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Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane - How the Hell are We Ever Going to Fix This? - RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over...
In (not so) Hot Pursuit of God
PART I - No Better Hell than One Could Ever Have Even Hoped For?
Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane
DRAFT 0.5
In this particular insignificant segment of yet another chapter in his life, he'd been taking the 7 train to the bottom of Time Square when getting himself from Greenpoint Brooklyn to work in the city rather than the G to the F to the top of Herald Square. He'd started this a few months earlier so he could escort his then current girlfriend to her office. It was less direct, but he enjoyed the extra few blocks walk to start the day and would take this route even if no escort was required; when she'd sleep in, or call in sick which was surprisingly often considering how long she would eventually keep that job. On this morning, she was along with him. Beyond the extra walk, another pleasure he took from taking the 7 was it''s arrival at their station; how it seemed to bore n' grind itself right into Time SQ/42 Street, which at that time was the terminus of one of his favorite lines in the city, for many other reasons we might get to later.
The slope of the track entering Time SQ/42 Street coupled with the ricketiness of the rolling stock; "who doesn't love those old... redbirds" he'd say to his friends; these countless-time-retrofitted over their service, tin can like train cars that seemed to twist apart at the seams around each corner, over each bump n' ripple on this older line inside the world's second oldest subway system. Another of the many more things he loved about NYC. A transit system commission that seemed to enjoy matching it's oldest equipment with the most decayed infrastructure; who doesn't love a city in seriously need of repair. Wandering around the most run down parts.... but again, that's for later...
The 7 train would lurch downward just as it approached Time SQ/42 Street; as it began to slow from top speed, which on this old rolling stock felt like 700 mph. Gravity would throw one forward then from side to side as the under-repaired uneven ripples in the track made for a rough sea, choppy-like little breakers. The cars would shake violently, just to that point before one might describe it a vibration. In his often one fifth to halfway hung over or, did way too much of that stuff state, it was pure tactile pleasure. A bit of a thrill ride even; the morning's awakening reminder that he was here, in the city, for certain, quite alive and living in the liveliest of cities he'd always loved and was now able, finally, to call home after just more than a year's occupancy... here. Upon the slowing. not sudden but bouncing stop. In the squint of a, if one felt the need for dramatic-fantasy, miraculously surprising safe arrival at Time SQ/42 Street; he would plunge into the tussling mix of morning morons who felt it necessary to race, be the first, up the stairs. He exited the station at his own happy just to be here pace. Never the first to emerge into, what was on that day, the crystal clearest, cloudless blue sky n' sunshine anyone would ever remember the streets of midtown Manhattan being bathed in.
He couldn't recall what meaningless chit-chatter he was having with his then current girlfriend on their walk into the works this morning. Maybe the bickerings, perhaps as was more often than not, simply the dreadful silence she'd invade his happiness with as she headed towards the easiest job in the city that she hated with all her might. There wasn't much might in this one, more a shuffling along through it approach to life and living. Him, he was still holding tight to the inkling of a notion, that things would always get better. Good fortune, and maybe a bit of Forbes like business fame was as always, just around the corner; and in Manhattan what's around each and every corner is quite certainly, maybe famous indeed.
Let's just assume that on this day, they shuffled in silence along 7th Avenue from 42nd Street to the doorway to her office's entrance at 36th Street, just up a block from the backdoor of Macy's. Dropping her off was a happier part of the walk on the days he'd escort his then current girlfriend, after the vacant kiss and the "see ya laters" at 36th Street, he'd be afforded another more peaceful 11 blocks of a walk on his own. A chance to light up a smoke without being nagged, soaking in the city he was so in love with, able to let thoughts of what he might do next with his life run wild. He was always two steps and a couple of dreams of greatness ahead of where he'd find himself, today. On this day, nothing special nor memorable came to mind, or happened along the way... except for the sound he'll never remember but would later always know for absolute certain, he did fucking hear... it. The shriek of jet engines on a too low jet airliner, a distinctive shriek, he knew quite well.
He had grown up in the little town of Trenton, Ontario in, what he had for quite some time by the time he'd get to New York City considered the wretchedly boring old Canada. Trenton was home to a military base, actually Canada's largest, busiest and most important Air Force base. For him, a clear sky full of various aircraft was just, the normal. When he visited his outta town, up the river cousins in Brockville, Ontario, he'd stare for ages at the Great Lake Ships his cousins had come to simply ignore as they chugged upriver and down the St. Lawrence on their way to and from Thunder Bay. When these cousins visited him in Trenton, he'd chuckle at how they couldn't stop and look up each time a Herc or a Buffalo rumbled through the skies, or when the deafening shrieking pitch of a 707, those old airliners, made it almost impossible to finish one's conversation... he'd instinctively learned to ignore the air-traffic above him, distinguishing one plane from the other simply by the sound it made; an almost subconscious skill that would prove helpful in putting his and more importantly his then current girlfriend's mind at ease... later that morning.
Upon arrival at the makeshift Manhattan offices of his New Jersey based employer, just another collection of kids who had decided they'd "rule the world" by opening yet another makeshift digital, internet marketing and advertising agency meant to compete with stolid, gray n' old agencies who hadn't a clue what they were doing in digital just up and over on Madison Avenue... Funny enough, even fifteen years later, nobody, except him of course, knew what they're doing in digital marketing and advertising... but that's beside the point... He unlocked the door to the makeshift Manhattan office, and entered to a far too early to be ringing, ringing phone, that, if asked he'd likely say seemed to be ringing off the hook.
"Do you hear sirens?"
The boss he'd rarely seen almost screamed at him hurriedly, oddly he even sounded a bit panicked as he spoke into the Jersey end of the phone... He hadn't, well he'd heard no more sirens than one would normally hear in the city on any given day's walk from 42nd Street to 25th. Just as the question was asked, he'd come to realize; just right then, as he was being asked, yes, the city did seem to come alive with the wailing sound of way more sirens than usual, all of a sudden.
"A plane hit the towers..."
That certainly didn't register at all. What towers, what, when where... plane? What plane... huh? The conversation was becoming more frantic and fractured as all the early risers who worked at the Jersey office started barking the new news. They'd gathered around the TV, likely as soon as they'd got similar calls from their friends or loved ones. His boss had somehow managed to tell him the plane was maybe a FedEx cargo plane; definitely not a single or double propped private plane. A large enough airliner to do considerable damage had shrieked at full speed right into the North Tower of the world trade center, and that's all anyone knew... and they had a TV... in Jersey... so they knew as much as anyone else and way more than he did, standing alone, in a still darkened makeshift Manhattan office space, just off 7th Avenue, in an old garment trade building at the top of the garment district, just below midtown, in that in between no-man's land near The Garden. The part of town someone who didn't know better might have called, the lower edge of Hell's Kitchen, but was actually way way closer to say, Chelsea...
"Another plane!!! Another plane just hit the other tower... the south tower, another plane..."
He overheard one of the early risers in New Jersey, not on the call, scream loudly in the background behind the conversation he was having with his boss... What the FUCK! Who knows who said that, him or his boss, or neither of them... the conversation was abruptly over except for his, almost too calmly saying something to the effect... "I better get out there and see what's what... I'll call you back as soon as I know something"; Or some such offer to be a helpful but quite honestly lousy salesman they'd hired to work out of the makeshift Manhattan office. Hanging up, he bolted for the door, subconsciously taking the stairs, raced through the lobby, out and across 7th, over to 6th where he knew he'd have a clear view of the Towers. A beautiful view of the biggest things you'd ever see looming over any city let alone the city that had become so fixed in the dreams he had dreamed up for himself since the first time he'd visited there on a Grade 11 Urban Geography field trip back in 1979... On 6th Avenue, he stopped dead; not quite startled, looked up into a now planeless and utterly clearest of clear blue sky to see the big burning hole in the north side of the North Tower. A flaming at the edges burning hole like one that would form in a sheet of paper if you'd held a lit cigarette to the center of it. He looked up at the Towers, for what he couldn't have known at the time would be the last time he'd have the chance to look up at them and thought, quite frantically, sadly even, most definitely confused by what he was looking up at, thinking to himself... How the hell are they going to fix that?
To be continued... (hopefully, or not)
The slope of the track entering Time SQ/42 Street coupled with the ricketiness of the rolling stock; "who doesn't love those old... redbirds" he'd say to his friends; these countless-time-retrofitted over their service, tin can like train cars that seemed to twist apart at the seams around each corner, over each bump n' ripple on this older line inside the world's second oldest subway system. Another of the many more things he loved about NYC. A transit system commission that seemed to enjoy matching it's oldest equipment with the most decayed infrastructure; who doesn't love a city in seriously need of repair. Wandering around the most run down parts.... but again, that's for later...
The 7 train would lurch downward just as it approached Time SQ/42 Street; as it began to slow from top speed, which on this old rolling stock felt like 700 mph. Gravity would throw one forward then from side to side as the under-repaired uneven ripples in the track made for a rough sea, choppy-like little breakers. The cars would shake violently, just to that point before one might describe it a vibration. In his often one fifth to halfway hung over or, did way too much of that stuff state, it was pure tactile pleasure. A bit of a thrill ride even; the morning's awakening reminder that he was here, in the city, for certain, quite alive and living in the liveliest of cities he'd always loved and was now able, finally, to call home after just more than a year's occupancy... here. Upon the slowing. not sudden but bouncing stop. In the squint of a, if one felt the need for dramatic-fantasy, miraculously surprising safe arrival at Time SQ/42 Street; he would plunge into the tussling mix of morning morons who felt it necessary to race, be the first, up the stairs. He exited the station at his own happy just to be here pace. Never the first to emerge into, what was on that day, the crystal clearest, cloudless blue sky n' sunshine anyone would ever remember the streets of midtown Manhattan being bathed in.
He couldn't recall what meaningless chit-chatter he was having with his then current girlfriend on their walk into the works this morning. Maybe the bickerings, perhaps as was more often than not, simply the dreadful silence she'd invade his happiness with as she headed towards the easiest job in the city that she hated with all her might. There wasn't much might in this one, more a shuffling along through it approach to life and living. Him, he was still holding tight to the inkling of a notion, that things would always get better. Good fortune, and maybe a bit of Forbes like business fame was as always, just around the corner; and in Manhattan what's around each and every corner is quite certainly, maybe famous indeed.
Let's just assume that on this day, they shuffled in silence along 7th Avenue from 42nd Street to the doorway to her office's entrance at 36th Street, just up a block from the backdoor of Macy's. Dropping her off was a happier part of the walk on the days he'd escort his then current girlfriend, after the vacant kiss and the "see ya laters" at 36th Street, he'd be afforded another more peaceful 11 blocks of a walk on his own. A chance to light up a smoke without being nagged, soaking in the city he was so in love with, able to let thoughts of what he might do next with his life run wild. He was always two steps and a couple of dreams of greatness ahead of where he'd find himself, today. On this day, nothing special nor memorable came to mind, or happened along the way... except for the sound he'll never remember but would later always know for absolute certain, he did fucking hear... it. The shriek of jet engines on a too low jet airliner, a distinctive shriek, he knew quite well.
He had grown up in the little town of Trenton, Ontario in, what he had for quite some time by the time he'd get to New York City considered the wretchedly boring old Canada. Trenton was home to a military base, actually Canada's largest, busiest and most important Air Force base. For him, a clear sky full of various aircraft was just, the normal. When he visited his outta town, up the river cousins in Brockville, Ontario, he'd stare for ages at the Great Lake Ships his cousins had come to simply ignore as they chugged upriver and down the St. Lawrence on their way to and from Thunder Bay. When these cousins visited him in Trenton, he'd chuckle at how they couldn't stop and look up each time a Herc or a Buffalo rumbled through the skies, or when the deafening shrieking pitch of a 707, those old airliners, made it almost impossible to finish one's conversation... he'd instinctively learned to ignore the air-traffic above him, distinguishing one plane from the other simply by the sound it made; an almost subconscious skill that would prove helpful in putting his and more importantly his then current girlfriend's mind at ease... later that morning.
Upon arrival at the makeshift Manhattan offices of his New Jersey based employer, just another collection of kids who had decided they'd "rule the world" by opening yet another makeshift digital, internet marketing and advertising agency meant to compete with stolid, gray n' old agencies who hadn't a clue what they were doing in digital just up and over on Madison Avenue... Funny enough, even fifteen years later, nobody, except him of course, knew what they're doing in digital marketing and advertising... but that's beside the point... He unlocked the door to the makeshift Manhattan office, and entered to a far too early to be ringing, ringing phone, that, if asked he'd likely say seemed to be ringing off the hook.
"Do you hear sirens?"
The boss he'd rarely seen almost screamed at him hurriedly, oddly he even sounded a bit panicked as he spoke into the Jersey end of the phone... He hadn't, well he'd heard no more sirens than one would normally hear in the city on any given day's walk from 42nd Street to 25th. Just as the question was asked, he'd come to realize; just right then, as he was being asked, yes, the city did seem to come alive with the wailing sound of way more sirens than usual, all of a sudden.
"A plane hit the towers..."
That certainly didn't register at all. What towers, what, when where... plane? What plane... huh? The conversation was becoming more frantic and fractured as all the early risers who worked at the Jersey office started barking the new news. They'd gathered around the TV, likely as soon as they'd got similar calls from their friends or loved ones. His boss had somehow managed to tell him the plane was maybe a FedEx cargo plane; definitely not a single or double propped private plane. A large enough airliner to do considerable damage had shrieked at full speed right into the North Tower of the world trade center, and that's all anyone knew... and they had a TV... in Jersey... so they knew as much as anyone else and way more than he did, standing alone, in a still darkened makeshift Manhattan office space, just off 7th Avenue, in an old garment trade building at the top of the garment district, just below midtown, in that in between no-man's land near The Garden. The part of town someone who didn't know better might have called, the lower edge of Hell's Kitchen, but was actually way way closer to say, Chelsea...
"Another plane!!! Another plane just hit the other tower... the south tower, another plane..."
He overheard one of the early risers in New Jersey, not on the call, scream loudly in the background behind the conversation he was having with his boss... What the FUCK! Who knows who said that, him or his boss, or neither of them... the conversation was abruptly over except for his, almost too calmly saying something to the effect... "I better get out there and see what's what... I'll call you back as soon as I know something"; Or some such offer to be a helpful but quite honestly lousy salesman they'd hired to work out of the makeshift Manhattan office. Hanging up, he bolted for the door, subconsciously taking the stairs, raced through the lobby, out and across 7th, over to 6th where he knew he'd have a clear view of the Towers. A beautiful view of the biggest things you'd ever see looming over any city let alone the city that had become so fixed in the dreams he had dreamed up for himself since the first time he'd visited there on a Grade 11 Urban Geography field trip back in 1979... On 6th Avenue, he stopped dead; not quite startled, looked up into a now planeless and utterly clearest of clear blue sky to see the big burning hole in the north side of the North Tower. A flaming at the edges burning hole like one that would form in a sheet of paper if you'd held a lit cigarette to the center of it. He looked up at the Towers, for what he couldn't have known at the time would be the last time he'd have the chance to look up at them and thought, quite frantically, sadly even, most definitely confused by what he was looking up at, thinking to himself... How the hell are they going to fix that?
To be continued... (hopefully, or not)
Serial Sequencing... the story you are on is in bold... the previous and next (if written) linked...
Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane -|- How the Hell are We Ever Going to Fix This? -|- RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over... -|- [next story, unwritten] -|-
Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane -|- How the Hell are We Ever Going to Fix This? -|- RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over... -|- [next story, unwritten] -|-
NOTE: I'm hoping this will become an intermittent serial type writerly like thingy... there is a lot of story to tell here after all. A true story? Why not, sure... at least bits and pieces of it. Embellished a bit? Well perhaps simply fancified as, if I don't try to make it remotely that much more interesting why would any of you 6 or 7 people bother to read it? IF it does take off as a serial, I'll build in some a mechanism to get your name into my CRM and onto a mailing list for notifications of the next instalment (hey, I'm a marketing guy, collecting your data is my damned job)... In the meantime, leave a comment, this will afford me a way to figure out how to get back to you.
Will "our hero" eventually find the god he's so not hotly in pursuit of? How the hell would I know... me, I'm still struggling with the god I'm not sure I've just found... OR, if one could or should even call him that. Until next time...
Oh, and... I'm experimenting in writing this live, to these pages. Note the DRAFT number to see what versions of I feel I've got this part of the story up to. There's no real system here other than, if and when the DRAFT number hit's one, I may consider this part of the story finished... or not, maybe. I guess we'll see.
Will "our hero" eventually find the god he's so not hotly in pursuit of? How the hell would I know... me, I'm still struggling with the god I'm not sure I've just found... OR, if one could or should even call him that. Until next time...
Oh, and... I'm experimenting in writing this live, to these pages. Note the DRAFT number to see what versions of I feel I've got this part of the story up to. There's no real system here other than, if and when the DRAFT number hit's one, I may consider this part of the story finished... or not, maybe. I guess we'll see.
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