On the morning of September 11, 2001, Leon woke up in his Brooklyn Heights apartment to a ray of sunshine slowly vaulting over the blinds, rolling over his bed, and gently kissing his forehead. His first words were, “Shit! Stupid alarm.”
He could have sworn that he had set his digital alarm for 5:30 the night before, with ample time for an extensive morning routine that would both support his workflow and also accounted for possible delays every step of the way. He had not slept well, restless about the backlog waiting at his cubicle, and he had planned to clock in early. Now he felt betrayed by General Electric after many years of loyalty to the brand. Maybe it was time for a Dream Machine, or maybe he could go back to analog.
The night before had been full of rituals. Leon had taken a nice shower before climbing into bed with last month’s copy of Reader’s Digest, fully intent on finishing an article on how to financially prepare for tough times. He had left his shoes, slacks, white shirt, tie, and everything else next to his bed in an effort to streamline his morning routine. He had left a bagel, his cookware, and his Café Bustelo sitting next to the gas stove. He had prepared for contingencies by folding some cash into his pants pocket for a possible cab fare. He figured that if he did not need it in the morning, he would need a pick-me-up midday. He aimed to be sitting at his cubicle by no later than 8:30 sharp.
“He had prepared for contingencies by folding some cash into his pants pocket for a possible cab fare.”
He had planned a proper morning—shave, shower, light breakfast, coffee—but his fortune, he concluded, had shifted sometime before the sun rose at 6:31. Now, it was already 7:30 and Leon could only curse the damned clock as his heartbeat synchronized to his rush. He chose to forego breakfast for the sake of time and instead splashed water on his face before hacking his way through a rushed shave. This condensed routine made up for lost time and promised him the possibility of still arriving to his cubicle by 8:30.
As he left his apartment at 8:00 without breakfast, without a coffee, and with a terrible shave, Anna, his beautiful neighbor who worked on the same floor at the office, greeted him. Her blue eyes glistened in the sun toward him, a stare that on any other occasion would have pulled him in. She, too, was running late. His mind only half-processed the kindness, the attention, and manifested a quick nod before she turned back to her apartment, seemingly having forgotten something. He promised himself he would apologize after work for not responding, maybe even ask her to get a drink over the upcoming weekend. For a moment, he allowed himself to wander into a future where she is his wife, they have two kids, and together have a beautiful home in Long Island.
The fantasy quickly dissolved as he quickened his pace into Clark Street station, the smell of brake dust and damp tile replacing the Café Bustelo he had abandoned on his stove. He tripped on a loose tile, cursed under his breath, and fixed his tie as he pressed into the crowd. After riding in the the train for a few minutes, he checked his Seiko: 8:10. Still possible, he told himself. If everything ran smoothly, he could still make a reasonable time. But every stop was met with some sort of delay, and he felt the minutes bleeding away. He checked his Seiko again: 8:15. He felt as if the universe was conspiring to keep him pinned down against his backlog and every part of his being wanted to tap out.
At 8:25, the doors open at his stop. He should have gotten out—but he does not. In the midst of his frustration, he exhales strongly, letting go of time. He decides to ride on. He is going to be late, but he might as well arrive to work with his midday treat already in hand. There is a nice bagel shop near Penn Station where he can also get a good coffee. He overshoots the train ride in an attempt to salvage whatever is left of this horrible morning, then take a cab back to the office. Yes, he will be late, but he can focus on his work fueled by hot coffee and bagels, a small mercy to get back on track.
For the first time that morning, Leon allows himself to breathe. The bagel shop smells of yeast and burnt toast, and he buys a poppy bagel and a house blend coffee, steam curling against his face reminding him of the way he woke up that morning. He glances at his Seiko one last time: 8:45. For the first time all morning, the numbers do not make his stomach tense. He holds both the bagel and the coffee with one hand, and uses his free arm to flag down a cab.
Then he hears a roar. Low. Fast. Wrong. Heads turn upward, and Leon follows their gaze above the cab pulling to the curb beside him. If he makes it home tonight, he is going to ask Anna out.
This short story was inspired by a story my sixth grade history teacher shared a few years post-9/11 about his friend who, upon being late to work at one of the towers, witnessed the first collision from a few streets away.
