The Two Days That Came Before

Yesterday – I had some moments free, after my houseguests had departed in a flurry of “Bye”s … and I was writing. Which means – I let my mind off its leash. And it roams about, picking, choosing, peeking into doors, etc.

I was also burning a little white sage, I had the ceiling fan on, and I was drinking coffee.

And crystal-clear – one of the things that floated through my brain was the exact events of both September 9 and September 10, 2001.

They weren’t quite ordinary days, strangely enough. A couple of kind of stand-out things happened on those two days, things I wanted to remember at the time, to savor. And so I wrote them down, in great detail. Scribbling late into the night of September 10 and the early morning of September 11 … unaware.

I am obsessed with those two days. The two days that came before.

Already, the machinery of destruction was in motion. The plans were final, terrorists moving into position, while we were going about our business, innocently, enjoying the early autumn days, wrapped up with private concerns.

I only remember how warm those days were because on the early evening of September 9 I was rushing to meet my sister Siobhan for a drink. We were convening at Astor Bar, one of my favorite places in the city. It’s in a central location, it was close to Siobhan’s job – it was also right around the corner from where 2 of my cousins lived – so it was a great “let’s meet there” spot. Especially if it was early in the evening. After 10:30, there would be a line down the block, so we avoided it then – but to start off a night? It was perfect. Astor Bar was the O’Malley-family jumping-off point.

I was dressed up, I remember. Long tight skirt, high heels – and I was hurrying, as quickly as I could, across 4th Street. I was late.

And I only remember how warm it was because – in my hurrying – I basically started sweating, and my powder dissolved off my face. Which bummed me out. I remember stopping in an empty doorway, popping out my compact, checking out the damage, and thinking: “Ah well. Tonight is too hot for powder then.”

Strange. The things that remain.

Astor Bar has an upstairs bar with a big window, looking out on Bleecker Street. There’s also a downstairs bar, shadowy, rather decrepit with peeling ceilings, and cavernous red leather booths, extremely atmospheric and dark – I love it down there. The upstairs bar, though, was the good meeting-spot because you had a view of all the comings and goings up and down Bleecker – with 2 tables in the window, high bar stools – and then room for about 6 or 7 stools at the small curved bar. As I hurried past this window, I saw Siobhan, in a sun dress with a pleated skirt, sitting at one of the tables in the window.

Then – in the next moment – as I entered, 5,000 things happened at once. Each thing clear, distinct, set apart, and remembered perfectly – like a flickering newsreel in my mind. Sometimes I yearn for vagueness, for the softening of edges … Clarity of memory is great, but it can also be a torment.

I pulled the door open.

In a flash second, I saw a guy sitting at the bar with a couple of other people – My eyes just quickly glanced over him – and I saw that it was a guy I had met at a party the year before – and we had had so much fun together at said party that when this guy said good-bye to me, he said, “Where the hell have you been all my life?” New York quickly became unimaginable without one another in it. It was a true meeting of the minds, a recognition. We recognized one another. A strange and unmistakable feeling. Like: “Wow … I know you … you’re just like me … I know you …” And he and I had such a riotous time together at that party (we all played charades, non-stop, for 4 straight hours…and then there was a trivia game invented – which we played for another 2 hours) – no one could beat the two of us at trivia. We were unbeatable together. It was a fever of connection. We took a walk through Soho together at 3 in the morning, talking, laughing, the world was our playground, we could have kept talking forever.

Anyway – it was one of THOSE kinds of nights. I woke up the next day, signed on, and he had already emailed me, obviously the second he returned home from the party – the time-stamp on his email was 5:45 in the morning – and he raved about how glad he was to have met me. And how he and I just “ruled” together.

And so began a rather intense epistolary friendship. Very 19th century (only with email.)

I probably don’t need to even explain that I fell completely in love with this guy. Within 10 minutes of talking to him. And he with me. But, truth be told, our behavior that night of the charades was more along the lines of separate babies reaching out to each other from separate shopping carts in the aisles at grocery stores … or the sudden intimacy between romping dogs at Washington Square Park …

It wasn’t a grown-up “oh, yes, I have feelings for this man” kind of thing.

It was more like we looked at each other, like babies reach out to each other – I looked at him and saw my own kind.

He said later the same was true for him. “She’s like me. She’s crazy, she’s like me.”

But alas. For various reasons, it was not meant to be.

However – we maintained this epistolary thing – writing, sharing quotes, sharing poems – and we continue to communicate about literature, poets, writers, etc. There are certain things I only want to share with him. I know he’ll “get” it. It’s that kind of thing.

So on September 9, 2001 – I had not seen him since the charades night a year and a half earlier – and then – there he was. Perched on a bar stool at Astor Bar.

So what do I do? I proceed to behave like a jackass.

Reminds me of this quote from Nancy Lemann, one of my favorite authors:

It is always remarkable when someone sees your soul to a better degree than you see it yourself. You could count the people who see your soul on one hand. Others might know you but they would forget; their knowledge of you was like a weak and undisciplined thing. But that wasn’t so with him. He didn’t forget. It stuck in his mind. He had seen a kindred soul. he had seen it long ago. She only saw it now. But she was stricken with it. Suddenly she had identified him. There was the man she loved. As a result, she proceeded dementedly to behave as if the opposite were true.

That’s it exactly. I was so THRILLED to see this man again that I “proceeded dementedly to behave as if the opposite were true.”

I COMPLETELY ignored him, pretending blithely that I hadn’t seen him, I swept by his crowd – and went straight for Siobhan, made a bee-line, pretending to be oblivious – and yet inside I’m thinking, insanely: It’s him, it’s him …

ALSO – I had a moment of being totally bummed out (in that small flash of time during my cross to Siobhan) that I had sweated off my face powder.

Siobhan and I greeted each other, big hug, “hi hi hi” – and I immediately hissed at her, like a criminal on the run, “So and so is here. That is so and so. But don’t. Look. Now.” You know. Typical girl stuff.

I was suddenly 14 years old.

As I had stalked by him, making a beeline to my sister, I felt him see me. His entire posture changed. He sat up straight, it was like he was … It was like a Discovery Channel moment. Animals in the wild, alert, ready to pounce.

I knew he had seen me, and yet I made this elaborate pretense that I was oblivious to his presence. Until I could get myself together to say to him, casually, “Hi there! How are you!” I was acting like an ASS.

It continues to be strange to me that this entire dance of awareness and avoidance would be so technicolor-vivid to me – I remember the body language, pauses, how he tilted his head, I remember exchanges we had later word for word … The entire night is preserved perfectly in my memory, a fly drowned in amber. Part of it is because of the fun we had – a night for the books – but the other part of it is the date.

The old world was about to sink away, forever. I look back on that night and it might as well have occurred in 1962, that’s how far away it seems.

It would be the last time (for a long long loooong time) that I would be in a group of people and talk about normal things, everyday things, movies, archaeology, theatre, life, poetry. 2 days later, all other topics of conversation ceased to exist for a good year and a half. Even now – it is rare that a gathering will occur without “September 11” or “the towers” being mentioned. At least once.

And so the conversation we had on September 9 stands out for me.

Almost like a museum-piece.

I look at that night with longing, with sadness, and with fondness. Because we could not be faulted for not knowing what was coming our way. We were consumed with our own private pleasures, talking, innocently, joyously, laughing, drinking, interrupting each other … as the murderers moved into position.

The sword of Damocles over our heads.

So all is preserved. Especially from that moment when I first walked in, saw him, ignored him, he saw me, and I walked by … pretending to not see him. How he sat up straight and watched me pass – how I leant in to my sister and hissed at her “That’s him, that’s him…” – how I could feel him watching me like a hawk, waiting for an “in”.

Finally, he could no longer stand the wait, and he yelled – yes, he YELLED, across the space at me – causing a dead silence to descend over the bar:

“WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?”

I still laugh when I think of that.

Why do I laugh? Because in that loud unafraid moment, he so called me on my BULLSHIT. He didn’t let me get away with the charade of “Oh my God, I didn’t see you when I first came in! You’re here?? Wow, what a coincidence!!” He KNEW I was ignoring him, and he YELLED that at me across the bar.

I just find that so funny.

That’s why I fell for the guy, I think. That kind of thing.

So I saw him and feigned surprise. Like a very very very bad actress.

“Hi there! Wow!”

He was staring at me with tremendous excitement and also scorn. “You walked right by me.”

“Uh … sorry … I didn’t see you …” I said lamely, my cheeks warm and flushed.

I knew he had busted me, and I knew that he knew I knew … and it all seemed hilarious and beautiful. I LOVED that he had busted me, actually. It made me feel safe, for some reason. Like: he knew I was acting like a jackass, and that the reason why I didn’t say Hi to him right away was because I was having a “riot of feeling” – but judging from his posture change, and his behavior the rest of the night, he too had a “riot of feeling” at the sight of my face … and so he saw that I was afraid, that I was protecting myself for a second … and he busted me on it, with such humor – with no judgment – it seemed like everything was going to be okay.

That’s another vibe that I got that night of September 9 – which … almost makes me stop dead in my tracks when I think of it.

I walked away from the night – coming home at about 2 o’clock in the morning, thinking to myself, ‘Wow. Everything’s going to be okay, I think.”

Nothing would be okay. Ever again. At least not in the same way. The world will never be the same again for me. I may have a night like that again, a night of innocent pleasures, and free laughter, and beautiful moments of connection … but it will always, now, be in the context of the September 11 world. It makes a difference.

Siobhan and I merged our evening with charade-guy’s night (he was with a group of friends) – and we sat, and talked, all of us – in that beautiful way that some conversations have – vigorous, up, down, people interjecting, fights breaking out, random bursts of laughter, blurting inappropriate statements, one person rising to the forefront with everyone else listening, someone else chiming in fluidly with their interpretation, either adding or detracting … It went on and on and on and on and on. You know those kinds of conversations? They’re very rare, actually. This one stood out.

When we said goodbye to each other, he and I, we had a repeat of our good-bye on the night we met, only it was deeper and a bit more tormented. It kind of sucks to be CONFIRMED in your fabulous first impression of someone. He hugged me like he never wanted to let me go. I pried him off of me.

But still – it didn’t ruin the giddy tenor of the night.

Afterwards, Siobhan and I walked through the warm night to our respective subways, still laughing and laughing and laughing about certain moments. We had cried off our eye makeup with laughter.

I emailed “the guy” the next day. It was September 10. I said, “Just wanted you to know how great it was to see your face again. Makes me feel good to know that there are people like you on this planet.”

I had never written him such a thing before. I had never acknowledged any of that. But the night had been so amazing that I needed to let him know. And so I did.

A part of me waited for a response, but another part of me thought: “It’s really not about getting a response. He should know that I think he makes the world a better place just by being in it … regardless.”

September 10 was a Monday. I had gotten no sleep because of the romping the night before. But I felt wide awake, alert, my mind swirling with images and random bursts of laughter from the shenanigans of the night before. I felt so happy, I felt excited, too… And this isn’t just me adding stuff on because of what day it ended up being. My journal entry for that day is barely controlled hysteria and joy. “I’m happy, God, I’m so happy right now!” Stuff like that.

In case you haven’t guessed, I’m not normally a chipper cheery Pollyanna type. Darkness is easier for me. But the Astor Bar night made the pendulum swing in the other direction.

I had spent some time doubting myself, doubting my strong response to this guy on the charades night. I thought: “What the hell is my problem – that I would be so blown away by this guy – just because he played charades with me for four hours?” I felt a bit pathetic at times. Then – running into him again – I realized: Well. Obviously there’s some huge connection between us. Huge. And a romance is not meant to be, clearly, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t this understanding between he and I.

It was validating. Exhilarating.

That night, I went home to my brand-new apartment. On September 4, my roommate Jen and I had moved into a new place. We had not had our phone hooked up yet, we had not had our TV hooked up yet … which ended up being an ENORMOUS issue, after the 11th. We saw the entire thing happen with our own eyes, and yet … we had no TV coverage – we had no perspective except our first-hand experience – and we had no phone yet. It took us a month and a half to finally get a phone, because of the chaos. Our entire kitchen was still in boxes – we had barely unpacked.

I came home on the night of September 10 to our new abode. All windows opens. Cross-breeze. A beautiful night.

My heart was still singing from my hours-long evening with charades-man. (I’m pretty easy to please.)

Jen was there, arranging her room – getting accustomed to the new space. We both had bedrooms facing East. The gleaming of the World Trade Center visible above the Hoboken skyline.

Jen and I ended up lying down on her bed, our feet dangling off the sides, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. And I told her the entire story of the night before. “You’re never gonna guess who I ran into last night and who I hung out with for 4 hours…”

Being a wonderful girlfriend, she asked me 598 questions, and we talked about it to our hearts content. “So then … he turned … and he looked at me like this … and then he said THIS thing … and when we hugged goodbye he said THIS…” You know, your basic girlie convo. Great great fun.

But it makes me uneasy to remember it now.

It was about 10 pm … and Jen (she and I were not just roommates, but dear dear friends) said that she was afraid she was going to have trouble getting to sleep that night – because it was a new place and all. And would I mind reading out loud to her? Maybe that would help her go to sleep …

She had never asked such a thing before. I love reading out loud, love it love it love it … and she said, “Just pick out a book you like – I don’t care …”

I was excited. I went into my room – where, of course, the first thing I had organized had been all my books. My CLOTHES were still in boxes, but my books were on display. I thought: “Hmmm. Let me pick out something good … what do I want to read to her … what do I want to read to her…”

Out of nowhere, I picked out Paul Zindel’s The Pigman – which is probably one of my favorite books ever. A book for teenagers, yes … I read it in 8th grade … but its charm and humor has never palled. That was one of those life-saving books I read at one of those all-important times – when everything seems dark and grim (re: junior high) – and that book, about 2 freakish outsider kids who befriend a weird little old man, made me realize I wasn’t alone. That there were other freaks like me out there, that life could be beautiful, that you could have a possibility of joy in life … even though everything around you basically sucks.

Again – this isn’t an interpretation in hindsight, based on what happened the following day.

That is what The Pigman is about.

So we curled up on her bed, with the summery night wind blowing through the dark window, and I read a couple of chapters out loud to her.

Such a strange and intimate thing to do.

We never did it again. That was the only time.

And The Pigman ended up not being the best choice – because it is laugh-out-loud funny at times, and Jen kept guffawing like a mad woman, instead of falling asleep.

As I read it, with tears of laughter in my own eyes, I kept interrupting myself and saying, “God, I haven’t read this in years … this is so fun … I remember reading this in Ireland at a B&B when I was 14 and laughing so loudly that my mother had to come down and tell me to be quiet … I need to read this whole book again …”

Interjecting my reading with these random little Pigman memories.

Jen finally murmured, “Okay. I think I can fall asleep now.”

I tiptoed out of her room, turned the light off, and went into my new room. There was something heightened and tight in my heart. Sometimes I get too excited. Or … let’s just say – my experience of things can get pretty intense. I can’t sleep. I lie in bed, going over and over and over things that excite me.

And that’s what I did that night, after writing in my journal feverishly about the Astor Bar meeting.

I lay in bed, for hours, the darkness in front of my eyeballs, re-living that moment when I first walked into Astor Bar … and he sat up straight in his chair … and followed me with his eyes … and his voice, “WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME…” It appeared to just be on replay … I didn’t know why it pleased me so much, but it had some intense and perfect aesthetic which I found so satisfying.

And the other replay was the entirety of the book The Pigman and how much I had enjoyed sharing that book with Jen, in our new windy apartment.

Thinking to myself over and over in the darkness, I really must read that whole book again … until finally I fell asleep.