Memories Of Two Giants Struck Down Part 6

In March 2001, I turned 40.

We were expecting our second child in August of that year, and because my wife and I lived pretty far from our families, I had made arrangements with my boss to work from home starting July 1st, and take two weeks Paretnity Leave after the birth, which was supposed to be August 5th.

My boss' name was Mike, and without a doubt was probably the coolest guy to work for. He would occasionally join me and my co-worker Jack for those long lunches I mentioned earlier. He was also a guy who would never use the intercom to talk to you or ask you to stop by his office; and if he did, it usually was serious business. He always stopped by your cube. He realized that his group worked hard and played harder, so if we blew off a little steam with a long lunch here or there he was fine with it. So it was understood that when Jack turned 40 in November of 2000, and I turned 40 in March of 2001, we were gone for the day after noon. In fact, he'd probably join us after 5 for a few hours at The Full Schilling which had become our favorite watering hole in the Wall Street area.

We used to joke that we were a lot like the guys on MASH; I was Hawkeye, Jack was Trapper John, and Mike was Henry Blake. We were good at what we did, very unconventional, and loved to party...all of us with wicked senses of humor. Well, Mike got promoted in February of 2001, and Jack and I were just hoping that the new boss would be Colonel Potter.

Instead, we got Frank Burns, only with no Hot Lips Houlihan on board to keep him occupied while chaos reigned around him.

His name was Tom...he was Greek with one of those last names that sounded like a social disease and gave Chinese take-out guys fits. We knew we were in trouble the first day he arrived and asked us how to use the intercom. His nickname became "Flackjacket", mainly because it kind of rhymed with his last name. He was a Gen Xer, about 7 years younger than us, and was one of those guys who would gladly (and surrepticiously) slice your nuts off a full 10 seconds before you started to sing like a member of the Vienna Boys' Choir just to advance his career.

The guy was also a neatness and control freak; a guy who would loom over you and tell you how to write an e-mail all the while slathering his hands with Purell hoping not to catch whatever germs you might me carrying. While my desk looked like a pre-Marshall Plan Berlin after World War 2, Flackjacket's desk was a thing of pristine beauty, a never ending field of organized rows of wheat in the Midwest. To say that we were polar opposites was an understatement; we were more like matter and anti-matter...and we all know what happens when you combine those two.

So why am I bringing this guy up? Well, let's just say that into each of our lives there comes a person who brings out the worst in us, and no matter how hard we try and get along, we just can't do it. Call it Karma or whatever you will, but Mr Flakjacket would be playing a significant portion in my breakdown a few years later and in the immediate aftermath of 9/11...but that's for another post.

So on March 14, I celebrated my 40th Birthday; in fact, Jack and I TOLD Flakjacket that we weren't coming back for the rest of the day. We didn't invite him either. (We probably would have had a much better time with Josef Stalin and Vlad The Impailer bellying up to the bar.) So, with great fanfare, many pints and drams of good Irish Whiskey, we celebrated. I planned on leaving the bar around 4 PM to catch an early train home; but I wound up having to leave earlier...there appeared to be a severe smoke condition in the PATH Station at the WTC which stopped the trains. My two options were to walk to the World Financial Center (across from the WTC right on the Hudson River) and take a ferry to Hoboken, or hop on a subway and go to Penn Station by subway and take a train home from there. I opted for the former.

Like I said, I used to drink for America and the rest of The Free World and do crazy things. When I got to the ferry pier, there were hundreds of people queing up just to get on small ferries to carry them across the river to Hoboken. Well, it was my birthday damnit, and nothing was going to ruin it. So the Brooklyn in me kicked into overdrive (the one thing Brooklynites hate is lines and will do anything to cut them). Rather than wait with the rest of the Red Chinese Army to get into a boat, I followed the suit of several others who decided to walk on the edge of a bulkhead on the river and climb up a ladder into the terminal.

I had no fear; after all, I'm an excellent swimmer. So like a drunken Wallenda, I walked the bulkhead, climbed up to the terminal, and just made a boat that would connect with one of the last trains on my line out of Hoboken. I was proud of myself; I hadn't done anything that daring (or stupid!) since college. I was 40, and I felt like I was 19 again. All in all it was a good birthday; that is until I told my wife and my mom what I did and was met with, shall we say "extreme disapproval".

Oh hell, I might was well be honest here...the exact words were "Are you fucking crazy?"

How prophetic, because six months later I would be.

To this day, I still wonder about that smoke condition in the PATH that caused all that chaos; it was never revealled what had happened, never reported in the papers, never discussed in any of the PATH newsletters. Ironically, it took place almost six months to the day that changed the face of the world.

To be continued...