Free Cell
You sit and wait for the call, because it’s all you can do, because there’s nothing else that can be done. You can’t go anywhere, because there’s nowhere else to go. You light up again, and you feel the guilt about smoking again.
She wouldn’t be happy about that.
You play games with yourself. You play a game of free cell on your computer, and you say that if I win this one she’ll call, she’ll be okay. And then you don’t finish it because you know you won’t win, and you don’t want to be responsible for it. You don’t want it to be your fault.
You call: hi, it’s me, I’m just checking to see that you’re okay, give me a call when you can.
You call: hi, me again, just checking to see if you’re back yet. Call me.
You call, and you can’t get a line.
You think about it, and then try to not think about it. You remember, and you try not to remember. And you wait for the call.
You turn on the television, and you see the images from cameras, you see it from every angle but your own. And you see it from you own, in your head. You see the impact, you see the fire. You see the faces around you. You don’t see the faces in the building, because you can’t.
You don’t see her face. You don’t even know yet.
You don’t say her name; you don’t even realise you don’t. You don’t say it out loud anyway. You say it in your head though. Or someone does.
You replay the last conversation a lot. You wonder what she meant. Even though it was straight forward. She’s cryptic a lot. She asked how are you a lot. You were okay. You were a bit hungry, and a bit pissed off, because sometimes life can piss you off.
It doesn’t mean anything though; it never does. It’s just life.
It was a big flame though, and the thought keeps coming back to you. More than the other thought. You don’t want to think about that one. Sometimes you do, though – sometimes you can’t help but think it. You don’t look at the photos. Not yet. You don’t cry. You don’t even know how to. There are so many things that you don’t know how to do. You wonder if you ever did.
You can put the red eight there, but then what.
Maybe you should start at the beginning. Maybe it will help. You remember walking out of the subway station, and you were a little bit late. That happens a lot at the moment. You can see the paper in the sky, and you can smell the fire, but you don’t know where it is. You can see ash in the woman’s hair, the black woman with the elaborate perm. It must take her hours to get ready in the morning.
They tell you upstairs, and you don’t know how to believe them. That’s because it’s unbelievable. You don’t think about them then, the people, because you can’t. It’s all abstract at the moment. It doesn’t stay that way.
You are talking, or maybe being talked to, but you’re not sure and they’re probably not either. No one knows what to say, what to do. You’re there and someone is talking and you hear the bang. It’s very loud. You look out the window because you don’t think of anywhere else to look, and you see the flame engulf the building.
And then the flame is gone and the smoke is about to start and you wonder if you really saw it or not. There’s no one next to you to ask. They’ve gone to look from another window, and more people go there so you follow them. It has a better view. Better is a relative term.
Someone has turned on a television somewhere, but it has no signal. You fiddle with the aerial, although you’ve got no idea what you are doing. You leave it and go to the window, but it still looks the same. You still don’t know if it’s real or not though. It is – someone fixed the television, and it is showing pictures of it.
It’s real if it’s on television.
Television is good – it can make things seem more remote, which means you don’t have to worry about it so much. You don’t have to think. You can say this is terrible, and not really have to feel much about it. It can be someone else. You don’t need to smoke yet, because it’s not you, and it hasn’t happened.
You go back and look out your window, and it’s real now because it’s on television, and you’re not remote after all. You don’t know what to do, and no one does. And you talk again, or maybe get talked to, but it doesn’t matter because you’re not taking it in because you can’t, because it’s too much, too big. The guy you are talking to, or maybe who is talking to you, can’t take it in either. And you’re not thinking about her yet, because it hasn’t occurred to you to think about her yet. Why would you – her office is up town.
Then you hear the rumble, and you look out the window, because that’s what this morning has taught you to do. And while it’s happening you know it’s not real, because there’s no way this could ever happen. You know this is a dream, and that’s almost a relief.
The building is falling down.
You were going to have dinner with her tonight up there. You were going to eat and drink and talk and smile. And flirt too, because you always do. She does too. Because after all these years there’s something there, and you know it and she knows it, and it goes unsaid because all the best things can be left that way. Because history is mostly funneled into books and left there, and that’s how we deal with it now. Because now isn’t then, but a reply.
You don’t think about back then, because sometimes it hurts and you don’t need the pain. But it was good too, even if you forget that. It’s easier to forget sometimes. When you see her you remember the good, because she’s there and she reminds you of the good bits. Because there are new good bits, and because you don’t talk about the bad bits, because it serves no purpose. And because it’s good to see her anyway, anyhow.
The building is falling, and it’s coming towards you.
And your legs turn to jelly. And you body moves to go. And you go. And you grab your jacket, and you grab a new book, because you finished your old book on the subway to work, and you don’t want to be without a book. You don’t do any of this consciously, but you notice it later. When you can think again. You hear people, lots of people, telling other people to leave, but no one is moving. You go out to the lift well, and your secretary is there, and another woman you don’t know, and a guy you do. She’s called the lift and the lift has arrived, and you know that you shouldn’t get into a lift in case of emergency, because everyone know that, and you say you shouldn’t get into the lift.
You get into the lift, and you go down to the ground.
You know a friend who works at her company, and you know his home number. A land line, because he doesn’t have a cell phone. He always refused to get one; couldn’t see the need. You should have thought of him earlier. He lives uptown, and maybe she’s stuck up there.
You call: hi, I hope you’re alright, and everyone else there. Give me a call.
You call: hi, me again, just want to see if you’re okay.
You call, and you can’t get a line.
Maybe they’re out somewhere.
Maybe the function ran over, but she couldn’t get a phone to work.
Maybe they are stuck somewhere and can’t call.
You know the public phones don’t work.
You get to the ground and the doors open and the dust comes in, and you get out of the lift. The security guys have masks and they push you out the back, into the offices there that you’ve never been into. And they shut the door behind you and the air is clear again and there are people looking at you. And you look out the window and it looks as if someone has blacked out the sun. And you wonder if the building landed on another building, and you wonder if that building is hurt and bleeding, and you wonder if that building is going to fall. And you wonder if that building is going to fall on your building. And you wonder if your building is going to fall on you.
You can’t go outside because you can’t breathe out there. They dragged a guy in off the street, a guy who was outside when the building fell, and you watch him as he washes his eyes, his face, his hands. You watch him as he coughs and splutters. You ask him what landed where. You ask him if you can go outside. You ask him if he’s okay. You hand him paper towels. He doesn’t know. He’s just happy to be inside.
Maybe if I drop the nine across. Maybe she’ll be okay.
It looks different on television. Everything looks different on television. On television it fell straight down on itself, over and over, from every angle. From your window it looked like an avalanche. From your window it looked like a lava flow. Maybe the television lies. Maybe your window does.
You don’t find out until it’s dark. You get a call from your friend, and he is ringing to make sure you’re okay. You are. He called her to get your number because he mislaid it. Because he’s her family. He called her work, and they told him because he’s her family. Maybe you should have called there, but you didn’t think of that. They told him she was in the building, the one you couldn’t see next to the one you could, and he told you.
She hasn’t called you yet.
Your phone rings: it’s not her.
Your phone rings: it’s not her.
Your phone rings: it’s the first guy calling to see if she’s called.
Your phone rings: it’s not her.
If you smoke this one with an odd number of drags she’ll call. Or maybe it was an even number. Start again. Don’t look at the photos though.
You wait downstairs, and you look out the window. You change your message on your phone to let people know you are okay. You hope you weren’t too early in doing that. You think about how bad it would be if someone rang and heard that you were okay if you weren’t.
There are two messages already. She hasn’t called yet. You don’t think that there’s anything wrong with that; it’s only just happened. You heard your messages too early. She’ll call. You talk to more people, or they talk to you. Someone says, did you hear that? You didn’t, so it didn’t happen.
The television heard it.
After you hear you think the worst. You also wait for her to call. You can do both of these things simultaneously. You think about what she would do in that building, when that was happening. You only think this when you don’t realise you are. You only think it when you think you aren’t thinking. When you realise you are thinking that, you stop and think about something else.
You think about what you will say when she calls.
You think about how you will get back into town to see her.
You think about holding her, and her holding you.
You think about other things.
Good things.
You get out of the building when it clears outside and you walk down to the river, and the bridge is sweeping thousands of people home, and other people are handing out water and towels and whatever you need because people are basically good, and you keep walking and blah blah blah because you got out and good for you.
You get onto the bridge and keep walking, and you keep looking back because you do, and your eyes keep going back to the space where the buildings were, the way that your tongue keeps going back to the space where a lost tooth once was. Maybe they’re there behind the smoke. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it’s the television playing a practical joke.
If you had kept that three of diamonds you could have used it now.
The television doesn’t tell you anything about her. You hate the television. All you would need is one comment so you knew she was okay. Then you could close this stupid game. If you turn off your computer does it count as a lost game or not? The computer doesn’t know about her, so you like the computer more than the television. It should let you win though. It would if it really liked you.
Is Carol there?
No, you have the wrong number.
This is Barbara.
I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
Is Carol there?
You saw her on television. You were falling asleep, but you know what you saw. You saw her walking past City Hall, you saw her flicking her hair out of her face like she does. You saw her wearing her sunglasses and her handbag. You saw her wearing the red and black shirt like she always used to wear. Maybe she has new clothes now, but she must have kept that top. It was her favourite.
That was last night. Maybe the phones still aren’t working outwards. They’re not working inwards. She’ll call when the phones are fixed. Don’t look at the photos yet. Don’t cry yet. Don’t feel yet.
I need some cigarettes; come and walk with me to the shops. Bring your cell phone with you. You can leave the computer switched on if you want.
Maybe if you do a hard boot close it won’t count.
(September 2001)
She wouldn’t be happy about that.
You play games with yourself. You play a game of free cell on your computer, and you say that if I win this one she’ll call, she’ll be okay. And then you don’t finish it because you know you won’t win, and you don’t want to be responsible for it. You don’t want it to be your fault.
You call: hi, it’s me, I’m just checking to see that you’re okay, give me a call when you can.
You call: hi, me again, just checking to see if you’re back yet. Call me.
You call, and you can’t get a line.
You think about it, and then try to not think about it. You remember, and you try not to remember. And you wait for the call.
You turn on the television, and you see the images from cameras, you see it from every angle but your own. And you see it from you own, in your head. You see the impact, you see the fire. You see the faces around you. You don’t see the faces in the building, because you can’t.
You don’t see her face. You don’t even know yet.
You don’t say her name; you don’t even realise you don’t. You don’t say it out loud anyway. You say it in your head though. Or someone does.
You replay the last conversation a lot. You wonder what she meant. Even though it was straight forward. She’s cryptic a lot. She asked how are you a lot. You were okay. You were a bit hungry, and a bit pissed off, because sometimes life can piss you off.
It doesn’t mean anything though; it never does. It’s just life.
It was a big flame though, and the thought keeps coming back to you. More than the other thought. You don’t want to think about that one. Sometimes you do, though – sometimes you can’t help but think it. You don’t look at the photos. Not yet. You don’t cry. You don’t even know how to. There are so many things that you don’t know how to do. You wonder if you ever did.
You can put the red eight there, but then what.
Maybe you should start at the beginning. Maybe it will help. You remember walking out of the subway station, and you were a little bit late. That happens a lot at the moment. You can see the paper in the sky, and you can smell the fire, but you don’t know where it is. You can see ash in the woman’s hair, the black woman with the elaborate perm. It must take her hours to get ready in the morning.
They tell you upstairs, and you don’t know how to believe them. That’s because it’s unbelievable. You don’t think about them then, the people, because you can’t. It’s all abstract at the moment. It doesn’t stay that way.
You are talking, or maybe being talked to, but you’re not sure and they’re probably not either. No one knows what to say, what to do. You’re there and someone is talking and you hear the bang. It’s very loud. You look out the window because you don’t think of anywhere else to look, and you see the flame engulf the building.
And then the flame is gone and the smoke is about to start and you wonder if you really saw it or not. There’s no one next to you to ask. They’ve gone to look from another window, and more people go there so you follow them. It has a better view. Better is a relative term.
Someone has turned on a television somewhere, but it has no signal. You fiddle with the aerial, although you’ve got no idea what you are doing. You leave it and go to the window, but it still looks the same. You still don’t know if it’s real or not though. It is – someone fixed the television, and it is showing pictures of it.
It’s real if it’s on television.
Television is good – it can make things seem more remote, which means you don’t have to worry about it so much. You don’t have to think. You can say this is terrible, and not really have to feel much about it. It can be someone else. You don’t need to smoke yet, because it’s not you, and it hasn’t happened.
You go back and look out your window, and it’s real now because it’s on television, and you’re not remote after all. You don’t know what to do, and no one does. And you talk again, or maybe get talked to, but it doesn’t matter because you’re not taking it in because you can’t, because it’s too much, too big. The guy you are talking to, or maybe who is talking to you, can’t take it in either. And you’re not thinking about her yet, because it hasn’t occurred to you to think about her yet. Why would you – her office is up town.
Then you hear the rumble, and you look out the window, because that’s what this morning has taught you to do. And while it’s happening you know it’s not real, because there’s no way this could ever happen. You know this is a dream, and that’s almost a relief.
The building is falling down.
You were going to have dinner with her tonight up there. You were going to eat and drink and talk and smile. And flirt too, because you always do. She does too. Because after all these years there’s something there, and you know it and she knows it, and it goes unsaid because all the best things can be left that way. Because history is mostly funneled into books and left there, and that’s how we deal with it now. Because now isn’t then, but a reply.
You don’t think about back then, because sometimes it hurts and you don’t need the pain. But it was good too, even if you forget that. It’s easier to forget sometimes. When you see her you remember the good, because she’s there and she reminds you of the good bits. Because there are new good bits, and because you don’t talk about the bad bits, because it serves no purpose. And because it’s good to see her anyway, anyhow.
The building is falling, and it’s coming towards you.
And your legs turn to jelly. And you body moves to go. And you go. And you grab your jacket, and you grab a new book, because you finished your old book on the subway to work, and you don’t want to be without a book. You don’t do any of this consciously, but you notice it later. When you can think again. You hear people, lots of people, telling other people to leave, but no one is moving. You go out to the lift well, and your secretary is there, and another woman you don’t know, and a guy you do. She’s called the lift and the lift has arrived, and you know that you shouldn’t get into a lift in case of emergency, because everyone know that, and you say you shouldn’t get into the lift.
You get into the lift, and you go down to the ground.
You know a friend who works at her company, and you know his home number. A land line, because he doesn’t have a cell phone. He always refused to get one; couldn’t see the need. You should have thought of him earlier. He lives uptown, and maybe she’s stuck up there.
You call: hi, I hope you’re alright, and everyone else there. Give me a call.
You call: hi, me again, just want to see if you’re okay.
You call, and you can’t get a line.
Maybe they’re out somewhere.
Maybe the function ran over, but she couldn’t get a phone to work.
Maybe they are stuck somewhere and can’t call.
You know the public phones don’t work.
You get to the ground and the doors open and the dust comes in, and you get out of the lift. The security guys have masks and they push you out the back, into the offices there that you’ve never been into. And they shut the door behind you and the air is clear again and there are people looking at you. And you look out the window and it looks as if someone has blacked out the sun. And you wonder if the building landed on another building, and you wonder if that building is hurt and bleeding, and you wonder if that building is going to fall. And you wonder if that building is going to fall on your building. And you wonder if your building is going to fall on you.
You can’t go outside because you can’t breathe out there. They dragged a guy in off the street, a guy who was outside when the building fell, and you watch him as he washes his eyes, his face, his hands. You watch him as he coughs and splutters. You ask him what landed where. You ask him if you can go outside. You ask him if he’s okay. You hand him paper towels. He doesn’t know. He’s just happy to be inside.
Maybe if I drop the nine across. Maybe she’ll be okay.
It looks different on television. Everything looks different on television. On television it fell straight down on itself, over and over, from every angle. From your window it looked like an avalanche. From your window it looked like a lava flow. Maybe the television lies. Maybe your window does.
You don’t find out until it’s dark. You get a call from your friend, and he is ringing to make sure you’re okay. You are. He called her to get your number because he mislaid it. Because he’s her family. He called her work, and they told him because he’s her family. Maybe you should have called there, but you didn’t think of that. They told him she was in the building, the one you couldn’t see next to the one you could, and he told you.
She hasn’t called you yet.
Your phone rings: it’s not her.
Your phone rings: it’s not her.
Your phone rings: it’s the first guy calling to see if she’s called.
Your phone rings: it’s not her.
If you smoke this one with an odd number of drags she’ll call. Or maybe it was an even number. Start again. Don’t look at the photos though.
You wait downstairs, and you look out the window. You change your message on your phone to let people know you are okay. You hope you weren’t too early in doing that. You think about how bad it would be if someone rang and heard that you were okay if you weren’t.
There are two messages already. She hasn’t called yet. You don’t think that there’s anything wrong with that; it’s only just happened. You heard your messages too early. She’ll call. You talk to more people, or they talk to you. Someone says, did you hear that? You didn’t, so it didn’t happen.
The television heard it.
After you hear you think the worst. You also wait for her to call. You can do both of these things simultaneously. You think about what she would do in that building, when that was happening. You only think this when you don’t realise you are. You only think it when you think you aren’t thinking. When you realise you are thinking that, you stop and think about something else.
You think about what you will say when she calls.
You think about how you will get back into town to see her.
You think about holding her, and her holding you.
You think about other things.
Good things.
You get out of the building when it clears outside and you walk down to the river, and the bridge is sweeping thousands of people home, and other people are handing out water and towels and whatever you need because people are basically good, and you keep walking and blah blah blah because you got out and good for you.
You get onto the bridge and keep walking, and you keep looking back because you do, and your eyes keep going back to the space where the buildings were, the way that your tongue keeps going back to the space where a lost tooth once was. Maybe they’re there behind the smoke. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it’s the television playing a practical joke.
If you had kept that three of diamonds you could have used it now.
The television doesn’t tell you anything about her. You hate the television. All you would need is one comment so you knew she was okay. Then you could close this stupid game. If you turn off your computer does it count as a lost game or not? The computer doesn’t know about her, so you like the computer more than the television. It should let you win though. It would if it really liked you.
Is Carol there?
No, you have the wrong number.
This is Barbara.
I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
Is Carol there?
You saw her on television. You were falling asleep, but you know what you saw. You saw her walking past City Hall, you saw her flicking her hair out of her face like she does. You saw her wearing her sunglasses and her handbag. You saw her wearing the red and black shirt like she always used to wear. Maybe she has new clothes now, but she must have kept that top. It was her favourite.
That was last night. Maybe the phones still aren’t working outwards. They’re not working inwards. She’ll call when the phones are fixed. Don’t look at the photos yet. Don’t cry yet. Don’t feel yet.
I need some cigarettes; come and walk with me to the shops. Bring your cell phone with you. You can leave the computer switched on if you want.
Maybe if you do a hard boot close it won’t count.
(September 2001)