by Lance Allen
***
Do you remember?
Her eyes glassy, a swollen expression of sadness drips from her chin. She repeats the question.
Do you remember?
His eyes roll slowly, heavy lids drop, pause, then rebound. He labors to pull air into his lungs, wheezing, fighting back the urge to vomit. He hears her words but cannot make sense of them. The sky swims overhead. Clouds. Birds. Chaos. He shudders. His heart sinks. He tries to speak. Nothing comes out.
I know you remember. I know you do. It's me. Johnny. It’s Gayle. Talk to me!
Who's Johnny? I don't feel like Johnny. I feel like going to sleep.
He coughs up a clot. It makes a mess on her shirt.
Oh my god Johnny. Don't die.
The Station
The morning heat flirts with heavy exhaust fumes and assorted refuse, spawning a sickeningly sweet mixture of heartache and progress. A sad cast of characters mills about the bus, waiting for the driver to drag what ever belongings they have stowed underneath the bus so they can continue along the path laid out for them. A Mennonite woman and her child look as if sleep is a commodity in short supply; a man in dirty overalls and tattered boots; a kid in fatigues; strangers wandering familiarly in plain sight, never speaking.
I stay back a bit from the anxious crowd in front of the cargo bay. I am in no particular hurry as Gloria is not scheduled to arrive for another several hours. The diesel reminds me of other times, even when it makes me cough. My father traveled by bus when he would go away looking for work. The memories are bittersweet: sadness at his departure, glee upon his return. Countless times I waited on the concrete platform in the bowels of this godforsaken station; I miss him.
The black duffel bag, over there, I pointed out to the driver as he maneuvered the cramped space beneath the bus.
You got a stub? Asked the driver?
Yeah here.
Thanks chief. Have a nice day.
I take my bag and head for the stairs and the stale freshness of the open air above. The dark confines of the docking bays seem calm and serene in the face of the constant hustle and bustle of the world that lives above. My chaos comes cheap. I enter the fray with head held high knowing she will be here soon and all will again be right with the world.
A variety of uniqueness unfolds as the world begins to swarm around me: vendors yelling for buyers, agents yelling for porters, children yelling for mothers, the insane yelling for peace and lost memories. The resulting cacophony traps me in time and bathes me in déjà vu, I stumble forward to an open seat and collapse, head in hands as if the vision will leak from my brain if I don’t catch it and stuff it back in. I catch sight of the homeless man, his wild beard and hair, his empty bottomless stare, burning holes into my chest. He reaches for me and I flinch. Urine flows from the tattered ends of busted seems, pooling about his feet. The stench is immediate and nauseating. Why am I here?
The paperboy, barking his headlines, pulls me back. There‘s a clamminess about my shoulders, a dampness under my arms. The heat of the day has invaded the terminal and it means to wreck my beginning, I can’t allow it. My watch tells me Gloria will arrive in a couple of hours and I better not wait it out here. The station is a place to pass through not occupy. Too much time here can steal what ever is left of a person. I don’t have much left to give. So I better move on.
I walk in the direction of the exit onto Station Street. The Mug and Kettle is a few blocks down. I can hide out there until Gloria arrives. No one I know would be there at this time and even still I can keep off in the corner where it is darkest and most obvious I want to be left alone. As I near the double doors, a hand grabs my elbow and pulls, spinning me away from the relief of the outside.
Where you going friend? There’s only trouble out there you know. They’re everywhere; hiding in the alleys and under the stoops. You can see them perched atop the buildings or parked in vans marked as couriers or cleaners. The ones in the sky are the toughest to see, but they’re up there. Watching your every move. Taking pictures and video. Making a record of every move you ever make. They see what you can’t. They know what you don’t know. They’re fighting for you. They want you. Can you see this? Can you understand what I am telling you? The eye in the sky doesn’t lie man. It sees everything. They apply the spin. You gotta stay gone man. Stay off the grid. Once they get you that’s it. They don’t have me man. Not me. I can help you. You and me. Together we can stop this.
As if bewildered by the confrontation I stare into the eyes of the insane, witnessing the collapse of rationale thought and yet my heart tugs at the notion he may not be crazy. His unkempt hair and clothes, his dirty face and hands; the food stains and the streaks of dried blood behind his ears. The profile of a lunatic homeless man pegs this pitiless creature to the most wanted board. I try to wrestle my arm from his grip but he is holding on very intently. He continues.
They chased me into this place a few years back. Said they were going to get me cleaned up and taken care of. I know what that meant man. I wasn’t going back. All those things they promised were just lies. They wanted to stick me with needles and run tests on me. They want me to act like I was one of them. I can’t do that man. I ain’t one of them. I can tell you ain’t either. That’s why I grabbed you. I knew you wasn’t one of them. I want to help you before it’s too late. Before they get you too man. What do you say. Want to come with me and hear what I got to say. I have some things to show you too. There in my place. Downstairs.
You live here in the bus station?
Yeah down stairs, just after Bay 12 there’s a steel door. It’s a closet of sorts. I found the key one day. There’s nothing in there. But I’ve been living there for a while. No one seems to pay it no mind. You want to come see it?
I can’t right now. But I’ll tell you what. After my appointment I’ll come find you and you can tell me your story?
Where are you going man. If you go out there, they’ll get you. They always do.
I’m not going far and it’s only for a little while. I’ll come back later and we can talk. What do you say?
I usually eat around 8:00 o’clock, over there on that bench. You can find me there. But be very careful. I’m telling you things you don’t know cause you don’t want to know. But their all true. You gotta be careful
I’ll be careful. Eight o’clock by the bench, okay?
Yeah man okay. What ever you say. Eight o’clock. Here take these and put them in your pockets.
What are they?
They’re lead pellets. If you have them in your pockets they won’t be able to track you. Put one in each.
Thanks, uh, what’s your name anyway.
William. You can call me William. I don’t want to know your name. They can’t get out of me what I don’t know. Now go. I’ll see you later man.
And with that he was gone, taking a straight line to the stairs and the bus bays below. What luck! I hope he doesn’t see me when I come back to meet Gloria. That’s all I need.
Station Street is hardscrabble pavement, littered with people and debris of all colors and shades. Equally grey and seemingly lifeless buildings stand in silent protest, stretching for blocks and blocks in either direction. Sunlight penetrates the void only occasionally, leaving nothing of flower or bloom alive. The sorrow and misery inside the station is but a dry haven compared to the literal concrete jungle outside.
Captains of industry, mostly now long departed, created this lifeless stretch of barren urban misery with an eye on the future and a lofty sum in their wallets. The rest of us can only trudge through the filth and residue of a once bright future and wonder why the world is so completely fucked right now.
My eyes can’t help but scan the windows of the buildings as I walk the crumbling sidewalk towards the Mug and Kettle. Are their eyes trained on me? Where are the cameras William spoke about being so prevalent? And how could there be any eyes in the sky that could see down into this narrow piece of forgotten promises and liquidated
dreams. I can’t help but think the lead pellets will only burn holes in my pockets and fall out into the cluttered street, eventually washing into the sewers and the river beyond.
At the corner of Canal and Station, I stop to wait for the cross signal to change so I may continue on. A stream of cars and trucks lurch by in front of me, spewing an unseen cloud of questionable materials into an already diminished natural environment. I begin to ponder the outcome of the clean air debate when a small bubble dome on top of the signal twitches and rotates. A small circle just below the top widens then begins to close before finally snapping shut and then rebounding.
Before I can react, the signal changes and the crowd that had gathered begins to move and I become swept up in the swell, hurried across the street. I turn my head in the direction of the bubble dome but it hasn’t moved from its previous spot. Spurred on by the crowd, I continue along my way to the Mug and Kettle wondering if someone just snapped my picture.
The heavy wooden door to the Mug and Kettle creaks as I pull it open, feeling at first a cool rush of air then cringing as the accompanying smells of vomit and rotting meat bathed me in hesitation. A nose twitch and a slight head shake remind me this place is friendly and safe and the smell will soon relinquish its grasp as I settle into the stool in the far corner. It’s the devil that you know right?
Casually and familiar, I order a beer and a bowl of soup. The heat outside has been doused by the foul turn of the HVAC unit of the roof spooling currents of cool, musty comfort around the space. The bartender brings a paper place mat and some utensils. I ask for a pen to which I am given a black ball point. I turn over the place mat to the white underside and begin scrawling notes and diagrams in an attempt to appear busy so others will get the hint and leave me alone.
Have I ever noticed cameras on top of the signal posts? I can’t recall. How long had they been there and who operates them. I have seen the cameras in the square and the plaza, they have live feeds on the internet. I know of the webcams in some of the establishments around the city because they too have live feeds on the web. But signal top monitored cameras must be owned by the city and must feed somewhere. Somewhere. Who authorized them? Why don’t I remember them not being there?
My soup comes and the list is growing. The cameras are everywhere. I hadn’t thought about them before. But that man in the bus station is right. Someone is watching everything I do. There’s a camera on the traffic light on the corner. There’s another one on the ATM machine. Then there’s one in the restaurant, over the front door, observing the patio and sidewalk. The bank building on Market Street has them on all 4 corners of the building. The passenger bridge over the expressway has a camera at each end and at the top of each staircase. The bubble domes are every 10 feet or so in the L stops. Each tunnel has two cameras. There’s that cable channel that broadcasts the local traffic. The intent is to inform, to help save time, but the practice is to observe and follow.
I stare in disbelief at the list I have compiled on the place mat. My soup has gone cold; my hunger abated. Who’s watching and why? I don’t remember anyone asking for this level of observation. Either I am removed from most things or the campaign to preserve our relative safety never happened. The public debate over where and when cameras are appropriate couldn’t have been aired. I most certainly would have paid attention. Or would I?
The constant deluge of gloom and doom. Terrorist attacks. Foreign mercenaries. Threat levels. Orange. Yellow. Dirty bombs. Suitcases. Double parked and idling box trucks with no driver. Fertilizer. Arabs. Pakistanis. Fundamentalists. Conspiracy theories. Beacon of hope. Freedom. Patriot Act. Caves. Seal team Six. OBL. BHO. W.
I can feel sweat beading on the back of my neck and running down my back. The shivers quake me in my shoes and I exhale loudly. The bartender looks in my direction, suspect but inquisitive. I avert my eyes, raise my hand in acknowledgment and mouth I’m all set. My mind is racing. I gulp my beer. I should eat the soup but decide against it. I take a $20 bill from my pocket, lay it on the bar and hurry for the exit, keeping my eyes on the floor.
I reach the sidewalk and exhale the stale shit air from inside the bar and replace it with the smoggy shit air outside. The collision of oxygen collects in my throat and I cough, spitting a mucous wad on the ground. I regain my composure and breathe and begin walking blindly down the sidewalk. There’s still an hour to go before Gloria arrives and my mind is telling me not to go back to the station; not to go meet Gloria.
Self-preservation is weeding the garden in my mind and sowing the seeds of discontent. I can’t allow them to grow. I need to dispel the rumor festering in between my ears. The paranoia can’t be allowed to ruin me. I decide to search and verify the authenticity of the suggestion.
I pause where I stand and scan the buildings to my left and across the street on my right. I see one, two, five, oh my 12 cameras. A few steps to the corner, down the street a half block, parked next to a fire hydrant is a white panel van with no markings.
My eyes again hit the ground and I walk faster, averting my gaze from the prying eyes all around me. The whirl of rotors from high above, a helicopter hovers above the bank trust building. An unmarked black sedan idles, double parked in front of the municipal building. Two plain clothes police officers, arms folded stand behind and to the left of the car, dark glasses shield their eyes. I haven’t done anything but suddenly I feel guilty of something.
Before realizing where I am going I find myself back at the bus station, despondent and shaking. Earlier today I got on a bus and came to the city to meet Gloria. In the process I was accosted by a stranger, forced to open my eyes to a reality I had been spoon fed to ignore and returned to the scene of the crime to face a growing sense of fear. The truth has a way of forcing you in a direction you may never have considered. I need to find the man that gave me the lead pellets. I need to hear more for myself. Before long I find him, hat in hand, begging for change.
Take me to your room. I need to hear more.
Change for a vet?
You don’t understand. I need to talk to you about what you said before.
I don’t know you. Change for a vet?
You gave me these? You told me to come back here and talk to you.
Listen man. I’m a vet. I need to eat lunch. You gonna give me some change or what?
Reluctantly, I give him a dollar and he hands me a wrinkled American flag.
Thanks my brother. It was my honor to serve. There’s a prayer on the back of that flag. Read it. It keeps me going.
He shuffles off in the direction of a newly arrived crowd of travelers. I stand puzzled, scratching my head. What just happened? I turn over the wrinkled flag to see the prayer on the back. I am beginning to understand now.
The back of the flag read: I figured you would be back. There are eyes all over this station. Wait 10 minutes and then meet me downstairs. Your life depends on it!
I check my watch. Gloria still won’t arrive for almost an hour. There’s time to wait and see what William has to say. I need to know more about what he knows. I need to know if he is clear headed or truly a man on the fringe. It all seems so much like a ruse but too clever to be a trap. I am very confused. Yet, I need to know more. I am willing to take the chance he is sane and will speak in terms I can understand if only I can get him to talk in private.
The déjà vu I felt before begins creeping back in and my hands begin to tremble. I shut my eyes and rub my temples as the vision becomes crystal clear in my mind. My mother and I had come into the city to go to the zoo. The morning had been clear and cool and I couldn’t have been happier. I noticed him board the bus after we did. He sat a few rows behind us. I felt his eyes on me the whole ride. I turned once to see him and the sunken darkness staring back at me gave me chills and I froze to the seat. I was relieved when we finally arrived at the station. My relief was short lived.
We got off the bus and headed for the stairs. I turned to see if the man was following us but he wasn’t th
ere. I let out a sigh and grabbed my mom’s hand. We were crossing the busy station floor, people crisscrossed our path, going about their business as people do, paying no one in particular any mind, just going about their way. The urban chaos of the bus station was the perfect atmosphere for trouble, and we had been marked.
I swear I smelled him before he was on us. The scent of dirt and old beer mixed with filth and rotting teeth. It seemed to precede him. He wasn’t a large man but obviously stout. Barely a shove landed me and my mother on the ground and a forceful tug snapped the strap of her pocketbook. My mother screamed but the world around us spun and no one did anything to help. The last thing I saw was a dirty toothed grin spinning through the revolving doors.
The memory had been burned in my mind ever since. My mother refused to travel by bus after that. I never did make it to the zoo. To this day I've never gone to the zoo. That day had hardened me to be weary of those around me but also accustomed me to believe in those who are in a position to help me. The police did nothing about my mother’s purse. Nothing was ever recovered and no other witnesses were found. The policeman who interviewed us, to me, seemed nice and helpful, but my mother resented him for not getting her justice. The police were a waste of time in her eyes.
Something clicked and I was back. I checked my watch and nervously realized I had been standing in a trance for 15 minutes. I was late. Casually I began my way over to the stairs leading down to the bus bays. Going down the steps, the stench, which before seemed innocent and melancholy now took on a murderous decay, smothered by anticipation of cruelty? I couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of lives changed forever in this place, for good or for bad. I am about to enter into that equation and I am scared.
The underbelly of the station is cast in black soot and crumbling concrete. Natural light from the ramp leading from Station Street cannot penetrate the gloom of the cavernous blight where passengers first greet the city. A yellow haze struggles from slowly dying florescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. There may have been a time when the lights held a particular pattern making the gloom less obvious but the years of decay and neglect have left most of the lights broken or near ineffective.
I pause at the entrance as another load of presumably unsuspecting victims arrive for a day or lifetime in the caustic human circus above. Part of me wants to jump in front of the bus and warn each and every one of them of the dangers lurking in the dark and perched up on high. Tell them of the effects of speaking out of turn or delaying learning the rules of engagement for new inhabitants to the city. I wouldn’t be able to offer specifics, just words of caution. I am not street-wise but know enough to remain on the sidelines, just out of reach of the field of prey.
Bay 12 is the last resting place on the far left side of the terminal. Most of the lights at this end are broken, the rest offer little more than dark shadows. No wonder the closet has gone unnoticed for so long, there isn’t much indication until right in front of it that it even exists. My heart begins to race as I near the door. Should I knock; should I wait; should I leave? The answer comes from a snicker in the dark.
I didn’t think you’d show. Thought maybe they had gotten to you.
I’m here. Can we go inside? I am very uncomfortable standing here.
Sure man. That’s why we are here isn’t? Let me get the door.
William steps in front of me and puts the key in the lock. He jiggles the key a little bit and then a click. The door swings open.
Step inside and then I will turn on the light
Reluctantly, I step into the darkened void. I cannot tell the dimensions but get a sense it is small and cluttered. A dampness invades my nose, like a dirt cellar or wet mildewed carpet; I stifle the urge to sneeze. The door clicks shut and I can feel William breathing behind me; his closeness makes me ball both fists and tension both legs. My anticipation for defense is abated when he flips a switch and the room brightens.
The space appears to be rectangular, lengthening in front of me, maybe 12 or 14 feet and roughly 8 feet wide. There’s a dripping, echoing. I smell rust and mildew, a wet dog drying in a humid room. There are pictures taped to the wall. Stacks of notebooks lay scattered. A single mattress crumpled and unmade. Two folding chairs and a rickety table.
So what do you think, he asks?
How long did you say you‘ve been down here?
Hard to say really. I’m not good with the time. A few months at least. I found the key one day while I was scrounging for cans. It took me a few days to find the right door though. Can’t say I was disappointed when I found it opened to this place. It’s the closest thing to home I’ve had in a long time.
What happened to you?
I gave up. I didn’t want any part of it any more. You ever feel that way?
Well I mean sometimes I get down on myself but I never gave any thought to living under a bus station.
Would you give any thought to a man who lives in a penthouse? Sure you would. You’d wish you were him. Would you care how he got there? Would it matter to you who he had to sell out to get that penthouse. Does it matter there are no real good guys in the penthouse?
I have nothing against hard work and sacrifice as a trade off for success.
That’s your first mistake. Believing there is a success story. It don’t happen. Never has. Some people make it and some don’t. That’s true to fact. But success, that’s a strange lady. Success isn’t usually a good thing.
How’s that?
Look around friend. How many successful people do you know? Really successful people.
We may have a different idea of what success is.
No we don’t. Success is when you make it. We both have the same idea. Success ain’t real. Failure is real. Struggle is real. Success is a myth. A scam. Its all there to get you to do things you wouldn’t normally do. An invisible carrot.
Look at this guy here.
William points to an old black and white picture, a man in his 50’s, in uniform, an image of accomplished greatness.
Do you know who this is?
By the looks of it I’d say a war hero. But I couldn’t say for sure.
That there is a damn shame. Greatest war hero of them all if you ask me. Was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor twice. Think about that for minute. The man was presented with this nation’s highest award for valor not once but twice and you have no idea who he is. That says something really. And nothing good. War is a racket, he said. And he was right.
What do you mean?
Smedley Butler. That's his name. He was a general in the Marine Corp. He served during a time of rapid expansion of national interests. He and his men fought and died for Americas young corporations. Not from fighting injustices or trying to spread democracy. They died protecting our national business interests overseas. 'War is a Racket'. Read it sometime.
What does that have to do with success. I don’t understand.
Ever heard of John D Rockefeller?
Sure. He’s American royalty.
I’m here to tell you that the Rockefeller legacy is a fraud perpetrated on the backs of the American people and by force of the United States Military. Rockefeller a success? Not in my book. He’s no better than a pick pocket. Just by sure scale he was able to pick the pockets of America, almost simultaneously. A revered man in history. Yet a common thug. A thief. A liar.
We send our children to school and we teach them history lessons They want them to know. We teach them about the Revolutionary War. We teach them about the Civil War. We don’t teach about the Bank of England and how they taught us to cheat the people to rule the world. We don’t teach them how the most effective way to get something done is simply to blow something up. We don’t tell them the truth about the Maine; the Lusitania; the Gulf of Tonkin; the Marine Barracks in Lebanon; Oklahoma City; 9/11.
We teach them how to be scared. We teach them about threat levels. We show them pictures of men in military uniforms and head scarves. We show them pictures of young
African boys with Ak-47’s smoking cigarettes, half starved to death.
Our schools breed students who follow orders, schedules, routines and doctrines. We tell them they need to study hard to get good grades because other doors will then open up for them. We tell them to follow the letter of the law and their turn will come. We tell them to go to college. We tell them debt is the way to success.
But that’s Our way. That’s what makes Us better. We teach our kids to be a certain way and that leads to bigger and better things. The American Way.
You’re not hearing me. The ultimate goal of secondary schooling is to get kids into college. Once that happens, the goal has been achieved.
What are you talking about?
We teach the children in this country to listen and pay attention. We tell them what they have to learn and when. We tell them if they do what we ask they will be rewarded with good grades and a chance at a better life. Do you follow me so far?
Yes I follow you.
We teach our children just enough to keep them moving along without giving them too much and bogging them down in the details. I can teach you all about World War I without ever having to tell you it was because England was running out of oil and needed to gain a foothold in the Middle East. I can teach them just enough about economics without having to talk about fractional reserve banking. I can teach them about our form of government without every explaining to them the real difference between a democracy and republic. The devil is in the details. And those can come later.
So what’s it all for?
If you haven’t figured it out by now my friend, its all abut debt. Which brings me back to Rockefeller! And his friends. This sort of thing can’t be handled by just one man. It takes several and it doesn’t happen over night. As a group of people we think we are so righteous, so fair, so exceptional. We were. Once upon a time. Then we looked in the mirror and saw a beautiful face staring back. Game over. Our own vanity, our own good story, sold over and over and over again doomed us to this day.
Heading into the way back machine we all carefully forget this side of the world had an indigenous population already. We didn’t discover anything. We took it by force. We killed those who were here and made up stories of savages and scalping. We wanted what they had, so we took it. Then we told ourselves how good we all are. We justified our own atrocities. We did that.
Then we told our friends around the world we had all this great stuff and we wanted to sell it to them but we needed help. So our friends told all the people they didn’t like to get out and come here for a chance at a better life because it wasn’t going to happen for them there. The Irish came. The Italians. The wrong class of English and Scottish. The Chinese came too.
Before long everything was working great. But then we wanted more. We needed more. The success stories started to multiply with every clear cut forest and strip mine and polluted river and dust covered field. Debt drove us to crazy times. We fought wars and rebellions. We financed war lords and war criminals. We paid ransoms and fines. We had dinner with dictators and emperors and factions and reactionaries. And then we wrote a paper. The paper that changed us from a once great nation into a dying nation.
What paper? What are you talking about?
The last twenty years or so has seen a significant increase in a small but growing segment in our professional society, the non-profit think tank. A collection of overpaid academics that are bankrolled by the financial elite to spread a truth yet known. The Heritage foundation comes to mind. There are others but it matters not who or what they are. The message is clear. They use the backdrop of research and education as a way to spread the word about something important to them and to legitimize a cause for the betterment of their benefactor.
In the late 90’s a group of men came together to write a paper called Rebuilding America’s Defenses. They called themselves the Project for the New American Century. Basically they called upon the US to rearm themselves and take on certain countries around the world with the express purpose of fortifying national interests especially those involving minerals and resources. In other words, these motherfuckers were after the strategic oil reserves of the rest of the world.
And no one paid them or their project any real mind. Sure there were a few who spoke up, some right wingers, a couple of Jesus folks. Maybe a neo-Nazi. No one that mattered though. The courageous among us are easily discredited. Just listen to their rants. Morons mostly, with the gift of gab. That's why the masses don't pay attention. That's why no one gives a shit.
Buried in the rhetoric of their brilliant fucking plan is a simple yet prophetic statement. To summarize their lunatic space ride, it calls upon our past to deliver a momentous occasion that will bring about the necessary impetuous for their thoughts and meanderings upon our nation. They suggest to take the next step in Our evolution we must bring about a New Pearl Harbor, thereby galvanizing the master plan upon the backs of us all. And what event in recent memory calls to mind such a captivating spectacle that would be an ultimate game changer?
A crippling angina of déjà vu cuts him down at the knees as the Truth settles a knife in his back. Clouds of dust and falling limbs, vast stretches of chaos spreading in all directions. A small army racing towards the calamity, dwarfed by the retreating refugees. Pancaking theories of varying voracity fueled by eager enablers. Pull it.
9/11!
That’s right 9/11.
Oh my God.
Take a minute.
I lower myself into one of the folding chairs, a thin uneasy film of perspiration lathers me in discomfort and fatigue. I am struggling against that which I have just heard. What William has just said to me. It cannot be true. He is a lunatic. The things he says have to be fabrications of his warped and diseased mind.
His musings aren't to be believed because he lives in the basement of a bus station amongst the filth and detritus of a vibrant and prosperous civilization. We are the United States of America. The greatest nation on Earth. We are a good and just people. There’s no way what William is saying can be true.
I can see the doubt in your eyes. It is practically melting off of you. I don’t blame you. Who am I to be believed? I wouldn’t believe me if I were you. But then again, I dropped out. I could never be you. I don’t have to be believed. I know. I understand. For as long as it takes my only reason for breathing will be to tell my side of the story. And by that I mean all the things other people have said and I have just encapsulated. Draw your own conclusions.
And if you leave here today and you turn me in to the authorities, then that will be part of my lot. I can go willingly and with a clear conscience because I know the truth. I know it. Because I have breathed it. There is no longer any doubt in my mind about what we have become. And it saddens me greatly.
I use the sleeves of my shirt and wipe the dampness from my face. I choke out the dust and fumes as I try and breath deep, my lungs burn with the air half filled with the exhaust of the bus bay. I ready myself and stand. My eyes close, rest and then I return to the present. I stare at William, I look him in the eyes and I stutter, I believe you.
I remember how I felt that day. The disbelief, first seeing the second plane bank directly into the building, then seeing the south tower fall and finally the north tower come crashing down. One minute they're standing, smoking and punched full of holes, but rooted firmly to the ground. To 10:28am when they both disappeared into their own foot print. That was sobering.
The stories that followed about all the first responders. All those stupidly courageous saviors of the common man. They were to be the New Arizona. Sacrificed in the name of the Nation for the furtherance of those who stood to prosper. 441 first responders served for the last time that day. 441 first responders woke up for the last time that day not thinking they were going to die.
By the time Rudy showed up to consider the entire complex a crime scene, building 7 had already collapsed into itself in a surprising feat of architectural incompetence. H
ow else could you explain a 47 story building inexplicably collapsing at near free fall speed from a relatively small office fire. The first of its kind anywhere in the world and predicted on CNN, by a nuanced MSM anchor person, live on the air.
I guess I've known all along that 9/11 was total horseshit. Most don't want to talk about it. Some are so scared by the reality of it that they lock themselves up and don't let any light in. Still others claim Al Qaida to be public enemy number one even though they have no idea what Al Qaida means. In Arabic, Al Qaida means The Base. In other words a collection of warmongers established a foundation from which to build their New World Order.
I'm not going to my grave believing 4 planes were hijacked by 19 Muslim men in the name of a shapeless organization purportedly headed by the son of a wealthy Saudi construction empire who grew up fighting rival factions in Afghanistan because they felt slighted by some girls who wanted an education instead of a life of indiscriminate raping and honor killings.
With that, I turn and head for the door. I reach for the knob and pause, a plane pitches slightly to the right and careens into a building, a giant fireball rushes from the other side, papers flutter and smoke billows. A constant pinging rings in my ears. There’s dust everywhere. I turn and face him one last time.
I wish I’d never met you. But I will never forget that I did.
I turn the knob and exit the closet, pulling the door closed behind me. A bus is pulling in and another is readying its departure. I check my watch, Gloria is probably entering the city limits, she’ll be here soon. The air in the bus bay is nauseating, even more so than usual. I take the stairs to the chaos above. Gloria will have to meet me. I cannot come back down here. Not now. I need more information. I need to understand. Maybe Gloria will want to listen. Maybe Gloria already knows.
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