BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I had originally planned to eschew the entire idea of writing anything about “9/11,” purely because the media has already overplayed it for more than one full week now. However, I simply couldn’t bring myself to be funny today.

Of course, there are those who think I’m never all that funny – such as the hostess at the restaurant where I ate lunch yesterday. But that’s okay. I usually don’t find those folks all that funny either.

Still… I went to bed last night, secure in the thought that I would arise this morning and type out one of the several humorous incidents that have occurred in my life recently. Some of which wouldn’t even need embellishing. But, as I said, I just couldn’t bring myself to be funny.

And so… Where was I?

At the moment of the first impact, I was most likely listening to Molly Ivins. I adored Molly. Still do, actually. While I didn’t always agree with her, the vast majority of the time we were on the same wavelength; and even when we weren’t I couldn’t help but respect her unabashed, no-nonsense, call-it-like-she-sees-it commentary. If I’d had a different pair of chromosomes, I would have wanted to grow up to be just like her (without the breast cancer, of course).

But back to the story…

On THE 9/11 I had two books out, number three in the can, and feverishly working on number four. Nothing resembling a living wage was rolling in off these novels by an unknown writer from Saint Louis, so I was still working my “day job” at the time – which was as an electronics tech. My specialty, much like that of EKay’s, was printers. Although, I also handled networks and the like.

And I digress, as usual.

I was on my way to work, cruising along with traffic down the long stretch of blacktop known as Laclede Station Road. Our offices were on Watson, situated across from a now defunct movie theater. As usual, I had NPR (KWMU) tuned in on my truck radio, and it just so happened that they were airing an editorial by Molly Ivins.

Starting my day with Molly… I just knew it was going to be a good one.

A few minutes later I pulled into the parking lot, switched off the engine, and climbed out of the truck. Apparently, just a split second before NPR began reporting on the first strike. I dug out my tool kit, and with coffee mug in hand, I wandered into our offices, still chuckling at Molly’s wit and blissfully unaware that anything so heinous was happening a half-continent away.

I could hear a radio playing somewhere near the back of the building. Our dispatcher, Sharon, met me as I came around the corner to head to my bench. She was wearing a startled expression that was a mix of confusion and disbelief. Without ceremony or salutation, she said, “Did you hear that an airplane ran into the World Trade Center?”

“When?” I asked.

“Just now. Like just a couple of minutes ago.”

“Wow?” I said. “Was it like a small plane, like a small Cessna or something?”

Obviously my mind just couldn’t fathom it being anything more than a light aircraft. After all, an airplane had hit the Empire State Building once upon a time. Granted, that was a B-25 and not a Cessna, but still…

“I don’t know,” she replied.

By now, the owner of the company was in his office and tuning in the small, thirteen-inch TV he had sitting in the corner. We were a little surprised that it actually picked up a signal, honestly, as it was hooked to a VCR and all he ever used it for was to lock himself in the office and watch porn, even though he thought we didn’t know that’s what he was doing. (Just being truthful)…

As the image faded in on the old tube, the entire staff stood around staring at the billowing smoke rolling from the tower. There were a few gasps, an “Oh My God” or two, and I remember saying aloud, “That wasn’t caused by a Cessna…”

A moment later, as we watched the live newsfeed, a glint of sunlight from metal flashed in the corner of the screen and before our eyes the second airliner struck.

There were yelps of disbelief, gasps that rendered a vacuum in the small office, and then silence from all of us. The only sound to be heard was that of the news streaming in from the TV.

An hour later I was across the river in Illinois, making a service call on a printer for another small company. I had been listening to the news as I drove, hearing now about the Pentagon, and Flight 93. All air traffic was being grounded until further notice. The towers had fallen. Our world had changed forever.

When I arrived at my destination, I climbed out of my truck and looked upward. Above me, a lone jetliner was lining up on approach to Lambert International to my west. It was the only plane in my piece of the sky as far as the eye could see. I watched as it disappeared on the horizon, then I turned in place, scanning the blue…

An eerie silence had fallen, and for the first time I could recall in my lifetime, the sky was standing still.

More to come…

Murv

I used to love Quincy.

Not Quincy himself; I mean the show. And the novelizations, even. It probably didn’t hurt that I happened to like Jack Klugman as an actor, because when you get right down to it the scripts weren’t stellar and the acting by some of the weekly extras was pretty wooden. All in all, it was a typical 70’s era crime drama that adhered to the strict formula of the day. Still, I loved the show.

These days we don’t have Quincy, M. E. We have “Body of Proof” with Dana Delany. Well, I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m more than happy to spend 42 minutes every Tuesday evening looking at Dana Delany. I like her as an actress, and I’m not opposed to the fact that they go to great lengths (pun not intended) to work a gratuitous leg shot into the scenes whenever possible. Hey, I’m not shy – the lady has a set of gams that won’t quit.

Still, while the acting from the weekly extras and peripheral cast members is far superior to that of the 70’s era shows, and the scripts are minus some of the appended melodrama that was the formula back then, they really aren’t all that much better. However, as a rule, TV shows tend to do only cursory research on topics and will adjust procedures to fit their needs at the time. Of course, that’s a wholly different topic… I’m not actually here to write about that today.

You see, there I was, standing in the back yard, chainsaw in hand, covered in wood chips and chain oil, sweating profusely, and aching all over as I went about the task of removing a dead tree from the back corner. It wasn’t a huge tree by any stretch. It only stood about 12 to 15 feet tall, and the trunk diameter was no more than 6 inches. No biggie. I’ve felled trees much larger in my day. Of course, I was younger in those days, but once again we are diverging from the topic at hand.

This particular tree had split off into a triple trunk, therefore in order to avoid turning myself into Shazam by dropping it all at once and taking out the overhead power lines, I went after it one section at a time. I had already removed the front split of the trunk and dragged it out into the yard, then taken my filthy, sweaty, tired, and achy self right back up the incline to begin sawing on the next. However, before I could start the chainsaw, I heard a thoughtful “Hmph” a few feet behind me. A second later the “Hmph” was followed by a curt, businesslike pronouncement: “This is a recent death…”

As you might expect, I was a bit perplexed, but not as much as I was about to be.

I turned and looked back over my shoulder. There, among the carnage of the fallen tree was E K, decked out in a stylish business skirt and blazer, stiletto heels, and a pair of latex gloves. For a minute I wondered if she had a sudden desire to play doctor, but she usually wears a white lab coat for that.

Even more confused I asked, “What?”

The sharply dressed redhead squatted down next to the tree and fondled the branches in a purely scientific fashion, or so it appeared. “See here?” she said, without looking up. “These branches bend without breaking, which means they are still green. This tree died recently. A month. Maybe a little more. I won’t be certain until I count the rings.”

“I thought that just told you how old the tree is,” I mused.

“Who’s the Tree Examiner here, you or me?” she snapped.

“Tree Examiner?”

“Yes. I used to be a Tree Surgeon, but that was before the accident.”

“What accident?” I asked.

“We don’t talk about that,” she replied.

“But you brought it up.”

“That’s not important,” she grumbled. “Right now we need to get this tree to the morgue so I can perform an autopsy.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“Because it’s my job to be an advocate for the dead trees since they no longer have a voice,” she explained.

I thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

She ignored the question, answering instead with, “Like I said, have them get this tree back to the morgue right away. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” With that, she stood up, stepped over the tree carcass, and began to carefully tiptoe across the yard toward the driveway,  lest she skewer fallen leaves on her spiked heels. (Would have saved me a lot of raking, though…)

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

“There’s a shoe sale at the mall,” she shouted back without slowing her pace. “You don’t think I’m going to miss that, do you?”

And since they say a picture is worth a thousand words…

More to come…

Murv