I GOTTA KEEP MOVING by William Fredrick Cooper -
(Written Wednesday September 12, 2001)
I Gotta Keep Moving. Tough people live in this tough town. That's what I told myself last night as I sat at my desk till 8:30 PM, trying to will myself home, to Brooklyn. That's what I told myself as my "Q" train crossed the Manhattan Bridge last night. (DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE BEING THE ONLY ONE IN YOUR SUBWAY CAR FOR AN HOUR??) That's what I told myself this morning, when my boss told me he needed someone at work. My sister in Florida thinks I should go to a trauma unit to desensitize, but in case you don't know, I'm a bit stubborn. I actually think I'm good at this self healing thing. But after something like this, what in the hell do you do?
I Gotta Keep Moving. That's what I'm telling myself, even though the Century 21 where my express bus left me some eight minutes before death is now a memory. A European man in the Chinese restaurant last night told me that "WE WERE ASKING FOR THIS." It took everything in my power not to strike this person.
Were we asking for the innocent lives of thousands to perish? People who were at work, drinking coffee, or situated at water coolers laughing, telling loved ones to "have a nice day", then, have their own days and lives ended in the most tragic way imaginable?
Were two people asking for this fate: Jumping out of an eighty-something floor window, holding hands, having to choose this way of mortality than being engulfed by flames?
Were 343 firefighters and officers asking to die while gallantly trying to save lives? Were many kids, husbands and wives asking for unconscionable, unjustified, inexplicable abandonment?
Was I asking for these vivid memories? A breakfast at Blimpie's, some 300 yards away on Park Row, interrupted by a loud crash, the scent of fire followed by gray smoke? A Pregnant woman, crying to me for release brought on by shattered nerves? I found a restroom for her at a Reade Street Parlor, and even found time to crack jokes with patrons about the Denzel Washington Movie (The Siege) and how I have determined to find that 6th Cell.
I wasn't asking for the memory of being on Broadway with a correction officer at 10:25, telling people to swim upstream by foot because you couldn't trust mass transportation. Was I asking for what happened five minutes later: A crashing sound, then the smell of new smoke? Nope. I sure wasn't asking for the vivid picture of unnerved police officers streaking by me, saying "They got the Brooklyn Bridge", as well as another woman saying "They got another plane coming, They're gonna kill us all." But that's what I got. Yup. Even the officer by my side took flight as I remained calm. Tough people live in this town, I thought.
I Gotta Keep Moving. A pizzeria on Prince Street is where reality set in for me. I called my Ex, my daughter's mother, to see if she was OK, for she worked at 388 Greenwich Street. (Two block away from that venue is now covered with debris and dirt.) I didn't even panic when there was no answer; numbness was on auto pilot at this point. A couple of calls later, I found that the Staten Island Ferry she was on returned to the Island once the second plane hit. God is real Good, I sighed.
A white woman next to me, however, may not have been so fortunate. Beet red and crying, after she hung up the phone, she collapsed into my embrace. You See, her son worked in 2 WTC on the 84th floor, and she was unaware of his whereabouts. As tears fell from my eyes, I offered a brave smile. "He's OK," I uttered, then left the store.
I Gotta Keep Moving.
Tower Records, on East 4th Street was my next stop. Was I asking for the vivid memory of people embracing on staircases upon entry, crying profusely? Or the red-eyed lady who inspected packages with tissue crumpled in her left hand? On the news the showed a man who somehow escaped one Tower fro the 82nd floor, and prayed for that woman on Prince Street once more.
I wasn't asking for planes to fly by in the sky as I approached 8th Street. You could see the fear in people's eyes. Do I remember asking for the lingering picture of a woman wearing a ripped gray dress, covered in dirt, in a debris stanched stupor, determined to get home? I offered to buy her a bottled water but she said no. I could see why. Following suit on her drive:
I Gotta keep moving.
Approaching 23rd Street and Broadway, you could see the Empire State Building. Was I asking for the worry I now felt, knowing that could possibly be a new target for these barbarians? My two-way pager was beeping like hell now. I sure didn't ask for the trepidation my brother, Jeffrey felt, who was at my job because he knew I was at Court. Through it all I tried to remain composed.
I Gotta Keep Moving. Tough People live in this town.
The Time Square Jumbotron showed Palestinians rejoicing in the street, guns held high, teaching their young to become assassination-happy war mongers. Guess we all asked for that too, huh? Was I asking for security guards, who know me from the many late hours at my job, interrogating me upon entry of my building as if I were a terrorist who flew the fucking planes? Did I ask for the tearshed as I dropped my bag in relief as I saw my brother, who had been crying himself?
Was I asking for the tears when shedding my formerly black, now charcoal gray suit last night? I couldn't pick up the phone last night. And after President Bush's speech and the reporting of the 7 WTC collapse, I just turned on ESPN2. The tomb-like ride on the "Q" train this morning, was I asking for more watershed while riding across the Manhattan Bridge, I saw the Trade Center no more? There wasn't a dry eye in the car.
A day later, and we gotta keep moving.
I wasn't asking for the conversation with a survivor this morning, who told me, upon escape she saw firefighter and police rush by her into one of the towers, and how she passed people with mouths agape, just watching. And how five minutes later, the tower collapsed, and all those people could very well be dead now.
Was I asking for the vodka I now sip at my desk to calm my shaking hands, to ease the pain? Eventually, it'll dissipate, for I gotta keep moving. Tough People live in this tough town, I must remind myself.
Even if they are at the brink.
William Fredrick Cooper
(Written Wednesday September 12, 2001)
I Gotta Keep Moving. Tough people live in this tough town. That's what I told myself last night as I sat at my desk till 8:30 PM, trying to will myself home, to Brooklyn. That's what I told myself as my "Q" train crossed the Manhattan Bridge last night. (DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE BEING THE ONLY ONE IN YOUR SUBWAY CAR FOR AN HOUR??) That's what I told myself this morning, when my boss told me he needed someone at work. My sister in Florida thinks I should go to a trauma unit to desensitize, but in case you don't know, I'm a bit stubborn. I actually think I'm good at this self healing thing. But after something like this, what in the hell do you do?
I Gotta Keep Moving. That's what I'm telling myself, even though the Century 21 where my express bus left me some eight minutes before death is now a memory. A European man in the Chinese restaurant last night told me that "WE WERE ASKING FOR THIS." It took everything in my power not to strike this person.
Were we asking for the innocent lives of thousands to perish? People who were at work, drinking coffee, or situated at water coolers laughing, telling loved ones to "have a nice day", then, have their own days and lives ended in the most tragic way imaginable?
Were two people asking for this fate: Jumping out of an eighty-something floor window, holding hands, having to choose this way of mortality than being engulfed by flames?
Were 343 firefighters and officers asking to die while gallantly trying to save lives? Were many kids, husbands and wives asking for unconscionable, unjustified, inexplicable abandonment?
Was I asking for these vivid memories? A breakfast at Blimpie's, some 300 yards away on Park Row, interrupted by a loud crash, the scent of fire followed by gray smoke? A Pregnant woman, crying to me for release brought on by shattered nerves? I found a restroom for her at a Reade Street Parlor, and even found time to crack jokes with patrons about the Denzel Washington Movie (The Siege) and how I have determined to find that 6th Cell.
I wasn't asking for the memory of being on Broadway with a correction officer at 10:25, telling people to swim upstream by foot because you couldn't trust mass transportation. Was I asking for what happened five minutes later: A crashing sound, then the smell of new smoke? Nope. I sure wasn't asking for the vivid picture of unnerved police officers streaking by me, saying "They got the Brooklyn Bridge", as well as another woman saying "They got another plane coming, They're gonna kill us all." But that's what I got. Yup. Even the officer by my side took flight as I remained calm. Tough people live in this town, I thought.
I Gotta Keep Moving. A pizzeria on Prince Street is where reality set in for me. I called my Ex, my daughter's mother, to see if she was OK, for she worked at 388 Greenwich Street. (Two block away from that venue is now covered with debris and dirt.) I didn't even panic when there was no answer; numbness was on auto pilot at this point. A couple of calls later, I found that the Staten Island Ferry she was on returned to the Island once the second plane hit. God is real Good, I sighed.
A white woman next to me, however, may not have been so fortunate. Beet red and crying, after she hung up the phone, she collapsed into my embrace. You See, her son worked in 2 WTC on the 84th floor, and she was unaware of his whereabouts. As tears fell from my eyes, I offered a brave smile. "He's OK," I uttered, then left the store.
I Gotta Keep Moving.
Tower Records, on East 4th Street was my next stop. Was I asking for the vivid memory of people embracing on staircases upon entry, crying profusely? Or the red-eyed lady who inspected packages with tissue crumpled in her left hand? On the news the showed a man who somehow escaped one Tower fro the 82nd floor, and prayed for that woman on Prince Street once more.
I wasn't asking for planes to fly by in the sky as I approached 8th Street. You could see the fear in people's eyes. Do I remember asking for the lingering picture of a woman wearing a ripped gray dress, covered in dirt, in a debris stanched stupor, determined to get home? I offered to buy her a bottled water but she said no. I could see why. Following suit on her drive:
I Gotta keep moving.
Approaching 23rd Street and Broadway, you could see the Empire State Building. Was I asking for the worry I now felt, knowing that could possibly be a new target for these barbarians? My two-way pager was beeping like hell now. I sure didn't ask for the trepidation my brother, Jeffrey felt, who was at my job because he knew I was at Court. Through it all I tried to remain composed.
I Gotta Keep Moving. Tough People live in this town.
The Time Square Jumbotron showed Palestinians rejoicing in the street, guns held high, teaching their young to become assassination-happy war mongers. Guess we all asked for that too, huh? Was I asking for security guards, who know me from the many late hours at my job, interrogating me upon entry of my building as if I were a terrorist who flew the fucking planes? Did I ask for the tearshed as I dropped my bag in relief as I saw my brother, who had been crying himself?
Was I asking for the tears when shedding my formerly black, now charcoal gray suit last night? I couldn't pick up the phone last night. And after President Bush's speech and the reporting of the 7 WTC collapse, I just turned on ESPN2. The tomb-like ride on the "Q" train this morning, was I asking for more watershed while riding across the Manhattan Bridge, I saw the Trade Center no more? There wasn't a dry eye in the car.
A day later, and we gotta keep moving.
I wasn't asking for the conversation with a survivor this morning, who told me, upon escape she saw firefighter and police rush by her into one of the towers, and how she passed people with mouths agape, just watching. And how five minutes later, the tower collapsed, and all those people could very well be dead now.
Was I asking for the vodka I now sip at my desk to calm my shaking hands, to ease the pain? Eventually, it'll dissipate, for I gotta keep moving. Tough People live in this tough town, I must remind myself.
Even if they are at the brink.
William Fredrick Cooper
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