Unintended Consequences: A 9/11 Inspired Collection of Short Stories (Fictional) Series, Part I, Story 3

PART I: THE GOOD
STORY 3

Anthony Fuzoli, Sr., attempts to distract himself by people watching in Terminal B of John F. Kennedy Airport. He realized he’d been tapping his watch impatiently as flight after flight was delayed that Tuesday morning. It was a bright, unseasonably warm September day in New York City and he was flying to Indianapolis to make final preparations for Junior’s wedding.

As he eyed a young couple struggling with their baby stroller, the young father shaking the contraption to try and fold it for stowing reminded Tony of his son. The young man, who looked like he might still be in high school, had a thick wave of dark hair shaking as he struggled to fold the stroller. His wife, holding their baby, touched his arm to calm him. Tony wondered if they might be travelling to introduce their young one to his or her parents. He imagined what his own grandson, Anthony III, might look like one day. Would he have the signature Fuzoli wave to his thick black mane?

He was shaken from his daydream when the departures board suddenly lit up red with every flight showing cancelled or delayed. He wondered what was going on until an announcement was made overhead. Looking at his watch and noting the time, 9:51 a.m. People were confused and bustling about the terminal now, many heading for food courts to see if they could catch the news. It wasn’t a few minutes later, a woman turned her laptop towards Tony to show images of the towers falling. He quickly dialed Junior’s 317-area-code number.

Exasperated and astonished, Anthony Jr, answered with, “Can you believe this? Three days before my wedding? My hometown is under attack?” They discussed how his father would even make it to Indy in time for Friday’s wedding, let alone the rehearsal dinner, for which he’d shelled out a lot of cash.

His son had met his person senior year at Indiana University. Rebecca Anthis grew up in rural Decker, in the Southwest corner of the state, known for it’s rich agriculture, especially its melons. The name Anthis was Dutch and her pioneer ancestors had cultivated the Cypress Swamps just above the White River at the turn of the 19th century. When Junior had learned of her heritage and that the Anthises had found Knox County, Indiana, with other Dutch families from the Genesee Valley of New York, like the Deckers, Kuykendalls and Jacobuses, he’d felt a deepening of their connection. She wasn’t just some “hayseed from the sticks,” the way New Yorkers tended to think of Hoosiers.

Her father had built a small empire on growing some of the best-tasting watermelons and cantaloupes from that part of the state. He’d taken to Anthony right away because the two of them were pranksters and had a sharp, sarcastic wit. Anthony was studying law and had big aspirations. Bud Anthis knew that this kid meant business and would take good care of his precious Becky Sue. She hated the nickname and only went by Rebecca these days.

Bud called immediately after Mr. Fuzoli to see if there was anything he could do. He even offered to cover the expense of the rehearsal dinner planned at St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, the best known restaurant in downtown Indianapolis. Rebecca told her father that it would all work out and not to worry about it. He’d already done so much to make sure her Friday evening wedding, September 14th, would be magical.

Junior was distracted the rest of the day, receiving one phone call after another from friends and family back home. His cousin worked in the South Tower and had run errands that morning instead of showing up for work. That decision, which seemed irresponsible to him at the time, had saved his life. Anthony knew a couple of others, including a high school classmate who served NYFD, Fire House Twelve, that narrowly escaped the second collapsed tower.

Rebecca had worked diligently even as she carried a full load of senior-level coursework to plan her fairy tale wedding. An Indianapolis cousin had recommended Tabernacle Church on the near northside. Now she feared everything might be placed on hold. It seemed the world was crashing around her. Tony noticed his future bride’s nerves frazzling and suggested they go out for drinks and a nice meal.

His father phoned while they were dining at The Slippery Noodle that night to say he’d made it to North Jersey where he was renting the next to last car on the lot. It had been such a surreal day with overloaded trains heading out of the city, some passengers were ghostly white covered in toxic dust blank, distance in their eyes. He assured his son and future daughter-in-law that he would be there early Thursday.

On the long drive, Senior wondered again what Indiana’s largest city held over their hometown. He’d always envisioned Junior becoming a junior partner at his Brooklyn firm. He loved Rebecca dearly but wondered what spell or potion she’d used to enchant his lovesick son. At that moment, his son texted for a progress update. He spoke into his phone, voice-to-text, that he was entering the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. The news on the radio was grim. A reporter relaying details from a remote area of Pennsylvania which he’d traveled near hours ago. United Flight 93, had been hijacked, the reporter said evenly, passengers rallying cry of “Let’s roll.” minutes before rushing the cockpit.

The wedding was everything Rebecca had dreamed. The happy couple settled into a neighborhood with 100’s of young families in the suburb of Fishers. They were expecting, but not Anthony III, a baby girl they would name America. The senior Fuzoli was not disappointed. He loved the name choice and began calling her America, The Beautiful. He was thankful for his cross-country drive that showed him just how beautiful it was, even the flyover states like Ohio and Indiana.

Unintended Consequences: A 9/11 Inspired Collection of Short Stories (Fictional) Series, Part I, Story 2

 PART I: THE GOOD 
Story 2

Hal Griffith, a once happily married man, sits in the shoe store his father began in 1970, now the proud owner, but worried about the decline in business and in his marriage. Gloria sits in their modest home in the Asylum Hill neighborhood, completely unaware of her husband’s plans to leave her.

It’s a beautiful, unseasonably warm and cloud-free day in Hartford, Connecticut, but Hal barely notices the sun streaming in through storefront windows in this musty, century-old building. His father’s health had been in decline when he handed over the keys almost 20 years earlier, but Main Street was hardly the bustling shopping district it had once been in it’s heyday and this morning it was more pronounced.

Little did Hal know that people were gathered around televisions in nearby cafes and the big box electronics store around the corner. They were glued to coverage out of New York City of the attacks on the buildings at One World Trade Center. And little did Gloria know back home that the world-renown address was Hal’s destination that evening. He’d simply told her he had business to conduct in Manhattan “for a few days.” She thought it was so unlike him to be so vague about his affairs. Of course, he’d been shut off and keeping a lot of things from her in recent months. She’d begged him to go on a summer vacation, but he always complained of their financial struggles tied to the declining store traffic.

That evening, he was to take the three-hour train ride from Hartford Union Station to Manhattan’s Financial District. From there, he’d arranged transportation to Marriott World Trade Center Hotel, where his mistress, Angela Prater had already checked in and was anxiously awaiting his arrival. As he was daydreaming about their clandestine adventure–two nights in lower Manhattan, followed by an escape to Spain–he was unaware that within minutes the South Tower was about to fall trapping Angela inside the hotel.

He was mulling over the letter he’d intended to leave at the store for Gloria. This hadn’t been an impulse decision, like the night he’d began his flirtation with Angela online. It had been building for years. He’d simply lost interest in his marriage and started visiting internet chat rooms in hopes of finding and making connection. His conversation with his mistress progressed from flirting online to late night phone conversations in his workshop. She’d been divorced for two years and worked in the Big Apple, but lived in the outskirts of New Jersey. He’d built up this fantasy of their future life together, starting with this trip to Spain. She was certainly up for the adventure. Angela had no idea that her check-in day at the Marriott would be her last.

By 10:30, when the North Tower reigned down over the hotel, breaking it in two, Hal was watching it unfold on live television from his cramped office. He looked on in horror as his destination was turned to rubble in an instant. He wondered if there’s any chance Angela could have survived it.

When she couldn’t be reached by cell phone, as there was no service anywhere in the city, he grew more anxious as the minutes turned to hours. The president had been briefed and was aboard Air Force One the last time he tried her by phone.

That evening, as the grim reality sank in and he sulked home, he carried with him the ill-fated letter he’d written to his wife. It explained everything. All the silence when she suspected he was depressed and detached would be explained to Gloria’s shock and horror. As he drove up the tree-lined hills of his neighborhood, past the Asylum Avenue Baptist Church where they were married two decades ago, the pit in his stomach began to heave. He thought he might have to pull to the curb and wretch stomach bile, since he had not eaten lunch.

Gloria, to her honor, took the news as well as could be expected. Not that it came as a complete surprise to her, the greatest shock was that he was taking time off work to travel internationally. She had to suspend reality like watching a movie to hear that the man who’d hardly left Hartford was going to board a jet to Barcelona the following day. She actually felt a pang of sorrow for the mistress who’d lost her life that day in the most unexpected way. Muslim extremists had actually flown two jets into the World Trade Center, toppling them onto the hotel that was to be her husband’s rendezvous point and escape. She just held her face in her hands for close to an hour before getting up from the table to draw a bath. Ted left her alone with her tears and scented candles. They went to bed that night without speaking a word.

It would take several years and loads of counseling and monthly dating for him to regain the trust of his first love. He’d begun to feel quite foolish in the aftermath of his failed escape attempt. He was deeply moved by her grace and mercy towards him, and even her sympathy for Angela. By the end of the decade, they would return to the Baptist church to renew their vows. (For the next story in this series CLICK HEREor follow the link from Facebook).

Unintended Consequences: A 9/11 Inspired Collection of Short Stories (Fictional)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Facebook followers can skip to the end of this section and start below the image. I sectioned these stories-The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly-so we’ll start with The Good.)

FB POST: This Friday, unbelievably, marks the 25th Anniversary of the worst terrorist attack on our soil. I got the idea early last year to begin writing a collection of short stories (fictional, but based in reality) to commemorate the somber memorial. Then I got cold feet. Whether it was my self-consciousness about publishing my work or sensitivity toward the survivors and those who perished 9/11/2001, I quit writing. Only last month did I run the idea by my daughters who tend to be more sensitive on social issues than I. They both told me to trust my gut. And even though I’d feel ok had I published, the deadline is long past.

The title is Unintended Consequences.

My idea, and this just struck me today, is to publish the stories as a series on my blog and share them here for a few days around the anniversary. This timeline was going to be page one and sort of a reference for the stories to follow. (End of post, clipped).

PART I: THE GOOD 

Amanda Boudreaux heads East down Park Avenue, her favorite Zydeco CD in the Ford Focus’ stereo, pumping out music. It’s just another Tuesday and she’s about to make her weekly stop at Krispy Kreme, just ahead on the right. The toe-tapping music from her childhood home on the bayou makes her morning mood bright. The traffic is better on Park than the bottle neck near the mall on Apalachee Parkway and she’s happy as she swings through the Bojangles’ parking lot and into the drive-thru next door.

Across town, her boss folds down the sports page of the Tallahassee Democrat as his wife bends to kiss him goodbye. Ted Williams is taking time to savor his last bit of coffee before he leaves their northside home. He’ll take the backway into town today. He’s in no hurry, as his first stop is his daughter’s private school on Meridian, then a quick jaunt to his dentist’s office.

“You sure you don’t mind dropping Lorelei this morning,” she asks. He assures Madeline that he’s got plenty of time and he’s happy to do it. As he hears her Mercedes back out of the garage, he also savors her image. For a woman of 42, she has certainly kept her feminine curves intact. He smiles, then looks down at his garish weight hanging over the dining room chair he occupies at the moment. He can’t remember when the scales finally topped 300, but he’s been determined to exercise and lose some weight.

Miss Boudreaux rounds her station in the plush lobby of the Williams Insurance Agency, balancing her coffee mug on top of the box of donuts, as her oversized purse slides down her right arm. The pulse of the Zydeco music echoing in her ears seems to match the rhythm and pace of her heart. She sets the donuts and coffee on the receptionist counter and eases down into her ergonomic office chair, ready to greet her coworkers as they file in. Her typical Tuesday greeting at the ready–”At least it’s not Monday. Here, have a donut.”

Meanwhile, Ted is maneuvering his vehicle to the front of the drop-off line at North Florida Christian School. He brushes back a ribbon of his daughter’s golden locks to plant a kiss firmly on her forehead before wishing her a good day in school. She blushes, sure that her friends have seen this fatherly gesture, and steps down from the SUV without looking up. There’s minimal traffic taking the back route to Dr. White’s office and he pulls in behind her building at 7:50 a.m.

Williams Insurance Agency is a business he built from the ground up and Ted is proud of it. Growing up poor with a father in road construction, he worked hard selling insurance policies for big corporations until he was ready, nearly a decade before, to open his own business. He specializes in life and property insurance and his clientele includes most of the blue bloods in North Florida. He grew up amidst the tall, whispering pines north of town and is well-known in the community. Aside from his prospering business, he serves as head deacon at First Baptist downtown and as third basemen for the church’s softball team. His smoked brisket is the favorite at church picnics and he spins quite a yarn as he serves up the tender, succulent slices.

At 8:05, Frank Byers, the president of the Tallahassee Area Chamber of Commerce walks in late for a dental cleaning. “Late as usual,” Ted thinks to himself. He doesn’t think too highly of the lawyer and womanizer who puts on a righteous front from the second row of the church every Sunday and Wednesday night. “How goes it, Theodore?” And there it is, the name that only his mother ever used to address him when he had misstepped. “Fine, Frank. Still feeding the fishes out at Talquin?”

“You know it. Can’t say how many crickets I downed out by the dam last weekend…or how many Coors Light,” he chuckles. “Say, you’ve been sober going on how long is it?”

“Twelve years, since Lorelei was born,” Ted replies.

“Speaking of, how are the wife and daughter? Give Madeline my regards, will ya?” And he’s into the exam area before Ted can respond. The hygienist has been impatiently waiting for him, rolling her eyes as he enters.

Ted checks his watch, 8:12, and knows that he’ll be called back any minute. At his office on Duval Street, Amanda also notes the time, as she’s just answered their first call. She picks at a donut she doesn’t really want and sips what’s left of her coffee.

His cleaning finished, Ted reaches the reception desk to schedule an appointment six months out, but the staff is hovering around the receptionist’s computer monitor. She seems to be streaming a live feed from Manhattan on MSNBC. Over their gasps of horror, he hears what he believes is a low-flying jet screaming over the streets and exploding on impact. It’s 9:03 and the second tower has just been hit.

As he gets his bearings down Monroe Street, he receives a call from Amanda at work. “Sir, I don’t know if you’ve seen or heard the news this morning, but it’s awful,” her voice breaks. “There’s been some kind of attack on the World Trade Center,” but he cuts her off, veering to avoid a slow turner into the Publix parking lot. “I’m listening to what’s happened on the radio. I’m about 10 minutes from you,” he says.

“Well, don’t bother coming in, sir. The Governor has declared a state of emergency and all offices within a mile of the State Capital and his residence are shut down and being evacuated. That means we could be in danger. Do you want us to close or…” He’s not sure what to think. It stands to reason with Governor Bush being the president’s brother that the Capital City could be a target. No one seems to know what’s going on or who is behind it. All he knows is hijacked planes, buildings aflame, possible jumpers and missing jetliners. Now that the state is taking precautionary measures, he decides to do likewise.

“I think in an abundance of caution, let’s send everyone home, Mandy, and close the office for the day. If you’ll print my appointments and make the necessary calls from home, I’ll pay you your full days’ wages.”

“Yes, sir,” she says and hangs up quickly.

Ted’s a little rattled, but his dental checkup went well and he doesn’t mind working from home. What he doesn’t know is that his physical health is teetering on the brink. With clogged arteries to near blockage and undiagnosed diabetes, the three donuts he would’ve had at the office that day would have toppled him, just like the towers that were about to fall.

As fate would have it, Madeline will not become a widow on September 11, 2001, and Lorelei will not face junior high, high school or the rest of her life without her loving father.

(Next short story is posted. CLICK HEREor follow the link from Facebook).

9/11 Remembered

Why today, you may ask? No special reason. This isn't September 11th, it's not an anniversary or a day for remembrance. But it is Memorial Day Weekend. And thanks to a post by my cousin, Eric, I find myself enthralled, and horrified all over again, by the images of 9/11. Eric posted this article from the New York CBS station yesterday morning. I only saw it this morning in my Facebook newsfeed. It led me into 3 hours of watching TV coverage of that fateful day in 2001.

On the tenth anniversary, I dedicated two blog posts--Nine-Eleven (9/9/11) and Never Forget (9/10/11)--to commemorate the melancholy of such tragedy and senseless loss. It was all so surreal, the television coverage that morning, the feeling that we were under a coordinated terrorist attack and the way it hit home because I worked across the street from the State Capitol and the President's brother. Watching it this morning, including the 1-hour, 58-minute uncut footage from New York's NBC4, brought it all back so vividly despite the fact that nearly 16 years have passed since it happened.

Sixteen years ago, on that day, I'd only had my first child for a couple of weeks. She had turned two months old that very day, but we got her at 6-weeks. She's adopted. I was at work in the Claude Pepper Building in downtown Tallahassee, just starting my day with Legislative Services. It must have been around 9:00 that I began watching live coverage on MSNBC from my desktop in my cubicle. I remember a couple of coworkers watching over my shoulder in horrified disbelief, or they may have been in the cubicle opposite mine, but I remember their reactions either way.

I took an early break to get to where I could watch live coverage on the televisions in the mall food court, a safe distance from the Capitol complex. I received the call not to come back to the office, as it had been shut down and evacuated. There was no immediate threat, but panic had stricken the nation and no less so the home of Governor Jeb Bush. I went home early that day and was glued to CNN and MSNBC. I'll never forget the images that day of the twin towers burning, of the second plane careening into the WTC-South Tower, of the towers falling one at a time, of the enormous dust cloud that enveloped all of lower Manhattan and the ghosts that emerged from it covering their mouths, their faces. Like I said, it was all so surreal, like nothing I'd ever seen before.

Watching the news footage on YouTube this morning brought all the feelings back so vividly that I had to write about it. I created the image at the top of this post as a memorial. I figured what better way to honor those who were killed in cold blood by enemies of the State than with a tribute on Memorial Day Weekend. This spontaneous post is dedicated to all the men and women who died that day, 9/11/01, on commercial airliners, in the World Trade Center, in the line of duty and at the Pentagon. It is also dedicated to the brave men and women of our Armed Forces who sacrificed all in the months and years that followed. As the image above suggests, may we never, ever forget.

Never Forget

Yesterday, I blogged about The Falling Man and my recollections of 9/11. Today, I stumbled across a blog written about the massive outpouring of support after the attack. As Senator Rob Portman was recalling his wife's trip back to Ohio and the Search and Rescue Team she passed on their way to Ground Zero, I remembered the many volunteers who went to New York from Florida in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attack.

Yesterday, I told my story of watching the horror unfold on television and how I was working for the government in Tallahassee. Well, fast forward just a couple of months and I had been rehired by the Florida Division of Emergency Management to serve as their spokesperson. I had the privilege of speaking with many a volunteer who had just returned from the devastation at Ground Zero. Some of them had served in the Salvation Army tent kitchens, ensuring that volunteers and first responders had a hot meal after long, laborious hours of combing the wreckage.

While I don't recall offhand the total number of volunteers we sent from Florida, I do know that Search and Rescue was another group of willing volunteers. The urban S&R teams would painstakingly navigate twisted steel and dig through feet of ash and rubble just to search for survivors and recover barely recognizable remains with the help of specially-trained canines. Those volunteers were just as much heroes as the first responders who gave all to save their neighbor.

I remember wishing I could go with one of the Florida teams, if just to serve a few meals or hand out bottled water. I had so much respect for my colleagues in Tallahassee who dropped everything and went for weeks on end to serve in New York City. Alas, I had a four-month-old baby at home and a wife who couldn't sleep. There was no way I was leaving them for 6-8 weeks.

Still, the memories of the days, weeks and months after 9/11 are vivid for me. I'll admit that I had grown complacent, choosing not to reflect on the horrible images that had bombarded me through television and online news outlets in 2001. But since yesterday, I cannot get them out of my head, so I designed the collage at the top of this blog post. It reminds of the phrase that was our nation's mantra in the waning months of that year. Let us never forget.

Nine-eleven

Ten years ago, you could have typed three numbers and immediately everyone would've known what that represented. Nine, one-one. The three-digit emergency telephone number that links U.S. residents with first responders in times of crisis or imminent danger. Sadly, today that is no longer the case. For when you type nine, one-one, it evokes sadness and tragic memories of a fateful day in history.

I've been reluctanct to recall those memories. And in the days leading up to the tenth anniversary/memorial of "nine-eleven," bombarded with reminders on television and the web, I've been reticent to share any feelings associated with those memories. Today, I finally broke.

As I watched the end of Live with Regis and Kelly, they had a prolonged moment of silence. Then, I stumbled upon a documentary titled "9/11 The Falling Man" on The Western Confucian blog. I knew that I needed to speak and let those feelings flow freely.

The Nine-eleven disaster did not effect me directly. I knew no one in the tower. I'd never even been to Manhattan and seen the World Trade Center in person, only on TV. I was 1,100 miles removed from Ground Zero. Yet, I have vivid memories of that day.

Working in the Pepper Building, part of a sprawling network of government buildings in downtown Tallahassee, I overheard my coworkers watching live coverage of the terrorist attack on MSNBC. The first tower had been struck. People were gathering around the computer monitor on the other side of the cubicle I was in. I needed to get to a television, so I took a coffee break and drove to the nearby Governor's Square Mall. I found TVs blaring live coverage in the food court of the mall. I was stunned; flabbergasted, even.

Watching the news with horror, I called my wife who was on maternity leave with our two-month old (to the day) daughter. They were watching something other than the news, oblivious to the terrorism that had just been perpetrated on American soil. Until that day, the most shocking attack of this kind we had seen on television, was the 1996 Olympic bombing in Atlanta or the Murrow Federal Building bombing in Tulsa. My wife was bewildered as she turned to CNN.

I received a call on my cellphone that our office had been evacuated as a safety precaution. In fact, the entire state government came grinding to a halt. The Capitol Building and adjacent offices in Tallahassee were cleared because of the fear that the President's brother, Governor Jeb Bush, would be a likely target. I was relieved that I didn't have to go back to work. I could hardly remove my glare from the televisions at the mall. Truth be told, I could hardly believe my eyes!

It was around 9:30 that morning and the news cameras had already shown the second tower being hit by a hijacked airliner and now the tower was falling. The iconic World Trade Center in New York was crumbling before my eyes. There were people leaping from busted out windows in the other tower. The scene was absolutely surreal.

I don't remember how long I stayed at the mall that morning or what time I returned home, but I must have been glued to the cable news networks for hours that day. It seemed as if pandemonium had struck the heart of Manhattan's financial district. It had, indeed.

The interviews with victims' spouses in the first 24-minutes of The Falling Man film will bring you to tears. But the positive spin one husband gives was inconceivably imaginative considering his great tragedy. His wife, stuck high in the south tower before it fell, was found on the sidewalk in front of the building across from the tower. She obviously had jumped. He tried to imagine the split-second thought going through her head as she made that fateful leap from high above lower Manhattan. He describes the liberating, breathtaking sense of flight and how she was finally able to breathe, free of the smoke, ash and burning embers of the unstable trade tower. I was amazed that he could even find an image so positive from such a horrific act.

USA Today reports the gruesome story about those who jumped, but whose deaths are still labeled "homicides" by the New York Coroner's Office. Not all who "were forced out by smoke and flames" made it to the streets below. "On the south side, firefighters reported 30 to 40 bodies on the roof of the 22-floor Marriott Hotel, adjacent to the north tower." One eyewitness from the south tower saw a lady fall just outside his window. He recalls, "She wasn't screaming. It was slow motion." He saw her hit the ground. How horrified he must have been.

Gruesome though it may be, that sight saved hundreds of lives. "Many south tower survivors say the sight of people jumping created an urgency that caused them to leave immediately and ignore announcements that it was safe to return to their desks."

USA Today estimates that upwards of 200 people jumped, mainly from the north tower which was hit first but stood 46 minutes longer than the south tower. "The Falling Man" has been identified by family and co-workers as Jonathan Briley, a worker at the Windows on the World restaurant. No positive i.d. was ever made, however. Information and pictures about the late Mr. Briley can be found on Michelle Malkin's blog in a post titled, "The Falling Man Revisited".

The film asserts that we, as Americans, have attempted to erase those gruesome images by refusing to look at them. But I, for one, can never erase them from my memory. They were the visible casualties from a man-made disaster that claimed nearly 3,000 lives. And while I did not know any of them personally, the images of those who jumped from certain death TO certain death certainly touched me deeply.

Because of that fateful day ten years ago, no one can ever say, type or think 9-1-1 without having to pause that split second and think, is that "nine-eleven" or "nine, one-one?" That three-digit code will forever link our country with the heroic first responders who come to our rescue in times of personal crisis and who came to Ground Zero at that time of national crisis. May all who died rest in peace. May all who live, "Never forget."