I hope I don’t come off like some emotional masochist picking at the sutures of a deep wound that’s slowly starting to heal, but I’m just now coming to grip with the epic human tragedy that unfolded in our corner of the world last week. Though I have sighed, scowled and wept nearly every day since Sept. 11, it wasn’t until my plane approached its landing at Newark International Airport at 2 a.m. Monday morning that I fully absorbed the impact of the attack. I had spent six excruciating days in Las Vegas on a business trip, invariably fixed on a shocking scene that would have been easily visible from my apartment in Hoboken, 2,526 miles away.
It was nothing short of surreal watching the events unfold while in the midst of omnipresent blinking lights and ringing buzzers. I felt powerless – a feeling that I’m sure I shared with millions of people around the world, but for me it was enhanced by the fact that I was trapped in that litter box with glitter rocks, listening to lounge singers belt out cheesy renditions of the Star Spangled Banner, while friends and neighbors were participants in one of the grisliest displays in our nation’s history.
The hours spent fighting the phone lines were certainly the most frantic. I finally reached my family, who knew full well I was in Las Vegas but managed to get themselves in a panic over the "what if" variables. I eventually reached my girlfriend, over whom I had worked myself into a panic with the "what ifs".
It wasn’t until I started doing a mental roll call of all my acquaintances who might have been in the vicinity that I realized the potential for personal repercussions. There were all of my friends from the bar who worked in finance. There were the throngs of Hobokenites who took the PATH to the WTC every day. There was my friend Baheer – born in Jersey City, raised in Staten Island, but of Egyptian decent – I wondered if he’d eventually become a victim of the fallout. (Granted, blaming the entire Arab culture for the actions of a small group of fanatics is like blaming all caucasian-Americans for the bombing in Oklahoma City, but who ever said vengeful jingoism was a rational emotion?)
Then there were the long-term implications. My numerous friends in the armed forces are likely to become involved with the payback portion of the proceedings. And while they’re fighting, what can a cynical smart-ass with a bad back do to serve his country in its time of need?
A lot of questions remain to be answered. An American generation whose hallmark traumatic experience was Kurt Cobain’s self-indulgent shotgun fellatio is now faced with a real and direct threat to its very existence. Make no mistake, this could be the watershed event of our time and I’m anxious to see how we handle it.
In reference to the spending of my $50, I’m torn between giving it to the Red Cross or buying a war bond. In the end, I suppose I should probably do both.
This isn’t about fighting some opposing economic ideology. This isn’t about squabbling over who gets to sell us oil at outrageous prices. This is about the response brought on by a sickening act of senselessness and savagery.
While it’s inspiring to see the national pride and unity displayed by the Stars and Stripes, I can only think of one other flag that would be an appropriate symbol of our national sentiment, and it reads quite simply: "DON’T TREAD ON ME."
If you know how I can effectively waste $50 in the metro area, please write to:
"Hal Wastes His Wages"
c/o The Hudson Current
1400 Washington Street
Hoboken, New Jersey 07030
Or via e-mail:
Current@hudsonreporter.com