Voices Past, Guest Post Brog
This is loosely based on a NY Times article Cael sent me.
cael here butting in. What you don't know is that Randall and his friends went into buildings in search of pets left behind. And Brian was there on SAR
******************
I feel childishly pleased with myself to have my own key to Parker's apartment. Our apartment? Seems so strange to think of it that way, but strange in a wonderful way. The key is newly minted, from the corner hardware store. We both were grinning like kids when the key making machine ground the blank to fit his key. There is something so intimate about that act, so remnicscent of how we've melded our own bodies together into one. The lock turns, the door opens, and right away I know something is wrong. The place is dark, the long shadows of evening unpenetrated by electric light. I turn on a lamp. Has he gone out? Maybe picking up some dinner, changing our plans to cook together. Only that, and nothing more, as Poe would say. But Clara feeds my fears. Instead or running to greet me with her usual rambunctious joy, her tongue lolling and ears flapping, she slinks over and sits by my feet, imploring me with her eyes.
Something is wrong. Something even dog love can't fix.
"Parker?" I throw my keys on the kitchen counter. No answer. I put some goodies in her bowl, but Clara doesn't even go over to sniff them. I pet her, soothing her, and call out to him again. No answer. But I sense that he isn't out. He's here, somewhere. Silent. Why? I step on a padded manila envelope. The bubble wrap pops under my weight. It came from the chaplain of the New York City Fire Department. I notice the photo of Hero that he keeps on his desk is missing. My dread increases with each step I take. When I push open the bedroom door, it's dark. But I see his form on the bed, curled up on his side. I smell the whiskey. I open the blinds to let in enough ambient light to take in the scene without shocking him. An almost empty bottle of whiskey is beside the bed, no glass. He's not asleep, he's passed out. And the missing photo is lying on the floor, the glass broken, as if he flung it across the room and it bounced off the wall to shatter on the hardwood. Why do I think that's exactly what he did?
"Park?" I ask, my voice soft, my fingers touching his arm. He flinches, mumbles, but doesn't wake. At least he's not dead, not in an alcohol induced coma, not choking on his own vomit. Beside him on the bed is an old style Sony Walkman, the kind that Ipods replaced in function and utility. Earphones are attached to it. It looks clunky, old world, even though the technology isn't all that ancient. Also on the bed is a sheet of paper, crinkled into a ball. I pick up both and carry them out of the room. Maybe it's none of my business, but fuck that. Anything that hurts him this much, I need to know about. I need to help him handle.
I go back, get the whiskey and pour myself a drink, cutting it with a squirt of soda. I sit on the sofa and Clara hops up beside me, quivering as she rests her head on my thigh. "Pet me please," she seems to plead. "Make it better for all of us."
I do what I can. I stroke her head and scratch her ears as I smooth out the letter and read it. It's signed by the chaplain and addressed to Parker. "I've kept this for so long, not knowing the Christian thing to do with it. I told you when we lost Jimmy that his last thoughts were of you, of your happiness. You seemed to believe that was just the kind of thing a chaplain says to soothe those left behind. You're right, of course. I would say that, but in this case, it happens to be true. I have the proof. On that terrible day, we all fulfilled many jobs, trying to control the chaos of tragedy. For a time, I was at the mobile dispatch the department had in place so rescuers could communicate with the rest of us. Everything is taped, for security purposes, and I wrote down the names of those fire fighters who called and when they called in order to keep a complete record. When the ultimate fate of the towers came to pass, the tapes were shared with the authorities in case there was anything in them that might assist in finding what happened and in identifying the victims. But I kept the original loop. Over time, I have transferred that recording into individual cassettes, attributed to each firefighter who called. After much soul searching and against the official advice of the department, I decided the family of each brave soul had a right to know what was said in those final moments. I pray that I am right, that this is something the familes want, and it is not a torture for them, for you. If you'd rather not hear it, just destroy the cassette. It's yours to do with as you want. Jimmy was a hero, but that isn't telling you anything new. My thoughts and prayers are with you both. Jimmy refers to me as Judas because as you know he was always the joker and he teased me that I sold out for thirteen pieces of silver when I bet against his beloved Notre Dame, since we're both Irish. Call me anytime, if I can be of any assistance."
I stare at the Walkman. I don't know what to do. I don't know if I want to hear it or if I should hear it. Clara has fallen asleep with her chin on my thigh and I keep one hand on her after I slowly put the earphones over my ears and rewind the cassette. It's not long, it rewinds quickly. When it starts, it takes me a moment to filter out all the eletronic noise and background sounds behind the voices. It starts with a man saying, "Jimmy, speak up, will you? It's hard to hear what you're saying."
Hero's voice is incredibly calm, strong and colored with that Irish-New York accent that is so easily identified. "Just my luck. I get Judas on the other end."
Chaplain: Where are you, Jimmy? Speak up.
Hero: I can't speak up, Judas, I don't want to alarm the people with me. We aren't going to make it out of here, Judas. I see that now. The only possible exit is blocked. Listen, write down these names. These are the people with me." He lists a group of seven names and then says, "Tell their families they were all incredibly brave and calm and no one is hurt badly and no one is in a panic. We made our way down twenty-six stories, two of us making a chair for Mrs. Carr, who's elderly and just couldn't keep going. Mr. Bradley stepped right up and helped me carry her down. She's sitting here, now, not far from me. The dust is terrible, Judas, hard to see, hard to breathe.
Chaplain: Tell me where you are, Jimmy? Pinpoint for me. We'll send in a team.
Hero: No, Judas, tell everyone to get the hell out of here. This was my third run up those stairs. The other two groups got out. But a wall collapsed between the second and third run and blocked our way. The building is unstable. I can hear the steel twisting and moaning, giving up the ghost. Cement is falling in chunks and powder, we aren't going to make it out. This building is collapsing in on itself. You tell the others to get away, don't let them come in. We've done all we can do. The rest is with God.
Chaplain: Jimmy, we have equipment...you know how we can work miracles.
Hero: I'm almost out of time, the rubble above us is shifting. Listen to me, Judas. Tell Parker I love him, I died loving him, and I died happy because of him. I died doing what it is I love to do. This is a good death. This is as close to God as mortal man can get. Tell him the best thing he can do for me is to live a good life, be happy. Tell him if he never lets another man love him then what we have together didn't teach him a damned thing. Tell him my only regret is that we never got that farm in upstate New York and that we never danced in the Rainbow Room. Tell him...
A horrible sound plays on the recording, someone in the distance screams, there is a crashing noise, like a locomotive just plowed into a brick wall. Hero says "...love..." And then there is nothing. The tape ends at that point. I turn it off. I sit here and realize tears are running down my cheeks. I never knew the man, and I guess to some he will always be my rival. But the horror of 9/11 is a tragedy shared by every American, even those of us who had no personal sacrifice to the terror. I force aside my own reaction to it and place the Walkman on the table. My instinct is to shred that tape, but it's not mine to do anything with, it wasn't even mine to hear. I disturb Clara as I get up and walk back to the dark bedroom.
The bed shifts, but Parker doesn't awake as I pull him into my arms, cradle him next to my body. He inhales with a ragged gasp, and then grows still, whatever horrors he played in his head, it's his own private hell that I can never really appease. But I can love him. I can be here for him when he wakes up. I can give him painkillers and water for his hangover. I can hold him while he grieves. It doesn't seem like much, but it's all I can do. I do it because I love him. I do it because I want to be of some comfort.
I do it for Hero and all the heroes of the tragedy. All the voices lost in the rubble. I do it because I have nothing more to give than this. I press my forehead to the nape of his warm neck and the curve of my body fits his exactly. Matching keys.
Within minutes, I sleep.
cael here butting in. What you don't know is that Randall and his friends went into buildings in search of pets left behind. And Brian was there on SAR
******************
I feel childishly pleased with myself to have my own key to Parker's apartment. Our apartment? Seems so strange to think of it that way, but strange in a wonderful way. The key is newly minted, from the corner hardware store. We both were grinning like kids when the key making machine ground the blank to fit his key. There is something so intimate about that act, so remnicscent of how we've melded our own bodies together into one. The lock turns, the door opens, and right away I know something is wrong. The place is dark, the long shadows of evening unpenetrated by electric light. I turn on a lamp. Has he gone out? Maybe picking up some dinner, changing our plans to cook together. Only that, and nothing more, as Poe would say. But Clara feeds my fears. Instead or running to greet me with her usual rambunctious joy, her tongue lolling and ears flapping, she slinks over and sits by my feet, imploring me with her eyes.
Something is wrong. Something even dog love can't fix.
"Parker?" I throw my keys on the kitchen counter. No answer. I put some goodies in her bowl, but Clara doesn't even go over to sniff them. I pet her, soothing her, and call out to him again. No answer. But I sense that he isn't out. He's here, somewhere. Silent. Why? I step on a padded manila envelope. The bubble wrap pops under my weight. It came from the chaplain of the New York City Fire Department. I notice the photo of Hero that he keeps on his desk is missing. My dread increases with each step I take. When I push open the bedroom door, it's dark. But I see his form on the bed, curled up on his side. I smell the whiskey. I open the blinds to let in enough ambient light to take in the scene without shocking him. An almost empty bottle of whiskey is beside the bed, no glass. He's not asleep, he's passed out. And the missing photo is lying on the floor, the glass broken, as if he flung it across the room and it bounced off the wall to shatter on the hardwood. Why do I think that's exactly what he did?
"Park?" I ask, my voice soft, my fingers touching his arm. He flinches, mumbles, but doesn't wake. At least he's not dead, not in an alcohol induced coma, not choking on his own vomit. Beside him on the bed is an old style Sony Walkman, the kind that Ipods replaced in function and utility. Earphones are attached to it. It looks clunky, old world, even though the technology isn't all that ancient. Also on the bed is a sheet of paper, crinkled into a ball. I pick up both and carry them out of the room. Maybe it's none of my business, but fuck that. Anything that hurts him this much, I need to know about. I need to help him handle.
I go back, get the whiskey and pour myself a drink, cutting it with a squirt of soda. I sit on the sofa and Clara hops up beside me, quivering as she rests her head on my thigh. "Pet me please," she seems to plead. "Make it better for all of us."
I do what I can. I stroke her head and scratch her ears as I smooth out the letter and read it. It's signed by the chaplain and addressed to Parker. "I've kept this for so long, not knowing the Christian thing to do with it. I told you when we lost Jimmy that his last thoughts were of you, of your happiness. You seemed to believe that was just the kind of thing a chaplain says to soothe those left behind. You're right, of course. I would say that, but in this case, it happens to be true. I have the proof. On that terrible day, we all fulfilled many jobs, trying to control the chaos of tragedy. For a time, I was at the mobile dispatch the department had in place so rescuers could communicate with the rest of us. Everything is taped, for security purposes, and I wrote down the names of those fire fighters who called and when they called in order to keep a complete record. When the ultimate fate of the towers came to pass, the tapes were shared with the authorities in case there was anything in them that might assist in finding what happened and in identifying the victims. But I kept the original loop. Over time, I have transferred that recording into individual cassettes, attributed to each firefighter who called. After much soul searching and against the official advice of the department, I decided the family of each brave soul had a right to know what was said in those final moments. I pray that I am right, that this is something the familes want, and it is not a torture for them, for you. If you'd rather not hear it, just destroy the cassette. It's yours to do with as you want. Jimmy was a hero, but that isn't telling you anything new. My thoughts and prayers are with you both. Jimmy refers to me as Judas because as you know he was always the joker and he teased me that I sold out for thirteen pieces of silver when I bet against his beloved Notre Dame, since we're both Irish. Call me anytime, if I can be of any assistance."
I stare at the Walkman. I don't know what to do. I don't know if I want to hear it or if I should hear it. Clara has fallen asleep with her chin on my thigh and I keep one hand on her after I slowly put the earphones over my ears and rewind the cassette. It's not long, it rewinds quickly. When it starts, it takes me a moment to filter out all the eletronic noise and background sounds behind the voices. It starts with a man saying, "Jimmy, speak up, will you? It's hard to hear what you're saying."
Hero's voice is incredibly calm, strong and colored with that Irish-New York accent that is so easily identified. "Just my luck. I get Judas on the other end."
Chaplain: Where are you, Jimmy? Speak up.
Hero: I can't speak up, Judas, I don't want to alarm the people with me. We aren't going to make it out of here, Judas. I see that now. The only possible exit is blocked. Listen, write down these names. These are the people with me." He lists a group of seven names and then says, "Tell their families they were all incredibly brave and calm and no one is hurt badly and no one is in a panic. We made our way down twenty-six stories, two of us making a chair for Mrs. Carr, who's elderly and just couldn't keep going. Mr. Bradley stepped right up and helped me carry her down. She's sitting here, now, not far from me. The dust is terrible, Judas, hard to see, hard to breathe.
Chaplain: Tell me where you are, Jimmy? Pinpoint for me. We'll send in a team.
Hero: No, Judas, tell everyone to get the hell out of here. This was my third run up those stairs. The other two groups got out. But a wall collapsed between the second and third run and blocked our way. The building is unstable. I can hear the steel twisting and moaning, giving up the ghost. Cement is falling in chunks and powder, we aren't going to make it out. This building is collapsing in on itself. You tell the others to get away, don't let them come in. We've done all we can do. The rest is with God.
Chaplain: Jimmy, we have equipment...you know how we can work miracles.
Hero: I'm almost out of time, the rubble above us is shifting. Listen to me, Judas. Tell Parker I love him, I died loving him, and I died happy because of him. I died doing what it is I love to do. This is a good death. This is as close to God as mortal man can get. Tell him the best thing he can do for me is to live a good life, be happy. Tell him if he never lets another man love him then what we have together didn't teach him a damned thing. Tell him my only regret is that we never got that farm in upstate New York and that we never danced in the Rainbow Room. Tell him...
A horrible sound plays on the recording, someone in the distance screams, there is a crashing noise, like a locomotive just plowed into a brick wall. Hero says "...love..." And then there is nothing. The tape ends at that point. I turn it off. I sit here and realize tears are running down my cheeks. I never knew the man, and I guess to some he will always be my rival. But the horror of 9/11 is a tragedy shared by every American, even those of us who had no personal sacrifice to the terror. I force aside my own reaction to it and place the Walkman on the table. My instinct is to shred that tape, but it's not mine to do anything with, it wasn't even mine to hear. I disturb Clara as I get up and walk back to the dark bedroom.
The bed shifts, but Parker doesn't awake as I pull him into my arms, cradle him next to my body. He inhales with a ragged gasp, and then grows still, whatever horrors he played in his head, it's his own private hell that I can never really appease. But I can love him. I can be here for him when he wakes up. I can give him painkillers and water for his hangover. I can hold him while he grieves. It doesn't seem like much, but it's all I can do. I do it because I love him. I do it because I want to be of some comfort.
I do it for Hero and all the heroes of the tragedy. All the voices lost in the rubble. I do it because I have nothing more to give than this. I press my forehead to the nape of his warm neck and the curve of my body fits his exactly. Matching keys.
Within minutes, I sleep.