Homecoming

I had set aside Tuesday, September 11 to write this column. Though late (as usual), I was looking forward to writing about some funny backstage business having to do with putting out Bay Crossings. But a woman at my health club told me about the terrorist attacks and I rushed to see for myself on the TV set up in the café. I got there just in time to watch the towers collapse.

I drove home in a daze and immediately dug out the rabbit ears (we stopped watching TV and gave up cable, except for internet access, years ago). I then sat down and remained immobilized in front of my television for two straight days.

My wife had left just the day before for a conference in Orlando. Her plan had been to stay just one day and return on Wednesday. It wasn’t until Friday that she could get a flight. I was there to meet her flight at Oakland International and this is what I saw:

The newly dislocated redcaps, seeming sadly out of place, sat behind a folding table, making sure that only ticketed passengers were allowed into the concourse area. A beautiful young Latina rushes to her boyfriend and doesn’t stop once she gets to him, pushing him halfway across the hall, beaming up at him. He’s too happy to be embarrassed, she’s too determined to be stopped. Two nerds, one in bright orange shorts, embrace awkwardly, like dancers that don’t know the moves. Young strivers, bulwark of the traveling public in their Men’s Wearhouse suits, a little less purposeful and less well pressed than usual. Pilots with thousand yard stares, no proud swagger today.

Cell phones are in view everywhere — in use, ringing, being dialed. The entire scene seems to be emotionally lit from above. I decide to write down what I’m seeing and dive into my bag for a pad.

Damn! No pad, I forgot to bring one yet again. I burrow around, finding only my checkbook on which I start making notes.

Suddenly,an Oakland Police officer is at my side. "Sir, we’re concerned you’re taking down information about our security arrangements. I’ll need to see what you’ve got there".

I hand over my checkbook/notepad. Squinting, he tries to sound out what I’ve written but my handwriting is simply too poor. "Read it out loud, if you would, sir", he orders.

I clear my throat and begin at the top: "Idiot, remember to bring a damned notepad! It’s stupid to have to use a checkbook…."

He laughs, tells me to stop reading. "Nothing personal, buddy,", he tells me, "I know what it feels like to be jacked up. Even cops don’t like cops behind ‘em". The ice broken, and with my wife nowhere in sight, we settle into a discussion.

I ask him if he senses that people are turning to him for reassurance. "Not more so than usual", he says. "There’s a rhythm to our responsibility, it goes up and it goes down, along with the way people see us. You do this long enough and you learn to not take one extreme more seriously than the other".

What has it been like for him these past few days?

"We’ve all been working twelve hour shifts, securing the airport even though it’s empty" he says. "It’ll be back to normal by next week, though. It always is after these incidents, even this one."

"Have you had any bomb scares, or other copycat incidents, I asked?"

"No, but we expect them. The folks that do those things get a sexual thrill out of the attention. Take arsonists, for example. Know how we catch them? We look for motels near the fire scene and take swabs of semen stains on the windows facing the fires."

Can I write that down, I ask?

"Sure thing," my new friend in blue said, handing back my notepad. "You take care now".

It was a long wait until my wife finally arrived. I tried listening to a book on tape, but my mind was like a broken needle on a turntable, sliding back and forth. So I got a beer and sat to reflect on my encounter with Oakland’s finest, and took comfort in his prediction that this, too, shall pass.