08.07.08
News induced flashbacks
I’ve been watching the story about Bruce Ivins with great interest. The fact that he committed suicide and then the authorities have pretty much indicted him has kept my attention lately. For more than one reason, it had my attention and I found myself checking for updates more and more often than I usually do - my disdain for the media put in check by my unerring need to see how this story panned out.
Let’s say that I have more than a ‘passing curiosity’ about it.
I was there when it happened.
If you look back in the articles I’ve posted over the years here, you’ll see that I’ve made mention of the ‘Major Metropolitan Newspaper’ that I used to work for. It was the New York Post - I usually avoided calling it by name, partly to avoid grousing about a former employer (because, hey - you never know) and because I did like the cache’ that came with it; the way people’s eyes would light up when they asked where I worked - I got many a free drink because of it, and I made more than a few friends because of the discussions it generated.
There was something about being in the middle of a newsroom, of having people shouting out what was happening all over the globe at that exact moment, monitors blaring newscasts 24/7, copy-editors composing witty headlines to sum it all up… We were still reeling from 9/11; nightly jaunts to Langan’s to dull the overload from so many hours of non-stop chaos, seeing our co-workers and comrades come back from being buried in rubble, the sirens, the endless waiting for the next shoe to drop. Between the work, the stress, the lack of sleep and the booze - nerves were stretched taut.
And then the Anthrax Attacks began.
At first it was just another ‘what now??!!’ moment; another ball of angst and shite to throw on the compost heap. It was a far-away thing, down in Florida, on the radar, just another sign of how the world was crumbling - a bit here; a bit there. But it was still far away. We had our drama to deal with and if some publisher in the deep south got hit with a whack-job mailing poison to his op-ed column then it got promptly filed under “Not My Problem.”
Until we got it.
There was a huge flurry of activity and a lot of cops floating around the office that day. I thought that Dunleavey had gotten into another fight and some pissed off copykid was pressing charges. I had asked my buddy Delmo what had happened. He told me that Op-ed was shut down because Johanna had opened an envelope with white powder in it. Not Johanna, the poor girl who ripped a tendon in her leg dancing at the Christmas Party; not Johanna who I went to the Steely Dan concert with and used her injury to get us front row seats while I assumed the identity of the head features editor… She was out. Taking Cipro. It was being passed around like a bowl of candy. People were afraid. The FBI was there and asking questions. People were assuming it was Bin Laden. No one wanted to touch anything, to eat in the office. Weirdly though, the smoking room was packed with people who touched all sorts of things and then brought their hands close to their mouths and noses… We were the walking infected. Op-ed was walled off in plastic, like the quarantine setup they used in E.T. People came down with all sorts of mysterious maladies. I had walked off the job when the guys in the moon-suits came in to spray the whole place down and they didn’t tell me it was happening, as in - right next door. If they didn’t blow stray anthrax spores on me, I’m sure the toxic chemicals would have been a blast to inhale. So I walked off the job and got drunk. Pissed that we couldn’t do anything to get back at the bastards who did this.
We did strike back. Medications were given, and we didn’t lose anyone. We mourned those who had fallen to this new disaster. Hadn’t we suffered enough? We struck back with words - those who had caught this virulent disease and live to tell had written impassioned responses - telling how they would not be cowed. That in this dark hour, we would not be defeated.
And we did it in NY Post style.
Like I said; I’ve been watching this story with great interest. As soon as it started creeping back into the headlines, it brought me back to where I was at that time. Living in a money pit loft that I had absorbed from a heroin junkie who fled the state. Living with bunch of money sucking roommates that seemed intent on destroying said loft with all abandon. Dealing with being abysmally single in a city doomed to be a crater in the near future. My nightly forays to the pub taking a toll on my wallet and waistline. I made a few enemies in those days, I pray for forgiveness as much as I pray for the strength to forgive. And when people I worked with, friends and comrades, had died, mercifully from things other than terrorism - I found that I could no longer bear working there. I had left - probably prematurely, and ended up doing one of those weird lateral moves that seems to take a lot of energy and make no sense in the long run…
But, hey - I ended up here: In the Midwest. I’ve got a job and a girl who loves me enough to make it permanent. And all told - things could have turned out a lot worse. I just look back on the person I was and wonder how I managed to keep it all together, to not sink or fall, to somehow keep pushing forward - no matter what was thrown in my path…
