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Looking toward the smoke by Walter Jenkins
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Looking toward the smoke |
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Writing
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April 19, 1995. 9:02 a.m. The ringing phone stops me from sleeping off a perfectly good hangover. I don’t have any court appearances today and took advantage of that by going out for a few beers last night. My head pulses like I had about five too many. My wife slides out of bed and answers the phone. I try to roll back to sleep and nurse the pain in my head. My wife tells me it was her sister on the phone and was checking to see if I was all right. There’s been an explosion downtown. I stumble into the living room. My wife is on the couch in front of the TV. I see a picture from a helicopter circling downtown. I recognize many of the buildings. I’ve spent most of my professional life for the last three years going in and around the offices on the screen. The TV news anchor says something about a gas leak. I remember a “boom” in my sleep, but thought it was part of my dream. The explosion happened just three blocks from my office. I instantly become anxious. I don’t have any insurance and if anything happens to my equipment or client files it could ruin me. I tell my wife I have to go check on the office. We throw on some clothes and head to my car. I slow down and wait for her. She’s five months pregnant and needs the extra time. As we start the three-mile trip, I decide which way to go. If I take my usual route, I’ll drive right through the blast site. I turn south on Broadway, two miles from the explosion. Even this far away plate glass windows are broken. I notice the traffic. There would normally only be a few cars headed in each direction. Today there is gridlock. Cars line up, headed north, fleeing downtown. Most of them have their headlights on. An equal number of cars head south. These must be people like me, checking on their offices. Maybe they are people who can help, doctors or nurses. The slow pace frustrates me. A picture of my office being looted flashes through my mind. It makes the traffic delay unbearable. My car radio is on. The broadcaster and I try to piece together what is happening. We finally crawl into downtown. A police officer is in an intersection. As we approach, he leans down to my window. I hand him one of my business cards and explain why I am here. He looks at the card, then me, and waves us through. We park across the street from my office. I see a thick black column of smoke rising but focus my energy on securing my fledgling law practice. We go into my office and look around. Ceiling tiles litter the floor. The heavy light fixture above my desk has been thrown onto my chair. Had I been here, I would have been injured, or worse. I cross the hall to check on an attorney I went to law school with. He is in his office, staring at what used to be a huge plate glass window. He was sitting at his desk, next to the window, when the explosion happened. Miraculously, the glass blew out and not in. I realize my family doesn’t know where I am. I go back to my office and am surprised to find that my phone still works. My brother answers the phone at my parents’ house. I explain what’s going on, but he has a hearing problem. Even under the best circumstances it’s hard to talk to him on the phone. I finally get him to understand he needs to turn the TV on and tell Mom and Dad that I’m OK. My wife is waiting outside. We walk around the corner and head towards the blast site. I notice emergency vehicles from several different local cities. It must have been a big blast. Our shoes don’t touch pavement. Every inch of the sidewalk is covered with broken glass. We walk one block south to the street where the explosion happened. The glass beneath us crunches with every step. The safe, quiet streets I have walked hundreds of times resemble war-torn Middle East footage I’ve seen on the news. The air is filled with dust. Two blocks away I see the source of the smoke. It’s the federal building. The north side of the building is completely gone. It looks like it has been scooped out with a giant spoon. The entrails of the building are exposed. Wires and aluminum strips normally hidden hang over a lip of broken concrete. The wind blows and pieces of drywall fall. Sheets of paper float in the air and stand out against the clear blue sky. There is silence, except for a few distant sirens and car alarms. North of the building is a parking lot. Three cars are on fire and smoke marks their position. The smell of burning tires hits me. Helpless to do anything, I shake my head in disbelief. Across the street, three women sit on the curb. It’s a clear spring day and they are wearing light dresses. The fabric dances in the breeze. All three are covered in dust. The one on the right is wearing a brown sundress and her left arm is covered in blood. They have been crying. Even across four lanes of blacktop I see streaks in the dirt on their faces. People line the streets, many of whom have blank stares. A heavy-set man in his late forties stumbles down the middle of the street. His tie is loosened and he has a gash over his right eye. Blood is running down his face and onto his shirt. His eyes look forward but he is oblivious to what he sees. He’s in shock. In the middle of the street is a silver Nissan. It must have been in the intersection just as the bomb went off. All of the windows are blown out. The top has been crushed. The center of the roof is pushed down into a perfect “V”. I walk to the car to see if anyone is inside. It’s empty. I notice a child’s seat in the back. I think of the baby growing in my wife’s belly. I look to see if there is any blood in the seat. Thankfully, there is none. My wife and I return to my office in silence. I clean the dust off of my computer and equipment. I think that by taking this action I can grasp control from whatever evil forced this horror upon us. I need something, anything, to be normal. A sheriff walks in. There is a threat of another bomb and he tells us to leave. His stern face tells me he’s serious. He notices the phone on my desk and asks if it works. He needs to call his wife. I’m glad to let him use it. As someone picks up the phone on the other end, his expression changes. He hands me back the phone, looks me in the eye and thanks me. I can see how relieved he is. My wife has gone outside and I find her on the corner, looking towards the smoke. She’s scared and wants to go home. I want to stay. I’m worried that if I leave something will happen and I’ll lose the office and my livelihood. Her hands are on her stomach, cupping our child. Tears are in her eyes. I wonder if there is anything I can say that will convince her I should stay. I offer to let her take the car and then I will find my way home later. She refuses. I can’t change her mind and reluctantly agree to go home. I grab a few things from the office. I don’t know when I’ll be back so I take my laptop and some client files. The idea of not being able to go to my office causes my chest to tighten. I take what may be my last look at my office. I lock the door and walk to the car. As we leave, I wonder if I will ever be able to go back. Walter Jenkins is a professional writer and speaker. Learn more about hime by visiting http://www.walterbjenkins.com
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