Like a Blogger in the Night Friday, August 15, 2003

At two-fifty, a friend of mine in another department sent me a note off the wires:

*DJ US Expected To Announce Thu Capture Of Top Terrorist-TV

We bandied that around for about fifteen minutes, until his name came across the wires, a holy crap name:

it's hambali

very very big deal

he planned bali, other bombings and met with 9/11 hijackers in 2000

Rip up the front page! Where will we put it? Good fodder for about twenty minutes, about five more inches than the story ended up getting. We drifted into 9/11 retrospective, then into culture-is-dead talk, ending with her comment:


don't take baseballs away from 8 yr olds

and don't wear miniskirts

Then, around twenty after four, the lights flickered off. They were back after about five seconds, and we snickered about it: We can never get the thermostat to work, either. Then somebody noticed the air conditioning wasn't working. Shortly after we heard the elevators were down. Just when we were absorbing that, an editor came rushing down the hall: The whole Northeast was gone, all the way out to Detroit, all the way up to Ottowa.

E-mail exchange:

yikes


Reply:

terrorist attack

Where is my wife. My wife's job lets out at two. She must be home by now. Ring ring. Nobody home, and no answering machine: Who needs voice mail? She has a beeper. Who needs cellphone? What are we, yuppie power brokers? Beep beep. Punched in the number. Waited. Waited. Nothing.

Meanwhile, everybody milled around the windows, which overlook Ground Zero. Crowds in the streets. No traffic lights. Everyboody looked to the reporter/editor who'd written a half-dozen stories on terrorism. He knew what it could be; he was the only one who didn't say it.

Beeper again. Ring ring. Number. Got it wrong; called again. Punch punch punch.

Nearly five. When the Iraq war started, I asked everyone I know in New York for their phone number at the office, and gave the list to my wife. I didn't keep one for myself. We were joking now, ghoulish, but all we could do. We locked up the front page at noon, and look what happens.

Beeper again. Punch punch punch. Zipsky. She was either at home, or just getting through the tunnel to New Jersey on the bus, or heading down to the ferry. But no way to reach her.

Meanwhile, an item came across the wire: Just a blackout, folks, let out your breath. It was about ten after five and I had no stories going that night; there were just nine stories down to the street. I took them briskly and headed off to the ferry.

And waited. An hour and a half's worth of calm people. They weren't aggravated; they weren't even upset. They were on cellphones, checking with their kids and husbands, waiting their turn. Some people had lost power in their buildings and didn't know the whole story.

The ferry people did a great job directing traffic. There was no rush, no shoving; they even kept selling tickets. I got across the river and realized there was no train home. No answer at the house. I beeped my wife madly. But where was she supposed to call?

Options. She would have to come across the river to get home. But when? And where--there were also piers up in the Thirties. I could take a chance and wait at the pier I was at; but she might never show, and then I'd have to get home in the dark. There were buses; but crowds to meet them; gates-of-the-embassy-in-wartime sort of crowds.

So I walked. Jersey City is swell, as is Bayonne; but there are a lot of miles between them. In the sun and heat, a migraine came on, the kind you can actually see drilling and squeezing into your neck. God knows how I looked to the folks out on their porches along the way.

All the way up Garfield Avenue. No arguments at the blinded traffic lights; nobody smashing shopwindows. Faith in human nature restored, even if the headache made me want to eat a bullet. I knew my wife would get home safe, as would my Jersey City buddies; this wasn't a terror attack. I remembered my buddies in Queens, who are days away from expecting their first baby. Subways out. People walking over the bridges. How was she going to get home? Could she stay in her office? Should I have tried to reach them--and offer them what?

Passed crummy houses, passed a cemetary I see every day on the light rail. Old gravestones, older than Bayonne, some of them crumbling, some of them fancy, many of them weeded over. Do the Osforths and Dickinsons still come down from the Cape and see granddad's remains? The light started to fail. Natural nighttime for the first time in months.

Then: working streetlights. Lights and fans in windows. Working fridges in bodegas. I pounded down a Coke and got a spring in my step.

Hallelujah! Broadway in Bayonne, a riot of lights. Hello, Bowl-O-Rama! Hello, check-cashing place! Hello, World's Best Pancakes! I raced gratefully to the ATM in the diner and pumped out a hundred. The whole walk home I'd been ducking into bank lobbies and drive-throughs and seeing lots of SYSTEM INITIALIZING screens. But the crummy little keypad in the worst restaurant in New Jersey came through for me.

Hey big spender--maybe I'd even bring home a pizza. Then I noticed the unlighted side streets. Turned onto my own street: black as the Blitz. Found the keyhole, guided myself by the EXIT signs at the end of the hall. Did a spin to get inside, throw down my bag, drop the mail and slam the door before the cats, who I couldn't see, could escape.

Stumbled around. Found the penlight in the back room. Now I am a cat burglar. Messes look worse in the dark. I beeped my wife again: our number. The number of two friends in Jersey City. Then our number. I slugged down some water, perched the penlight on the sink, fed the cats. Gobbled down some applesauce.

The phone rang. My wife was heading to our friends' in Jersey City. With a couple more calls, we sorted out plans: They had power, we could stay if we wanted; I'd come over and we'd plan. Tried my parents and my sister; no answer. Found my keys and bolted. Before I got to the door, the phone rang. A telemarketer. Sorry man, I told him, and couldn't manage any more.

In the car, the migraine started squeezing my stomach, too. Courage, Camille, and I headed into the unlit streets. Got down to Broadway, which was powered up, as fast as I could, and headed onto the Turnpike to Jersey City. A full spread of natural dark. Manhattan half-lit across the water. You can't get the scale without the lights; it looked as small as a ship. It looked like it was heading out to sea.

Jersey City in one piece. My wife and my good buddy's wife (who is also a good buddy) waiting. I vomit thrice, make halting small talk, make fun of TV anchors. Maybe a Diet Coke will do me good; it doesn't. I puked all the way down to the applesauce. The household donated an ice pack and sympathy. Meantime the phone rang: My buddy was on the Weekhawken Ferry, many miles away. We all decided to part, with many many thanks.

My wife drove. She had been in yoga.

On the Turnpike the moon appeared, a whole half dollar of it and dusty red. It looked bigger than the city. As well it might.

We got home. While I vomited she lit candles. I returned to find her on the couch, already covered with cats. She mimes the remote control; my buddies in Jersey City call it The Penis. We drop off quickly. This weekend we get cellphones.

@ 8:44:00 AM,

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