Monday, May 2, 2011

A super sad true story

The flags were flying on every house on the street.  We were all in a constant state of fear, of confusion, of dread, of heartbreak not just for those who lost loved ones and those who lived through the horror, and those who died, but also for the way of life that we knew had come to an abrupt end.
I was certainly no different in doing my best to retain some sense of normalcy, which was exactly why I was sitting on my back porch drinking a cup of coffee in the morning sunshine on September 14, 2001. It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was just another start to another day in a world I no longer recognized.
I heard some shouts. So in my bathrobe and slippers I peered around the side of the house. I saw smoke coming from behind a car in front of the new house being built across the street. I figured the car was on fire, so I dialed 911 and reported it. But when I got off the phone and looked back, the smoke was gone. Shit, I thought I was going to be in trouble for reporting a non-incident at a time when high-strung high-alert was new. I heard sirens anyway.
I looked over again, and one of the construction guys had a garden hose. I guessed he’d put out the fire. But the smoldering smelled weird, sweet. Then the fire trucks were on the street, then an ambulance, then marked police cars, then unmarked police cars and the bomb squad. Then I went out the front door and saw a figure being carried on a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance. But he didn’t have a face, not anymore.
The fire chief came across the street.
“Is it a bomb?” I asked, “Am I safe?”
He looked disgusted. He didn’t know that I didn’t know: the man without a face had lit himself on fire.  
“He’ll live, but he’ll wish he were dead.”
The street was blocked. Yellow tape was everywhere. I called my partner and managed to spit out what happened, then I sat on the hall chair and shook and shook. Shannon came home from work and together we walked to the coffee shop. We sat there, stunned, not knowing what to do, whether or when to go home, what was going on.
Eventually we did make it back to the house. The bomb squad was gone.
The next morning, I crossed the street to talk to the general contractor. It was a high school friend of his, he said, who was schizophrenic and had stopped taking his medication. He drove up, parked his truck, got out and walked up the street with a briefcase in one hand and a container of gasoline in the other. He put down the briefcase, poured the gasoline over his head, and lit a match. Yes, he was alive and at a trauma center. The bomb squad was called because he had an American flag on his jacket. But don’t worry, we’ll finish building the house on schedule.