Tuesday (A Short Story), Page 2

it. He started reading the agenda that'd been e-mailed. Halfway through, Mary Jane, his supervisor, walked up to his desk.

  “John decided to cancel the site meeting, because of what's going on. Sit tight. I'll let you know if I hear anything.”

  The only person Dave knew who'd be coming to the site meeting was Bianca, so he e-mailed her.

  Hey, Bianca.

  The site meeting's canceled because of what's going on. Stay safe!!

  Dave

  Dave went through CNN, The NY Times, and any other website he could think of to get information. At this point, work would have to wait. But it didn't matter, because no one had any information. Two planes'd hit, and there might be as many as six still in the air. That's all anyone knew.

  He read it first on CNN. The South Tower fell. What?! How does the South Tower just “fall”? They bombed the damn thing in '93 and it stayed up. How did it fall now?

  Minutes later came the announcement from his supervisor. Her voice was implacably calm – almost casual. Dave guessed it must've come from years of managing people in small-scale business crises.

  “They're evacuating the building. They're afraid terrorists will attack here. Do you have a ride?”

  “I can call someone.”

  Dave got his laptop, stuffed it in his bag, along with the power cable, and made for the elevator.

  Only, once he was outside, he realized he couldn't call anyone. No one could. All the lines were down. He couldn't call his mother. He couldn't call his driver. Oh, God. What did they hit?? Why is everything down? World War III...

  Another colleague from work, Inga, offered him a ride home. He didn't want to take it, because he didn't want to impose on anyone, on a day like today, but there wasn't any choice. It was World War III, and he was still in an office building.

  Dave waited for Inga's SUV in the circle outside the office's entrance. She pulled up, and he opened the door and lifted himself in, grabbing the seat cushion in his chair and putting it under his seat.

  Inga looked down at the chair.

  “How do I fold this?”

  “Fold up the footrests”, Dave pointed, “then pull up on the middle of the seat.” He patted the middle of his seat.

  They listened to the radio on the way to his apartment. It was all just eyewitness speculation. No one knew any more than anyone else. The only ones who knew a damn thing'd just slammed themselves (and God knows how many other people) into two buildings that used to be the World Trade Center.

  Neither of them spoke. Dave just kept thinking about death. On the radio, they were comparing the number of casualties in the collapse to Antietam. They were saying that there were as many as 50,000 people in there. And now, they were almost certainly dead. 50,000 people! More than Antietam, they were saying. More than the Civil War battle that killed 23,000 people in twelve hours. Jesus....

  Being handicapped, Dave had thought about death a lot. At least once in the hospital, he'd been given a 50/50 chance of survival. That time, it was septicemia. One of his earliest memories (whether it was real or not, he couldn't say) was a priest giving him the last rites before a shunt surgery. The Church apparently called it “extreme unction” now, but regardless, if you're receiving it, things aren't looking good for you.

  He'd asked his father once, when he was about five, what death was like. He'd said it was just like falling asleep, only you never woke up again. He'd lie awake at night, not wanting to sleep, crying because he didn't want to die. And now, twenty-five years later, there were 50,000 people dead in two buildings, and in a short while, he might join them.

  Not that he was surprised. He'd always expected to die way before now. He never thought he'd make it to eighteen. Then twenty-one. He was shocked he'd made it to thirty last November. He figured something should've killed him by now, whether it was shunt problems or surgeries, or just falling down a flight of steps because he didn't see it in time. Something.

  But now, his number looked like it was up. After all, this was World War III. How many wheelchair people do you see in post-apocalyptic movies? None. None at all.

  He thought about the people in the towers. He knew some of those people were in wheelchairs, and if they were anywhere other than the first few floors, their chances were almost nil. In a fire, all elevators go out. And who's gonna stop to help someone in a wheelchair get carried down? Not many people. Back in college, Dave had been assigned to the second floor of his dorm for one semester. The brilliant solution, in case of fire: “Go by the window and wave your arms so the firemen see you.” In other words, “Bend over and kiss your crippled ass goodbye.” In the Twin Towers, he was sure the best the wheelchair employees could hope for was someone handing them a parachute and wishing them luck.

  Dave thanked Inga for the ride, rolled into his apartment, and turned on the TV.

  Dave was home. Safe. (Well, as safe as he was going to be.)

  He went to his study and picked up the phone. Busy signals, to everyone he called.

  His mother.

  His stepfather.

  His brother.

  Ann.

  Joe.

  Luckily, the Internet was still working for him. He fired up his Comcast e-mail.

  Hey,

  I'm fine. I just got home. Are you okay? Let me know asap.

  Love,

  Dave

  He CC'd everyone.

  Dave didn't have his father's e-mail address, so that'd have to wait.

  Cindy.

  He hadn't talked with her since grad school, more than a year ago. The meeting hadn't gone well. She resented that he wanted to pay for their lunch. A couple goddamn pieces of pizza. It was trivial, really. He really wanted to call, given the circumstances, but he didn't have her number.

  He dialed her parents' old number, but got their answering machine.

  “Hi, it's Dave. Dave Riggler. I hope you're okay. I'm just calling to make sure Cindy's alright. Crazy day here. Please let'r know I called. 908-555-2864. Thanks. Hope you and Steve are okay”.

  Steve was Cindy's little brother. Dave's clearest memory of him was Steve snapping Cindy's bra strap and blaming it on him. Still, he was just a kid. Maybe ten, at the time.

  Dave rolled into the living room to turn on the TV.

  Static. Nearly every channel was static. What else, where else, had they hit?

  On CNN, he found out. The Pentagon. How the hell did they get the Pentagon? Don't they have anti-aircraft missiles, or at least guys in black suits on the roof with Stingers? How in the hell does this happen?

  When he heard about the plane in Pennsylvania, it didn't come as a surprise. Well, at least we got the bastards once. It's not much, but it's something. Probably shot the bastards out of the sky. Still, all those families..dead...

  Just another step in World War III.

  The reporter said that the government was grounding all flights. Like almost everything else that day, that'd never happened before.

  Dave tried to call his mother., but still couldn't get through. He sat there, watching CNN. People milled around caked in dust, like a nuclear winter. It seemed like every car alarm in New York was going off. It was almost like crickets chirping in the evening – if the crickets were in Hell, and the fires of Hell were reduced to a smoldering pit of ash.

  He wondered how Bush'd react. Someone needed to be bombed into the Stone Age for this. It was time to come out swinging. No more firing warning shots with cruise missiles.

  Dave wondered what this day would be called. All you had to say to someone was “Pearl Harbor”, and they knew the event you were talking about. Antietam. Gettysburg. He was too young to remember the Kennedy assassination, but it'd always struck him that the day wasn't really remembered. Then again, how many people remember the date that Lincoln was shot? Still, he was sure of it. This day would have to be remembered. What could possi
bly be the same, after this? But what would it be called? It happened in the whole country, and it was just some random Tuesday.

  Just then, he heard a plane flying overhead.