hometown again?
And, just why did I want to go now? Was it that old Kander and Ebb tune in my head?
"I want to be a part of it. New York, New York."
At some point in the ensuing days, decisions were made and Americans had their wings back. If you have a flight booked, you will likely reach your destination, terrorists pending.
Good for me.
And uh oh.
Now that I could make my scheduled morning flight to Newark Airport, I realize that this confirmation was the easy part. The real challenge would be to actually get on that airplane.
Again, what the hell was I doing?
I could have easily cancelled my whole itinerary. It wasn't super-critical for me to go to New York. My apartment there wasn't all that dusty. I had tickets for my Saturday seats at Shea Stadium. The Mets and the Braves would be back on the field by then, but the contest was ultimately missable.
Why?
Yeah, yeah, that pull. That emotion.
"I want to be a part of it. New York, New York."
Friends here wanted me to stay in Los Angeles for a while longer. Friends there said they had just seen me anyway, so they could me miss me a while longer. There was no compelling reason to tempt the fates, especially since nobody knew if the big, bad terrorists had really gone home.
I decided to go anyway. One of those rare, unexplained moments in my life.
Indeed, my trip on that Thursday to Newark Airport would be one of the first American Airlines flights out that week. Oh, wow, I thought. How monumental. If I had a blog, I would write about it someday. News reports told of all the precautions being taken at LAX Airport. Taxi cabs would be stopped and searched. Bags would be x-rayed. Hmmm, that house key of yours is a little too jagged. That just be my weapon.
Nevertheless, I persisted. Travel, I would. And, yes, my cab was searched as it attempted to enter the LAX zone. Dogs sniffed at the trunk. Mirrors were extended under the vehicle, looking for either a bomb or a leaky oil valve. Gee, Jiffy Lube could easily downside about three mechanics in favor of one big German Shepherd. Watching this all unfold before me, I took the first of about a thousand deep breathes.
Apparently, I was one of a small number of folks who felt comfortable flying on that day. Terminal 4 at LAX was a ghost town. Tumblin' tumbleweeds. The clerk at the counter was pleased to tell me that, not only had I been upgraded to first class, I might even qualify to pilot the plane. It was that empty.
Seated at the gate and waiting to board, I began to engage in a ritual that I still do to this very day. I'm not ashamed that I do it. I'm actually proud that I am good at it.
I was racially profiling.
Every person mingling around that gate was getting a thorough going-over by yours truly. Airline personnel were doing their job. I was doing mine because I didn't completely trust them to do theirs correctly. Certainly not up to my standards. I resolved that, if I didn't like the way you looked one iota, I would raise my hand. And, if you even remotely looked like you could have been an extra or a stand-in during the making of "Lawrence of Arabia," well, my hand is raised even higher.
Once I boarded my first class seat, I continued my visual interrogation of everybody getting on that flight. A few minutes in, I noticed that I was not alone. Everybody else in first class was doing the same thing. When the guy across from me noticed my querying eyes, he couldn't help but comment.
"You're checking everybody out, aren't you?"
You bet your boots.
"So am I."
This was no longer a world for sitting Indian-style in a circle and singing "Kumbaya."
Usually, there are about twenty seats in first class. That day, there were five passengers and fifteen empty chairs. It was oddly a very comfortable way to fly. We needed only one flight attendant to cover us all. She quickly mentioned that she had lost a very good friend on that American flight out of Boston the previous week. Oh, reality check. Suddenly, the omelet in front of me didn't taste as good.
Of our small contingent in the wide seats that morning, I noticed actor Timothy Busfield from "Thirtysomething" and "The West Wing." Without acknowledging that I knew him from television, we started to chat. So did the rest of us. On this morning, we wouldn't be solitary passengers buried in our books with Bose headphones cupping our ears.
We would be in group therapy at 38,000 feet. Above the clouds and close to the sun, we spent the flight processing feelings. Alone and together. Five strangers coming together to figure things out. Or not.
Suddenly, I was glad I had flown on this day.
Frequently, when an airplane approaches Newark Airport, flight patterns come from the south and you have a dandy view of lower Manhattan. On this day, New York was having one of its early autumn cold and rainy days. Clouds caressed the skycrapers that were still standing. We looked out our portals to see it all for ourselves. Today, we could see nothing. Everything appeared to be just as we left it.
The next day, just as Annie had sang, the sun had come out. I was in Manhattan crossing Sixth Avenue. I looked south. And saw the pillars of smoke and tragedy.
What the hell was I doing here? I knew now.
"I want to be a part of it. New York, New York."
Dinner last night: What else on a Saturday night in Westchester? Sausage and peppers at Carlo's Restaurant in Yonkers.
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