story3501.xml

story3501.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-09-11

I recently asked my mom if she ever contemplates how another terrorist
attack would happen. She replied, ?I don?t know. You should get help.? I
realized that I was causing her discomfort so I decided to change the topic.
We chatted about my sister and her kids, argued over my dad?s business, and
discussed the new door they?ve installed out in the country. I have always
been capable of talking about one thing while thinking about something else.
I responded to her questions with fluidity and coherence, ?What kind of
door?? ?When do the kids start school?? At the same time, I was thinking,
?Will it be a brief flash followed by a mushroom cloud?? My mother and I
hung up the phone and I was grateful that I didn?t cause her despair over my
morose state of mind. I felt good about disguising my usual panic and terror
for once and hearing her say, ?Goodbye, Sweetheart? instead of ?Would you
like me to get on a plane and meet you??

The Office of Homeland Security has once again heightened the level of
terror alert to "High". Now, as I write, I?m wondering if it will happen the
very moment I glance out my window. Will it occur at Yankee Stadium tonight
at 8? Will a van carrying nerve gas crash into the Brooklyn Bridge? Will I
be lying in bed at 4:30 in the morning when I hear a sonic boom? Will I know
what hit me? Will I have time to react as a loud rumble ripples toward my
apartment in Brooklyn Heights as the wave of destruction obliterates me and
my entire city? John Ashcroft is asking the American people to be vigilant
but to go on with their business as usual. In the weeks following last
year's attacks, Tom Ridge and the director of the FBI, Robert Mueller,
repeatedly asked the average citizen to keep an eye out for anything
suspicious. Well now, that's rich. Suspicious people are precisely why New
York exists; the maniacs and shysters of the world have been flocking to
this city for centuries.

I often suggest to my mom that I would like to move away from here. She
reassures me by telling me that I just have to live my life day by day, and
if I die, well? Then I die. She seems to be just a little too at ease with
the idea of her only son being blown to bits. I mean, she?s mortified, yes,
but she?s also resigned to the madness of human behavior; and that?s
something she can not control. She reminds me that as a child in Budapest
during the war, Jews were being rounded up as bombs rained over their
innocent little heads. Some comfort!

What have I personally done? What has my family done? My friends? What have
any of us done to deserve to live in such terror? Basically, I'm just this
stupid man thingy... I've got allergies and paper cuts; I have hair on my
knees; I can imitate that guy from the B-52?s; I need to replace my cordless
phone (I?m sick of having to buy a new one every ten days!); I can make
people laugh. I'm just a big dummy who is being forced to live under this
umbrella of fear for the rest of my life.

Why don't I move? Sometimes I think I'm just like the Jews of Europe
refusing to leave knowing they were doomed. I tend to push it all out of my
mind as I bargain with myself: I'll just stay a little longer, until I can
see some small success in my measly life; I don't want to move away without
feeling that I've accomplished something; I don't want to move and have to
start all over again.

New York fills me with self-doubt and hate. I'm fat, bald, old, grey,
unemployed, sexually dysfunctional, forever single and alone... Where am I
going to go? How do I start over with all this damage and meshugas? I have
so much emotional baggage; I don?t need a lover, I need a porter. And, why
are my parents so complacent, anyway? They seem to be as impotent as I am,
but I?m the one who?s hysterical. Oh yes, I forgot? I?m the one living
within spitting distance of Ground Zero while my family is way up in Canada,
shopping at Costco and buying doors at Home Depot.

A few years ago, I had a New Age therapist when I moved back to Montreal
after my second ?vacation? (that?s what I call my nervous breakdowns. What
do you call yours?). The therapist?s office was filled with the soothing
sound of synthesized classical music and smelled like a hippy who had
finally taken a shower. In fact, my therapist was a kind of 60's-guru type
with a PhD in Psychology: a spoiled, rich, WASP male, with all the luxury
and comfort to afford a life of yoga, feng shui and organic food. I hated
him immediately. In my second and final session, I walked into his office
and saw him waiting for me across the room; sitting in his leather executive
office chair in the lotus position. He unfolded his legs as I sat down, and
rolled himself over to me using his bare feet for propulsion, just like Fred
Flintstone. He came within a couple of inches of my face and stared into my
eyes. He whispered in a soft and caring voice, ?Ernie, where do you live??
He placed his hand firmly on my head and asked, ?Do you live here?? Then he
moved his hand down to my heart and continued, ?Where do you live, Ernie? Do
you live here?? Finally, he slid his hand onto my crotch, and asked, ?Do you
live here?? After getting over my initial shock, I pointed to my head and
replied, (long pause) ?Here.? With all his shakra nonsense and crystals, I
suppose he wasn?t as bad a therapist as I thought. Ten years later, I am
still trying to move all the energy from my mind into the rest of my body
and live more viscerally.

In this city that never sleeps, I am wide awake. It is 3:20 am. Believe me,
I would prefer sleeping over ranting at this very moment, but I can?t stop
the neurons from bouncing around in my head. My mind is overflowing with
ideas and thoughts; I, like many people, moved here for stimulation and to
become rich and famous for achieving something or other. Even before 9-11,
New Yorkers have been perceived as neurotic, self-obsessed and malcontent ?
overall, however, I think we are the most resilient and well-adjusted people
in the Western world. Contrary to popular belief, New Yorkers have a healthy
balance of self-actualization and self-doubt. This city forces people to
focus on the madness around them as opposed to the madness within themselves
(and today, my dear reader is the maddest time of all). With the exception
of the Son of Sam, New York has never produced a disenchanted young boy
locked in his parents? garage building pipe-bombs or white supremacists
forming militias. At very least, New York is the perfect antidote to life in
quieter places where people stand out if they?re too bright, too happy, too
depressed, too gay, too creative, too horny, too independent, too ambitious.
For those of us whose minds are constantly racing, New York is the Kentucky
Derby. Because of September 11th, however, my thoughts are stuck at the
gate.

I blame everything on the 11th: my weight gain, my inability to focus on
editing a film I shot two years ago, my sleeping problems, my failure to be
in a relationship, my anxiety, my drifting from job to job, etc. Nobody
knows that I?m referring to the 11th of March, 1973, but why should that
matter? The truth is, I came to this city because I?m a dreamer. I still
harbor fantasies of becoming a Broadway dancer or an actor or David Bowie or
an astronaut or a fireman; constantly reinventing myself in true New York
fashion (even if it is only in the shower). When it comes to who I am or
what I want to be, I know less at 37 than I did at 17. Although, I?m
constantly depressed and bored with myself, typically, my Jewish sense of
the absurd prevails; I shrug my shoulders and sigh, ?As long as a 767
doesn?t fly through my forehead, why get upset??

Everyone advises me that I can?t live in constant fear. ?You have more of a
chance to die in a car accident than getting killed by Bin Laden.? I don?t
think they get it. I suppose I?ve always been conscious of my own mortality,
but in the past, I?ve never given much thought to Zabar?s being vaporized. I
guess my mom?s right: I?ll just have to live my life day by day, and if I
die, well? Then I die. In the meantime, I?ll just pour myself a Manhattan,
pray for another subway series, and enjoy the time I?ve got left.