It was Debbie’s birthday, a fact that I suspect she felt conflicted about, given all the sadness in the world and especially in New York City these days.
So conflicted that it wasn’t until the afternoon of her birthday that she decided it would be all right for her to call up some friends.
She had taken hearing Sixteen Candles on the radio that morning as a sign that the universe wouldn’t mind her accepting a bit of joy.
"Can you meet at The Hudson for a drink? … It’s … um … my birthday," she said, a bit embarrassed.
What an emotional minefield this time has become. You can rack yourself with guilt for wanting the simple pleasure of a cocktail with friends, the faintest hint of a birthday celebration.
I was thrilled to meet up with her.
Like most of my friends, Debbie and I have not seen each other since the world ended.
The Hudson was trendy, crowded, smoky, laced with attitude and overpriced drinks, too fabulous, darling, and … well, you know all the things that Ian Schraeger hotels are supposed to be.
But it was fine.
Personally, I always appreciate a cocktail waitress with a neckline cut to her navel.
Three more of Debbie’s gang showed up -- Leanne the outspoken one, Suzy, the wild one, and Evonne, the quiet, complex one, whom I knew nothing about and still don’t. We sipped our drinks and swapped "Where were you when it happened?" stories for an hour or so.
Suzy had been two blocks away when the plane hit. As she climbed out of the subway that morning, she saw pieces of the WTC on the ground. She went to work on Wall Street thinking it would be much safer to be indoors, and watched, with the rest of her horrified the co-workers, as the sky turned black.
"It was like midnight, total blackness," she said with tears in her eyes.
Now Suzy’s boss has her sing songs about America for her co-workers. It’s good for morale.
After downing our spectacularly overpriced beverages, we left the den of fabulousness and walked a few blocks until we found a mellow little Italian restaurant with an incredibly hideous mural of clowns with huge, beaklike noses and muscular asses.
There’s nothing like a clown with a big nose and a tight ass, I always say.
We sipped pinot noir, ate our salmon and debated the politics of New York vs. the world.
Leanne was angry. She had clearly taken this attack as a personal assault. "This is my city. Look what they did to my city!!"
Debbie was quiet, content to let us all vent. She listened intently.
Debbie is an incredibly kind person.
We sang to her and she blew out the candle flickering from the chocolate mousse.
Then we left.
Suzy split off to go, hmm, uptown, I think, and Debbie, Leanne and I went on a long walk through midnight Manhattan.
We didn’t say it aloud, but we were taking back our city, sauntering, defying all the things that go bump in the night, from West 58th Street to 34th Street
We hit a police blockade and were told it was nothing to do with the disaster. Nowadays, you assume any police block is a bomb threat.
We walked a little farther and came upon a much larger police barricade. The whole street was taped off. Traffic was being diverted and a crowd was gathering.
"What’s happening?" Leanne asked the cops. We were scared. We thought, "What now?"
"The façade of the building is falling down," the cop said, pointing to the old three-level with the tacky bar on the first floor.
"So it’s nothing to do with terrorists?" we asked.
"Nah. Just an old building," he said.
We laughed out loud when we realized that we had all collectively said, "Oh, just a building coming down. It’s nothing."
How changed we are. … Just a normal shooting, just a regular fire, nothing to worry about.
We crossed the street so as not to be hit by any bits of building and found ourselves in front of a fire station with a memorial that encompassed its entire front and stretched halfway down the block.
Pictures of the 14 firefighters who had been killed from this station were mounted on the wall. Underneath was an avalanche of flowers, stuffed animals, letters and burning candles.
We stood there on the sidewalk in between the crumbling building and the mourning fire station for many minutes.
"Look one of them is Jewish," Leanne said trying to break our blue mood. "You never see Jewish firemen."
We kept walking. After a few more blocks, we passed a bronze sculpture parked on the sidewalk. It sat perched on a flat bed trailer. The sculpture must have been 10 feet high or more. It was simple and beautiful, a bronze firefighter bent over in prayer. His hand had been filled with rosary beads by passersby. There were flowers and candles all around him.
The prayer was in case he might not make it back.
He didn’t.
We kept walking. We walked through Times Square and reminisced on how much more we liked it when it was seedy and real. The new Disneyesque Times Square was both pretty and repulsive.
"At least Show World is still there!" Leanne said.
"Remember the peep shows?" Debbie asked.
We passed the Port Authority bus terminal and looked up at the huge American flag. Each star was a big as our heads.
Even at this hour, there were a dozen or so entrepreneurs peddling American flags, sweatshirts with American flags on them and my fave insignia. "New York, U.S.A."
"I’m a native New Yorker," Leanne said. "This city is in my blood. It’s like they attacked my farm."
"A lot of people say get out of town ..." Debbie chimed in, "but it’s just too weird being anywhere else."
"I feel ashamed to say this …" I said stopping for a moment to look at each of them, "but right now. ... I guess I feel a little superior to the rest of the world. Like New Yorkers are the best."
Leanne laughed. "We ... New Yorkers have always felt that way. Why should now be any different?"
We opted to take the subway even though it was after midnight because we wanted to be as embedded into this city, this night, as we could.
Debbie and I took the Q train.
It felt good to be underground. We were taking back our city, from above and below.
We parted company at Union Square. I kissed her good-bye and stepped out of the car.
Then I saw it.
A suitcase.
Sitting there, all alone.
There was no one around it.
No one near.
A piece of terror started to form inside my stomach.
I looked around for a cop.
There was no one.
I ran to the exit.
It was locked.
Suddenly I felt trapped inside the station … with the suitcase.
I had to go back, past the suitcase again, to the other exit.
I began to feel the need to run.
Then I saw them, three cops guarding a WTC memorial.
"Excuse me," I spoke, shaking slightly. "I just saw a suitcase down there by the downtown Q. There is no one with it. Just the case. Normally I wouldn’t panic, but with things the way they are …"
I did not have the chance to finish my sentence.
The cops thanked me and raced toward the suitcase, talking on their walky-talkies.
I watched them run off and wondered for a brief moment if I had wasted their time sending them off to examine a simple old abandoned suitcase, or if I had signed their death warrants.
Then I got the fuck out of the station as fast as I could.
I think it went ok.
I didn’t hear any explosions last night.
There weren't any more sirens than usual.
Just a suitcase … weird place to leave it, but everything’s a little weird these days.
Debbie called in the morning to thank me, and I told her about the suitcase.
"Hell of a way to end our night together," I said.
Sadness entered her voice as she said, "Even a suitcase isn’t just a suitcase anymore."
