nine eleven

Like any other Tuesday, I was scared awake at 4:00am Central Time by the sound of my alarm clock--which I purchased precisely because it seemed to have been rigged somehow with a tractor-trailer's horn as the alarm. I began my usual routine, which admittedly was not my favorite nor the most conducive to my natural sleeping patterns. Nevertheless, my wife and I were still in school and needed the money that my early morning job provided. So, there I was shuffling out of the house at 4:40 in the morning and driving to open up the Maryland Farms YMCA located in a business park in beautiful and wealthy Brentwood, TN. Alongside our friendly maintenance man, Al--who basically kept the place running and was undoubtedly a morning person--I was the front desk staff-person who cheerfully greeted early-rising gym-rats who were there to burn some calories before their workdays started. Al had been there for an hour already when I showed up to turn the lobby lights on and unlock the front doors at 5:00am.

Outside the doors stood the over-achievers--those grossly over-motivated souls who pace and check their watches outside the gym before it opens. After checking them in, I busied myself with the normal stuff: brewing a fresh pot of coffee, folding the warm towels, getting the computers and printers warmed up and working properly, and making sure that all of the televisions that lined the walls in front of the treadmills were turned on. Each television was tuned to a different news network each displaying various scrolling strips of headlines and market results. The first few hours rolled by normally. There were the usual few complaints about the temperature of the pool, or the quality of the coffee, or a jammed locker.

At 7:00am I was joined up front by Mary Catherine who although still in high school had agreed to take an absence that day to cover a shift for her co-worker and aunt, Penny, who usually worked mornings with me. I'm not positive that was legal, but I was okay with it. I was tired of being alone, and Mary Catherine was always fun to work with--talkative, upbeat, and hard-working, but none of these traits annoyingly so. With a constant smile, Mary Catherine checked in new guests and held a conversation with me about her plans for that coming weekend.

The sound came first.

I'll never forget that sound--it was the sound of shock and fear. Even through the plate glass windows separating the welcome counter from the fitness floor, I heard a collective groaning. It was a noise so powerful that it stopped all conversation. I turned to see what was the cause and across every television screen was the same image... American Airlines Flight 11 had hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Smoke was pouring out of it like it had a volcano on it's side. Mary Catherine left me at the desk to go and listen to the television broadcasts.

I remember how odd it was in that precise moment and place. Behind me was a stunned crowd standing still in the middle of the gym--workout gear on and tennis shoes laced up, ready to go, sweat already falling, but no one moving at all. In front of me was a steady stream of people coming in the doors fresh from their cars--some laughing and cutting up, some singing, some smiling and greeting me jovially--all completely unaware of what was taking place. But before they even reached the counter, I watched the confusion and concern wash over them. Some wandered to the lockers trying to make sense of things but stay on schedule. Most simply stood dumbfounded watching a screen through the windows unable to even hear the broadcast.

The initial news reports coming from the scene were more panic than news. Mary Catherine returned with an update, but with details we later would learn were not accurate. Apparently, people on the news broadcasts had speculated (hoped?) that this was not a passenger plane--she reported to me that it was a cargo jet. I remember checking in a few guests whom I comforted with this misinformation.

As we spent a couple of minutes discussing how this sort of accident happens, we watched as United Airlines Flight 175 was flown into the South Tower.

This time, I went to listen. It was just moments later that the grim realization of what we were watching was becoming clear. These were not accidents. These were not cargo planes. These were commercial flights, and the planes had been hijacked. The targets were intentional. These were acts of terrorism.

It was 8:03am Central Time when the second tower was hit. The towers were collapsing and people were beginning to jump from the buildings. I watched it in real time. Many of those standing near me were already late for work, but could not pull themselves away from the television screens.

I went back to my post at the front desk, and I reported the awful truth to Mary Catherine who started crying. Most everyone either wept and grieved aloud or stood solemn and stunned. We were in slow motion.

And I don't know why, but I remember two young and attractive late-twenty-something men in grey suits walking past the desk on their way out to their jobs. I heard one of them say to the other, "Whoa! I just hope this doesn't affect the market too badly." The other nodded and with a brief laugh. The walked out the door and were gone.

I remember hating them.

I hated that their first thought was about money, not people. As I watched them through the doors, I hated their nice suits and fancy cars. I hated their nice hair-cuts. I hated their greed-soaked priorities. Truthfully and inexplicably, in that moment, my anger at these two was greater than my anger towards the terrorists who had hijacked the planes and flown them into the towers.

I look back now and sometimes surmise that although we were nothing alike in so many ways, in this one small but significant way there might not have been too much difference between me and the hijackers. I've never confessed that until now. Even now, I wonder if I should admit that.

One thing that the news got more right than they could know was this:  none of us was innocent anymore.

Every year this date reminds me that every human heart needs healed. Especially mine.