An Agnostic Goes To Church

On Friday morning I took the steps two at a time, climbing out of the subway at Cortlandt Street in lower Manhattan, bouyed by the thought that I would be home, on vacation, next week. My only reservation was that it would be ten days before I again saw a certain young woman, who, unfortunately, loved someone else. I weaved my way past the huge flower pots set up to block suicide truck bombers from plowing into the surrounding buildings, and cut across the plaza in the company of scores of commuters, eventually passing Two World Trade, so close I could touch it. Our building, opened in '97, was about a quarter-mile further, at the foot of the Hudson River, facing Jersey City.

Monday was mid-summer-like, hazy, hot and humid. I met Cuz at Forest Park in Queens at 4 PM for the weekly round of golf we'd been sharing since '87. He said our markets, gold and silver, had been dead, as had been the case, except for an odd sharp move, for years.

As we reached the eighth hole, it began to rain. We waited it out, chuckling, as it was at least the third time in recent memory we were stuck at the same spot, huddled beneath his umbrella under a group of trees. We soon resumed, happy we still had time to complete the round.

As we approached our drives in the 11th fairway, trouble loomed above the tree line to our left. Clouds obscured the view ahead as well, where the Empire State Building, miles away, usually offered a postcard-like backdrop. We hurriedly completed the hole (Cuz made birdie) and sought shelter outside the golf course, in a viaduct beneath the Jackie Robinson Parkway. As we watched nature's light show, we lamented our luck. This year we'd had a lot of abbreviated rounds. Some years we hadn't had any. "At least we got some practice in," we reasoned. Cuz had an outing upstate scheduled for the weekend, organized by cops and firemen. We got to talking about plans for a trip to Myrtle Beach in November. I also planned to play two more rounds during the week, so I wasn't upset at not having anything to log into my handicap page at playerlink.com. All was right in America.

Next morning, I was reading the paper, listening to Imus, when he reported that a plane had struck the World Trade Center. It had been years since I turned on the TV in the morning. When the first building collapsed, I lost it, wondering how far the debris was flying and if my friends and co-workers, especially that certain someone, had had time to get far enough away. I was filled with guilt. For once, I wished I was at work. There in Brooklyn, the tragedy seemed a million miles away. Where were Popi and Dougie and Joey K., each of whom had been weakened by affliction?

Luci, my niece, a VP at Merrill, worked in the World Financial Center, which was even closer to ground zero than our workplace. I started making calls. She was at the airport. She'd seen the smoke from a seat on a plane bound for London, which never left the runway. I hurried around the corner to the home of a couple, co-workers, long-time friends. I was sure his mother, who was home with little Kayla, was worried sick. Fortunately, Sally had just received a call from Greenwich Village, where Adam and Sharon were holed up with a friend of a friend. I had hope that everybody in our little part of the world had escaped. Phone calls and emails soon verified this. Fat Joe and Artie, who had been in the underground parking lot when the explosion occurred in '93, were okay. Joe had carried Artie out of the rubble that dark day, when "only" six had died. At that time we were located on the eighth floor of Four World Trade. Although the trading floor had shaken, I never felt in danger on that occasion. I did not realize the magnitude of the event until I reached the street two hours later and saw faces stained with soot.

On Wednesday I gave blood, fighting a deep sense of futility. I was certain there wouldn't be many survivors. I told myself that blood would be needed should another attack occur. We were at war. As far as I was concerned, we'd been at war for more than a decade, and most people had been in denial about it. Many donors had to be turned away, as the populace, many who barely spoke English, had answered the call resoundingly. As I walked to Coney Island Hospital, and as I waited in line, I encountered many people of middle eastern origin. I averted my gaze, fearful of succumbing to my baser instincts, knowing that most had come here, as my parents had, to prosper. Still, I couldn't help wondering if any were involved, how many of them approved, how many had contributed financially, even unwittedly, to the cause. One teenage boy was wearing a jacket, a broken arm, apparently, beneath it. What if he were a suicide bomber? I thought. I had to keep reminding myself that my Sicilian features were often mistaken for Arabic.

On Thursday I rode the train into the city, hoping to offer my services. I'd never been one to volunteer, thinking that obeying laws and paying taxes was enough. But this was different. I felt compelled to give something back to the country that had been so good to my family.

As the train climbed the Manhattan Bridge in the brilliant sunshine, I, wedged in a corner, studied the faces of the passengers, ever fascinated by human beings. Some had tears in their eyes, others were stone-faced, others somber, others dazed, others seemed, at least outwardly, unaffected. I heard a voice at the opposite end of the car castigate two men who were laughing. Fortunately, they did not come to blows. I was glad I couldn't see that part of the skyline. The opposite side seemed serene, at least as serene as Chinatown gets during the morning rush. Despite the horror, people were meeting obligations. I believed everyone not directly affected should have returned to work, even professional athletes, despite the fact that no one felt like cheering. I have not touched my golf clubs or guitar since the incident; I haven't listened to music; but these were pastimes, not work. I will play golf again soon to contribute to the economy. I don't know if I will enjoy it. Periodically, I will recall that young men would soon be giving their lives in defense of freedom, even that of artists steeped in themselves, even that of the elite who condemn America. I have not looked at a newspaper since that morning. I stopped watching TV. It was making me weak - and it was time for those not immediately involved to be strong, to pick up the slack. The country had to go forward. The slumping economy needed contributions from every walk of life. The airline and insurance companies would be taking huge hits. And defense was expensive.

I was struggling. I'd always been emotional, quick to tears. It wasn't until I reached my 40's that I became self conscious about it. Still, I had difficulty curbing it. I thought I'd finally conquered it when that certain someone got engaged. I grieved for more than a year, as much so for the fact that I'd become certain I would never have children. Tomas, in particular, hammered me, calling me "pato." Anyway, the emotional urges I thought I'd conquered were back. I broke into tears several times, less frequently with each passing day. I fought them back during the subway ride home, as smoke was rising from the empty space where those two majestic symbols of American splendor had once stood. A young black woman kept gazing at me. I sensed she was feeling not compassion but fear that I was a terroist. Now my neighbors might have different suspicions about the loner in B-12.

To my chagrin, given the number of people who had answered the call to volunteer, I was turned away, my name added to a long waiting list. I regretted that I hadn't come yesterday. Only experienced iron workers were taken immediately. I fought the temptation to lie, not wanting to get in the way of pros. Although I was physically fit, I'd had an easy life. My sorrows had just about all been self-inflicted, and none had been out of the ordinary. I hadn't done much dirty work in more than 30 years, since two-a-day football practices my senior year in high school, '67. I'd been a little worried that I wouldn't have lasted long among men accustomed to real work. And, of course, I was worried that I wouldn't have been able to handle the psychological ramifications of the effort, let alone the possible danger. I didn't want to be blubbering amongst tough guys. But I wanted to try, although I was a bit self conscious of being in sweats and sneakers when everyone else was in jeans and construction boots. I had "wannabe" stamped all over me. But I owed it to the victims and their families to give it a shot. For the first time since my mom became ill, I was glad she wasn't aware of what was happening in the world, although she had first hand knowledge of war. She and my sister, Carmela, had cowered in their home as the allies were bombing Messina during World War II. My father had already come to America.

Another two days passed, and I still had not been called. Was I lucky? I didn't feel so. In fact, I felt useless. Friends suggested God had been watching over me. That seemed silly. Why wouldn't he have been watching over those among the dead who believed, who lived decently, unselfishly - mothers, fathers, children, husbands, wives? I understood the need for faith, for religion, but it never worked for me. It just wasn't logical enough. There seemed as many reasons to believe as not to believe. And it wasn't this latest horror or any horror that made me doubt. I'd always known man had a penchant for evil, even though I'd never witnessed it firsthand. How many televised and written accounts of this did one see in a lifetime? Still, I wished I did believe. Those who did seemed happier than those who didn't, and wasn't happiness the end we all were seeking?

At noon Friday I went to mass, alone, at Our Lady of Grace, a church I'd never entered. Although I'm not a believer, it seemed the right thing to do. President Bush had asked Americans to observe, and I respected him. I was not very attentive, however. Even if I'd recalled the responses to the invocations, I felt too choked to respond. My mind wandered, as it always had in the past during services (and school). Although I was not visited by the lustful thoughts of youth, I remembered how they had troubled me. If one were visited by such thoughts even in the sanctity of a church, what was the point of entering one? When the priest asked everyone to greet those beside him, I fought envy as I shook hands with an attractive woman and her husband.

The parish had suffered two casualties. Each appeared to have a name of Italian descent. Several people were missing. A similar roll call was going on throughout the city. Was any parish untouched? All of us were scarred, however, though certainly not nearly as much as that relative few. The sanctity of American society had been violated like never before.

At the close of the service, as God Bless America was being sung, I covered my eyes and pressed the bridge of my nose to keep from crying. As I was exiting, I imagined pounding my fist into the body of my car. I'd never felt more alone than in the past few days. I envied anyone who had a wife to cuddle against, child to hug. Without that, with my literary ambition trivialized, I felt lost, as if I'd wasted my life. And my grief was evolving to anger. I was lucky, yes, but not as lucky as those who had found true love, who had children. And some of the lucky had had it torn from them. My literary ambition seemed silly, pointless. Several years ago, Mike Nichols, in a interview with Charley Rose, said something to the effect that, given the incidents that were occurring in the world, fiction had become irrelevant. Although I knew this made perfect sense, the selfish side of me did not want to accept it at the time. I now do. What some of my friends saw was infinitely more important than anything I would ever write. What the victims and their families experienced was more important than anything any novelist would write from this time forward.

On Monday we returned to work. My stomach was in knots. We had to commute to midtown and walk about a mile to a pier at 38th Street, where a ferry ushered us to our building. As the boat approached the dock, I saw firsthand, from a distance of a few blocks, the mangled remains of the once brilliant steel facing of Tower Two. The destruction had ceased perhaps 200 yards from our building. 100 yards away, the lovely Atrium of the World Financial Center, a structure dominated by glass, was still intact, although stained with dust, its palm trees not getting much sunlight. Our building, 15 stories, running on a backup generator, seemed untouched. Everyone inside had made it to safety, albeit covered in dust. The clean-up crew had done a first rate job, leaving very little evidence of debris. The quality of the air was better than I expected, although a burning odor lingered. Joey Boombotz gave me a nurse's mask. I did not don it.

Security was intense. Pros, not low-wage earners, were handling it, and there were many of them. The line of employees snaked around the pedestrian path at the foot of the water. There were hugs, kisses and tears. Although I'd worked for the Exchange 19 years, I'd always been amazed at how many people I knew by first name, and how many I did not even recognize, especially since we'd moved to this location and the divisions were assigned separate floors. The mood was subdued, reverential, as if we were attending a wake. This normally rowdy, irreverent bunch had been humbled. Many had lost a relative or friend. They were a psychologically-tough breed who took big risks in a hostile environment. Although I was not one of them, I respected them. I'd always felt like an outsider, now moreso than ever, given the fact that I'd missed the bombing. Unfortunately, several traders, employees of Carr Futures attending a meeting in one of the towers, were missing.

Fat Joe and Artie had answered the call. Many more now understood what they had suffered. Johnny Mississippi-Delta-Bluesman, who was crossing the plaza at the moment of the first attack and witnessed unspeakable horror, showed. Cuz had run for his life from the Fulton Street subway station when the first tower came down. Covered in dust, he watched the second fall from the terrace of his sister's apartment a few blocks away. Colucci was alive! It was believed he was dead. The beloved Charley R., 85, was there, wowwing us all, taking a ribbing as always. Alejandro had returned. Employed less than a month, he had to adapt to working in a nuthouse and to a bombing. Cell phones were even more prevalent. If I were married I'd certainly have one.

I shook hands with scores, embraced my closest friends, gave a peck on the check to those not averse to it. As I entered the trading floor, I looked to the opposite end, as I did each day. It took me a while to gather the resolve, but I eventually approached her booth, taking several deep breaths along the way. I put an arm around her and, without a word, kissed her cheek and walked away, fighting tears. For a moment I didn't know where I was. I realized my nose was running, and wondered if I'd gotten any on her. It seemed so typical of my history with the women I've loved.

At 10:45 everyone in the building attended a memorial service on the third floor, where the oil markets traded. Those of us near the entrance began clapping as the Mayor and the Governor entered. Soon the applause spread to the entire audience. Only New Yorkers knew the difference in the city since Rudy Giuliani assumed office eight years ago. Sure, he was aided by the booming economy, but his accomplishments have been staggering, and his leadership during the crisis inspiring. New York had been deemed ungovernable. He proved the naysayers wrong. He was the most effective and courageous politician of our lifetime, never afraid to take an unpopular position, not governed by polls.

The area, larger than a football field, was as crowded as a subway car. A secret service agent, wire running from his ear, weaved among us. Tomas bumped into him and later joked the guy was carrying a cannon under his jacket.

A rabbi gave the opening invocation, a service academy choir sang America the Beautiful, the Mayor and Governor spoke, and a bishop closed the ceremony. Although sincere, I found the words empty. It was time for action. The most stirring moment occurred when a former long-time employee, John P., sang God Bless America. At first, most sang along. He was eventually allowed to solo, and everyone cheered as he attacked the high notes with brio. I kept my responses to applause. I was afraid I would break down if I sang, and I hoped I would never again do that publically. Although there was cheering and chanting, it never went overboard. There was no cavalierism.

As expected, the gold market opened briskly, although not as briskly as I'd seen in the past, in what was now referred to wistfully as the "old days," when the action was at times so hot and heavy one's head felt as if it might implode. An hour into the session, the pace slowed considerably. We were clowning around again, annoying, ridiculing each other, which was the way there. People were asking about the football pool. The thing I've always liked most about working there was the irreverence, although it took me a while to get used to it. There have been a lot of laughs through the years, almost always at someone's expense, and no one escaped it. It enabled me to learn to be stronger, to not fear life. This day, the action allowed us to forget that just a quarter-mile away the grimmest of searches was being conducted. Later, seated in the cafeteria, gazing out the window on the glorious day, Lady Liberty standing her ground to the left, we marvelled at how unchanged everything beyond ground zero, which was not visible to us, was. That was nature in a nutshell, indifferent to man's madness, indifferent even to itself.

By the close of the abbreviated session, the market was about unchanged, but there was optimism in the air, as we were $20 higher than before the attack, the plateau it reached prior to evacuation. After every past major disaster, there had been a flight to gold. I've always been squeamish about this. I've come to a grudging acceptance that it was better that some people made money in hard times. The economy needed it. Life was occasionally cruel. That was a reality nothing would ever change. Dr. Pangloss* would have loved commodity trading. It would have corroborated his arguement that this was the best of all possible worlds.

On the way home, we were allowed to take a circuitous route, a half-hour walk, to the subway. Many of us chose to do this rather than to wait and take the ferry uptown. There were layers of dust everywhere. There were helicopters on the lawn of a playground along the waterfront.There were barricades around the hot zone, manned by men in military and police uniforms, German Shepherds at the side of some. Schools and apartment buildings in the immediate area were unoccupied. Some would not be habitable for months.

Manhattan Community College served as a drop-off point for donations. Food and drink were piled on the sidewalks. We gazed along the streets, first toward the wreckage of Seven World Trade, then toward the plaza. "Unbelieveable," said Tomas, shaking his head. "Incomprehensible," said I softly.

Flatbeds rolled passed us, carting twisted steel and the remains of a garbage truck. There were makeshift memorials everywhere, candles burning, flowers laid out and, most heartbreaking of all, photographs of the missing. I averted my gaze. I would not let it weaken me. Riding underground in the vicinity, the odor of the smoldering fire was prevalent. I experienced burning in my chest.

So what's next? Military action, certainly. Will our forces, downsized severely since the end of the cold war, many stationed in the Balkans, be up to the task? And what will happen on the home front should action be protracted and casualties severe, and other attacks occur? Has prosperity weakened us? Has hyper-sensitivity, political-correctness, rendered us too indecisive to fight? Are there enough of the strong to wage and support this battle indefinitely and to resist the protests which will undoubtedly arise?

And I suspect we have not seen the last of our violation. With airport security tightening, the bombers may choose more accessible targets. I've always marvelled that the subway has not been hit. It would be so easy. The only thing preventing it would be dumb luck or an attack of conscience on the part of a would-be perpetrator. Still, we must go on. We must fight the forces that would take civilization to the void. And we despair at the thought of how far it may have to go. Those who in 20-20 hindsight railed at internment may now think differently. And what if the anti-terrorist campaign fails? Will nuclear annihilation be the only message that gets through to the enemy? Perhaps this is what the perpetrators of such deeds actually want - the power to end it all. Would anyone with anything but a profound hatred of life commit such an act? Of course, they will tell you it is only the evil we represent that they hate and that everything would be fine if our influence in the middle east (and Israel itself) were eradicated. Would they also expunge those among them who disagree?

Lastly, what would God say to a suicide bomber? Each side believes God is with it. I don't know that I've ever had a more frightening thought than that such a man might be embraced by the Almighty, although it seems utter madness to think he and not his victims, who were merely going about their business, would be welcomed into heaven.

In case He does exist, I ask: God Bless America. I may be baffled by all of life's great questions, but of this I am certain - America is the hope of the world.

*Candide by Voltaire