The days after

I have a Fashion Week post in the works that I was intent on finishing this morning (work, what?), but since everyone's Facebook status updates have been directing me to "Never Forget", I can't help but remember. I wrote a whole September 11th post a while back, but here are some other memories that have been running through my head this morning:

- The night of the 10th, I attended a Fashion Week after-party. On the bus ride down, I ran into Ben, a guy I had been friendly with in college but hadn't seen in the three years since. We swapped business cards, and he contacted me a week later to make sure I was okay and suggest that his friends and my friends meet up. We did, and I immediately hit it off with Ben's friend Mike. While I was dating Mike, my friend Miya met and started dating Ben. Mike and I fizzled out (and by that I mean he was a total player and blew me off), but through Ben, Mike met Miya's roommate Danielle, and promptly fell head over heels in love with her. That was nice. It's one thing when someone treats you like crap but you can write it off to the fact that they are a player. It's another thing when the person they meet two weeks later knocks their socks off and any trace of "player" out of them. Translation: It's not him, it was me. Gah.

- We had the 12th off from work, and since it was a beautiful, sunny day, I decided to go for a run. As soon as I stepped outside, though, I inhaled the overpowering smell of jet fuel, and headed to the gym instead. I passed the local diner, and, sitting in the window, was the guy I had dated that past spring. (Who, also, by the way, had lost interest.) I was relieved to see that he was okay, so went inside to say hello. Midway through our conversation, I realized that, while he was sitting alone, his table was set for two; I suddenly panicked thinking he was there with another girl. Perhaps reading my mind, he - out of nowhere - mentioned that his sister was off in the bathroom, but I didn't want to stick around to meet her. I offered a hasty "goodbye-glad-you're-safe" and hustled myself out of the restaurant.

- Everyone talks about September 11th, but the days after were almost worse. You may remember seeing the tear-streaked people on TV, holding signs of their missing loved ones. They weren't just on TV for me, they were all over the city. Not in my neighborhood, per se - I was too far north - but I was still afraid of running into one, coming face-to-face with their despair. While the sign-holders may have stayed further south, those Missing posters were plastered everywhere. I was just as afraid to look at them, fearing I'd recognize someone from the gym, from school, from my extended circle; I forced myself to look at every one, though, out of respect and out of guilt that that posters were the worst I had to deal with. For weeks I dreaded going back to my gym. Thinking that someone might be missing, and never return. It was around December when I realized that everyone I'd known was accounted for, and breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief.

Staying in the house wasn't any better. All there was to do was watch the coverage on TV, or read commentary in the newspaper. I bought every newspaper every day that week, and the subsequent magazine specials that were rushed to print. I poured through the photos, horrified but hypnotized, compulsively turning back to the full page picture of the man mid-air, falling upside-down past the windows of the World Trade Center. It was the only image to which I allowed myself to cry. For him for having to make that decision, for his family for having to deal with it, but not for me who had gotten off Scot-free. I still don't understand how they use a similar shot in the opening credits of Mad Men.

I kept those periodicals for years, thought I'd keep them forever. But when it came to pack up my apartment for LA, I threw them away. It didn't make sense to bring those memories with me.

We had Wednesday off from work; went in on Thursday only to be evacuated (again); then had the option to come in on Friday. There was no work to do - I couldn't pitch beauty products in that climate and certainly no one was writing about them - but I couldn't sit at home any longer. I think I left work around noon on Friday, bored, and went to see that movie Rock Star. It was awful, but a million times better than the real world. Saturday, my friends and I went down to the Armory on 26th street, where they had set up an assistance center and a tribute to the lost, and forced ourselves to look at the hundreds of Missing posters. Another day - Thursday? Sunday? - Maria and I, stir-crazy, decided to bring supplies down to the firefighters. Being 25, poor, and living in tiny New York apartments with no closet space, we didn't have a ton of extra "supplies", so we grabbed what we could. For me, that was a few mismatched towels, and the largest, heaviest sweatshirt I owned - which boasted my sorority "letters" in gold and black celestial print. Because we wanted exercise and had plenty of time on our hands, we decided to walk the four or so miles to Chelsea Market, where supplies were being collected. The walk - with everything in our hands and on our back - was grueling, but I, at least, was grateful for the physical distraction so I could justify some of my internal suffering. We laughed at the thought of a big powerful firefighter staying warm in my sorority sweatshirt, knowing we weren't even doing this for them so much as for us. By the time we arrived on West 15th street, conversation had slowed down and the novelty of our adventure had worn off. We took the bus back.