April 2002

Item I - Item II

I took the day off from cleaning other peoples' houses to attend an audition for a part. I felt brave and proud for having taken the decision to come, as I had no actual acting experience. But I had to find a way out of my dead-end life - I had to become Someone - and I felt at home among actors. The casting call was being held in a mansion on the grounds of an industrial park. The main hall was appreciably immense, nearly as much as the crowd that filled it. Their diversity was impressive, but what surprised me was a familiarity I felt as I watched them standing in their conversation circles, or strolling casually in happy cliques. It dawned on me that some of these faces were from my past. High school, it must have been. The crowd was made up of reunion attendees too then. Was I even in the right place? Suddenly self-conscious, I felt that familiar, frustrating need to get away from the crowd. But I wouldn't allow myself to hide, not this time. I had to change. I imagined myself wowing the crowd with my dancing abilities, and imagined in my mind's eye lithely hopping up onto one of the tables. There I'd soft-shoe it, my feet knowing exactly where to be, and my arms moving silkily to the rising music. As people turned to face me I would execute a perfect 360 degree turn, and...

Feeling no particular sense of urgency, I walked through the crowd making note of the familiar faces. I stepped through an old iron doorway whose integral glass panels had rippled and bubbled with age, and for a moment thought I saw a coworker of mine through one of the panes. But now who was the older person accompanying him? It came to me: his father - it had to be. Though their forms were distorted through the glass, the similarity of their gait and of their gesture could only be found in families. In fact, as I examined the crowd more closely it appeared that many of the people here were accompanied by their parents. The thought made me feel even more out of place. Yet here I was among them, allowing the press of people to guide me into a dining hall. I found a booth to sit in and waited as people filed past me down the aisle.

"Hey. Mind if we join you?" It was Adam, my coworker. How odd this convergence of social circles. Thinking on it, I found myself at a loss for words and only managed a stammered greeting. As I slid over, my eyes found the face of Adam's father and were there held captive. His was an asymmetrical ruin of a face, one of his eyes gone milky white, and the other sunken. Many of his teeth were missing, and his hair was a disheveled mat. I hadn't noticed any of this before. It was as if the rippled glass through which I'd originally seen this man had reintegrated his face. But though I was taken aback by the visage before me, I certainly didn't want Adam to think that my clumsy greeting was anything to do with it. I looked over to see Adam looking back at me, as if measuring my response.

"It's good to meet you," I said to the father. "How are you liking it all so far?" He smiled then, and when he did his face lit, and his cheeks became rosy, even as his eyes sank further into his skull. It was the sweetest smile I could imagine - one of acceptance, and of genuine relief - and it struck me how brave he was to have come here at all. In truth, he did resemble Adam too. Same general facial structure. Same head.

Later we gathered out on the lawn, waiting for the fireworks display. It was a cool night, but clear, and the crowd chattered to itself as silhouetted figures went about preparing the launch tubes. How close we were to the fireworks! I'd never been this close, in fact, and admired the sizable collection of paper missiles. I watched as one of the figures lit a flame then, and found it odd at how haphazardly he went about lighting the materials. As the explosions started I knew something was wrong. The man I'd been watching had foolishly lit the entire set, and though it happened quickly I felt that I should have mentioned my suspicion to someone before. Now, with the rockets shooting every which way, and the fountains of fire spewing, it was too late. In the ensuing din the crowd took flight. "We're too close," I yelled. "We've got to get back!"

Before I'd taken ten steps smouldering cinders began to rain from the sky. I took my jacket off and covered myself as I hunched down on the lawn next to a brick wall. I peeked out and saw that the air had gone white with fine ash, and the air became sour with it. I pinned the corners of my jacket down like a tent, and tried to use it as a filter through which to breathe. There was a metallic taste in my mouth.

When I awoke I was alone. I wandered the periphery of the grounds - where the grass met the contrasting gravel and girders of the industrial park - and spotted not a soul. Where had everyone gone? I wondered. And how could I have gotten left behind? I felt impatient, but directionless, and set out among the piles of steel and gas tanks. I was resolute in my decision to leave - I wasn't missing out on anything at this point - but now I couldn't find the exit. The high metal walls were like barricades, topped by coiled braids of razor-wire. When I did finally find the gate, it was blocked completely by an immense 18 wheeler which hauled a pyramid of stacked metal pipes. The truck was so large that it barely fit through the doors, and I stood in wonder as I watched the driver slowly maneuver his way into the industrial park. But something wasn't right, and there came an exhausted lowing sound, metallic and final. The truck's central joint had locked - the truck had jackknifed. Its center of gravity compromised, I watched as first the trailer, and then the tractor slid to the side, excruciatingly slow, and capsized with a boom into a dusty ruin. Sirens sounded, and men in uniforms swarmed around the truck and the gate, now blocked. I overheard them proclaim the entrance blocked, and I felt trapped. I couldn't stay here though, and so I continued on, clambering up onto increasingly-dense stacks of steel refuse in an attempt to regain my bearings.

Back at the mansion I found the remainder of the crowd. In truth we were more like refugees now, and the main hall was a compound. People huddled now in perceptibly agitated groups, scheming in their desperation for ways to get back to their homes. But others of them channeled their frustrations into much less useful activities, antagonizing anyone they could by singing show tunes at the tops of their voices. I watched a small group of them from on top of my table, and felt pity for them - a far more charitable feeling than those who I saw glaring at them. I didn't feel a part of this tension, but thought that I could end it by saying something. If I could only just tell them to stop... I'm just this close, I thought, to saying something. If I only could. Standing high on my table, looking down over them all, I felt muted by insecurity. If only I could dance to the music, then I knew that everything could change. I could hear the music even now, and it lifted my spirits. Driven by a sudden euphoric rush, I leapt from the table up onto a tall wooden packing crate, on top of which, inexplicably, was a stand of tiffany floor lamps. And there I danced as the music swelled. People began to notice me, and turned to watch as I leapt up higher, to hover, lighting effortlessly from one stained glass shade to the next, impossibly light, practically dancing on air. And though the lamps began to sway and bob to the music autonomously, my feet never failed to find purchase, and I felt exhilarated; the lamp dancer, light as a feather.

Item I - Item II

I had awoken from a hazy slumber, and heard the last part of a hurriedly-delivered news report. It was hard to catch all the details, but apparently Osama bin Laden had been killed, along with several other former high-ranking Taliban members. U.S. forces had managed to take them all captive, and they had been awaiting processing at an airport in New Jersey. The news footage showed the back of bin Laden's head through a plate glass window - I could tell it was him though he wore no headclothes. The voiceover was saying that this was the last shot taken of the small group, just before George Bush's plane rammed the airport. Apparently Bush had been traveling in Air Force One, and had wrenched the controls from the pilot to commandeer the jet into the terminal at full speed, sacrificing himself to kill bin Laden. There was no information about whether or not Bush had survived the crash, but it was assumed that he had not. Then, my stomach fell as the words were uttered: Bush would now be considered a war hero. Oh, great. Better to silence the opposing force that to ever hear what they had to say. These were my thoughts. And now Bush would be the Martyr. Technical details followed, explaining how Bush could have known the exact whereabouts of bin Laden's holding area, but then everything became quite gray.