Page 38 of Rushed

Keenan

September 11, 2001

There it is again.

THUD!

The floor wobbles, bucking like an unbroken colt. Buckling and twisting, it’s making it hard to keep my balance. My ochre lambskin chair rolls away from the desk towards the now open side of the building. I watch as it falls out into the open air of the Manhattan skyline, while the vertical blinds chatter and bang helplessly against the frame.

Everything is amplified. The once quiet office is deafening as the wind rages around me, zipping along like that of the L train.

The pained screams are embarrassing. They ceased to seem coherent a while ago, as all of them mingle, creating a cacophony.

The pungent air is acrid. It stings the back of my throat with a defined mixture of fuel and charred steel.

They told us to stay.

I stayed.

Colleagues called, saying “let’s leave,” but I said no. They told us to stay.

There are noises again. The building shakes and twists as I watch my once clean and perfect view of the sunset windows shatter into a thousand shards across the Italian marble floor. I hope they aren’t marked.

Why am I worrying about the floor when the windows blew out? The glass already ruined the Turkish credenza with deep slashes and scrapes, so why worry about the near perfect marble?

I’ve been hunkered down in the corner of my office, gripping my cell phone as if it can save me, waiting for…well, I don’t quite know what I’m waiting for?

As I scroll through pictures from the previous year’s retreat like a flashback of my life, I look with fresh eyes. Harvey drunk, cuddling up to Cindy—his married secretary—as she avoids eye contact with us. She knew he would want this for her ‘advancement in the firm.’ She knew this is what it would take when she started. We all warned her before she took the position, but she wouldn’t listen. Now look at her, pregnant with his love child.

Next picture.

John, blatantly sucking up to the boss. Kissing her ass so hard there must be a hickey.

Picture upon picture of colleagues doing things they shouldn’t or wouldn’t imagine doing to get ahead. Sex, drugs, whoring to get a perk, a job advancement, a bigger client, a larger office.

Sex, drugs, sex, drugs. It all blurs together.

Who cares that your life is falling apart around you? Who cares that you landed that new account? I doubt the boss does. Where is he? Oh, he’s sitting in his cushy Miami condo while the office falls apart one story at a time.

CRACK!

More screams. Will it ever stop?

They told us to stay.

I stayed.

They said it’s the other building, to go back up.

So I stayed.

I kept working on Senator Jackson’s legal proceedings, diligently doing what I do as everyone gawked and gossiped on the happenings of the others next to us. I projected our outcome. I doubt that will be a factor now.

I can hear Harvey crying out from the room below. With the windows blown out, I now hear his pleas and curses. He’s hoping that some forgiving being will save us all.

I don’t think that’ll happen.

I’ve ignored it all, shutting them out. There’s a loud knock on my door as someone tries to turn the handle. I had to lock it so I wouldn't be pestered or bothered by gossip mongering know-it-alls, whose only need is to feel important for a minute. They’d be the first in front of the camera, saying ‘how they watched it all happen,’ and ‘how they couldn’t believe it.’

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