What the Fire Did

At some point you just kind of wonder what else there is to say. But I’ll try, because I have to.

It’s starting to seem that the hellish fire that burned the World Trade Center to the ground also did something to us as a people, as a nation, as a world. It was a cleansing fire. It’s cleansed away so much of the bloated aimlessness and purposelessness of our country and of our lives. It’s burned away all the fat. Our nation feels lean right now. We feel lean. Lean and focused.

There’s no more crap on TV anymore. No more stupid reality shows, no more banal sitcoms. Everything on television is suddenly very real, relevant, vital, heartwrenching, scary.

Remember the days, long, long ago, when the entire resources of the news were focused on some guy named Gary Condit? Remember when life was happy enough that we could afford to think about such things?

Remember the 1990s? Remember the decade when the most pressing issue was whether the President of the United States had lied about having an affair with an intern?

Remember all the hoopla about the sports superstar who was on trial for murder?

Remember when we were so lighthearted and silly that these seemed like pressing issues?

Boy, were we innocent then.

Remember less than a year ago when Florida was counting and recounting its ballots, and although we knew that it was important, we also knew on some level that the nation would survive, that in a sense everything was going to be okay, that our nation was stable and at peace, that we were fortunate enough to live during times in which could afford to have such a crisis?

I think future historians are going to see the 1990s as similar to the 1920s. Such a stupid, peaceful decade.

Remember how Bill Clinton was always so concerned about burnishing his legacy? Well, I suspect that he’s going to go down in history with the same reputation as Herbert Hoover. He’s going to be seen as the guy who did for terrorism what Hoover did for the Great Depression. People are going to look at him and see that there’s so much he could have done that he didn’t do. They’re going to say that his overriding fear of American military casualties and his general military timidity caused all of this to happen. That he was too soft

But it wasn’t just him. It was us. We were all too soft. It was the times we were living in. We were living our decadent, fat, prosperous lives, and there was no way we would accept military casualties. We won’t stand for it! Life is so good. The economy is booming. We can communicate with people around the world with this Internet thing. We’re the only superpower on earth. We’re at peace and we always will be. We’re happy. We’re living in magical times! Nobody can hurt us. I mean, not really. So don’t waste your breath.

In just a matter of days, it’s all changed. A majority of Americans are ready to go to war. Instead of day-trading, people are lining up and donating blood. The reserves have been called up. We have this mission, this zeal, this purpose and resolve. All the World War II nostalgia of the past few years has come to fruition. We want to be like them.

I happened to read an instant message chat between my parents this morning, because my mom had forgot to close the chat window after she’d finished using the computer. My dad was still stuck in San Francisco. My mom said she was hearing all this talk of war, and she wrote to him, “I’m afraid for our sons.” My dad responded that this had crossed his mind as well.

So this evening I said to my mom: “You know, if for some god-awful reason there turns out to be a draft, at least I know I won’t be going.” She looked at me quizzically. “I’m not allowed in the military,” I explained.

She hadn’t realized that uncloseted gays aren’t allowed in the military. She thought “don’t ask, don’t tell” had changed all that. I explained the policy to her.

It’s funny, though. I’m not allowed to donate blood, either.

Not that I’d feel good about joining the military, but I want to do something. I’m so frustrated because I feel like I’m not doing anything. Charlie is donating clothes and making sandwiches. What am I doing? What good am I doing? I’m not even walking around Manhattan connecting with people.

I want to go back to the city. I feel so alone out here in the suburbs now. I want to see the posters and flyers. I want to be in a crowd. I want to commiserate with people. I miss my blogging friends. I miss Choire and Sparky and everyone else. I want to see you guys. I wish I’d known earlier about this NYC blogger gathering, because I would have gone. I hope there’s another one. I need to connect to people.

This is big.

This is the biggest thing to happen in our lifetimes.

It has decimated me.

I can’t sleep at night. All my childhood fears are coming back. When I was a kid living in my parents’ house, I was scared to go up to the third floor or down to the first floor of the house by myself at night. I’ve been staying at my parents’ house the last couple of nights, and I feel those same fears again. I was hungry in the middle of the night last night, but I was scared to go downstairs to the kitchen. And I dread going back to my apartment in Jersey City because I don’t want to sleep there alone.

Whenever I see that first hijacker photo, the one of Mohammed Atta — I can’t describe my reaction. I feel sheer terror. It’s the scariest face I’ve ever seen in my life. I imagine him steering the plane into the World Trade Center, and I imagine someone standing on that floor of the building as the plane comes crashing through the window, and I imagine them making eye contact.

I keep imagining what it was all like. I keep putting myself in the place of one of the airplane passengers or in the place of my friend Doug, an ordinary guy sitting at his desk as a hijacked airplane comes crashing through the building a few floors below.

This morning I was woken up at 7:30 by a truck that had pulled up in front of our house with the engine running. There was a truck in front of the house next door as well. I was half asleep and I assumed they were filled with debris from the World Trade Center. I’m going nuts.

My stomach has been upset for the last three days. Nothing in my stomach seems to keep any solidity.

I want to say, “This feels like when…” but there’s nothing to compare it to. The way I’ve been feeling is something I have not felt before at all, ever.

Two of the hijackers lived in New Jersey. One was in Fort Lee and the other was in Wayne. Wayne is right near here.

Who knows where else these people are?

I have been added to a mass-email list for updates on my friend Doug. Not that there’s anything to be updated on. But apparently there will be an article about him tomorrow in the Richmond (Va.) Times-Dispatch. There might even be a picture. The mass e-mail contained a contact e-mail address for Doug’s family, so I sent them an e-mail earlier.

I also heard from a friend, a lawyer who lives with his boyfriend on John Street, several blocks from “ground zero”:

We’re safe and uninjured but we’re homeless. I came into work today and got slapped with an assignment — amazing.

It’s so weird. That area is now called Ground Zero. A week ago it was known as the World Trade Center. A week ago, if you had referred to that area as Ground Zero, people would have looked at you funny. There was no such thing as Ground Zero.

Three hundred and seventy-seven years ago it was one of the first parts of Manhattan to be occupied by the Dutch. There’s so much history down there.

My dad and some business colleagues managed to charter a private Lear jet, and they’re flying back home on that. At least if it’s a private jet there won’t be hijackers on it.

I never, ever want to fly in an airplane again.

You know what? I just realized it’s Friday night. And that means nothing to me right now.

We’re on fire.