My 2 friends and I walked through the West Village last night, talking, laughing, enjoying the night breeze. Stepping over the buckled sidewalks, on our way to the Path station.
On one block, we came upon a blitzkrieg of activity – news trucks, spotlights, people running around with microphones. At first I thought it was just a movie being filmed – you can’t walk a block in Greenwich Village without tripping over 12 movie crews – but then I noticed that all of the vehicles had News Channel logos on the side. Everyone was staring up at one apartment. It was eerie. What was going on in there? I wondered if a celeb had just moved in (after all, it’s the West Village) … or … had there been a murder?
Turns out it was the apartment of journalist Micah Garen, now in the hands of Islamic terrorists who are threatening to behead him in 48 hours. His fiance, who had just heard the news, was inside.
The block was strangely quiet. Nobody rushing about, no pushing or shoving – It was a crowd, yes, but it was a quiet crowd. Garen’s fiance was nowhere to be seen. I am sure she was holed up in her apartment, avoiding the chaos outside, sitting by the telephone, watching TV, trying to get through the horror, minute by minute.
Odd. Eerie. The press was in stake-out mode, waiting to nab her the second she walked out to get a carton of milk or whatever. Poor woman.
The three of us all stared up at the lit windows of the brownstone – and I know I was thinking about her. Thinking about her, and what she must be going through. Strange – I didn’t think of Micah Garen at all in that moment. He seemed very very far away. But her silent presence filled the dark street.
