Secret Adventures

The One Who Got AwaySmoke! Screams! That dizzying red beacon! Endless flights of stairs! “Return to your offices. The fire department is on the way. Everything is under control.” He bumped shoulders with another escapee choking on the oily fumes and nearly sprawled face first into the murky haze. How much time? How much time? Suddenly, his lungs constricted and he choked back some vomit. Three uniformed fire fighters stormed past with superhuman energy up the stairs and into oblivion. Best case scenario: thirty seconds before suffocation. He had to get out of this stairwell! Groping along the inner wall he found a door handle and twisted it, the unknown party coughing and wheezing behind him. He burst into a ceilinged rain forest, water spraying everywhere, but fortunately no fire! He thought he heard stampeding feet on the floor above him, or was that the rumble of roaring flames? Now, droplets blinded him, but only partially. He lurched down the empty hallway desperately seeking another exit. How far had he gone? Half way? More? His office was on the seventy sixth floor. No elevators in operation. A river of flame like volcanic lava rushed toward him there, forcing him to the stairs. He must be half way, at least. Maybe more! He seemed to have run forever. If only I get could get near a window, he thought, see how much farther to the ground. But what if he had only run ten stories? What if freedom and salvation proved hopeless? Any second he expected sharp pains in his chest and a collapse to the floor. How much farther? How much farther? He saw a sign reading Exit and lunged in that direction. Once again he fell into a stairwell and saw a number painted on the opposite wall. It read two! Two floors to go! Freedom! Survival! Hope welled within him, renewing his strength. He took the steps two, three at a time. One last door! He slammed his shoulder against the bar and fell into an enormous abandoned lobby. A walkway to the other tower? No, that got hit first. Must get out. Get to the street. Get away. As far away as possible. Debris blocked his way to the outside. He vaulted over it, but caught his foot on unseen metal, stumbled and fell. Suddenly, the earth began to shake! An earthquake? Are you serious!? That could only mean the building above him would come down—only seconds to live. With a last jolt of adrenaline he leapt for the glass outer door and tumbled into the smoky open air. His ears rebelled at the deafening, endless thunderclap above and behind him. Crawling now—the trembling ground made it impossible to stand—he pulled himself away, breaking fingernails on the concrete, mercilessly scuffing his once shiny shoes. Blocks and girders crashed to the ground like the footsteps of a giant monster. He prepared to be seized, taken up and eaten alive. Ahead, he could barely discern the sound and outline of the fountain in the square. Rising to his feet, he dove for it and plunged into a shallow pool of water. All went quiet then. The shaking ceased. He held his breath as long as he could, but finally surfaced. All he saw was grey, like a great veil had been pulled over the city, a veil of smoke and dust. He rose to his feet and lifted his wet shirt to his mouth and nose to filter out the toxic air. Seeing nothing, he could only walk in the same direction he crawled, then dove, knowing that at least this led away from the horror behind him. Minutes later, the filthy cloud began to clear and a cacophonous wail of sirens assailed his eardrums. Strangely, he saw no one, and was beginning to think that was a blessing. Soon, she would hear of the disaster, the love of his life. When she learned of his death, would she weep or breathe a sigh of relief? She loved him, that he knew, but life with him had not turned out as they hoped. His bold business venture, so successful at first, had crumbled and they faced the very real possibility of bankruptcy, the loss of their home and the promise offered by an excellent school system for their daughter Janis. Where could they live with no money? Certainly, the government would compensate them somewhat for the loss of records and work time, but that would ultimately amount to nothing. He simply could not face that look of disappointment he detected so many times over the last few months—or was he projecting his own self-doubt on an uncompromisingly loving, supportive and confident face? When he reached the street he gazed to his right and saw masses of uniformed officials scurrying to and fro. In that direction lay his old life, a life of family, perhaps a joyful reunion—and financial ruin. In the other direction lay an empty city street, uncertainty, but the ironclad fact of a two point five million dollar life insurance settlement for his wife and daughter. For long moments which grew more perilous as they increased the likelihood of discovery, he pondered the most critical decision of his life. If he turned left, he could never hold or speak to them again. The reality of his death must be absolute and permanent. Otherwise, fraud and imprisonment awaited, and perhaps not just for him, if Deborah learned of his survival and did not return the money immediately. He pressed his eyes closed, uttered a prayer to an unfamiliar god, and made his decision. He turned left. His mind racing now, he had to prioritize, one of those precious business skills that led to early success. He needed money, cash; he could no longer use his credit cards. In fact, he quickly emptied his wallet and dropped them into the sewage drain so as not to be tempted. Next came the riskiest step in his blossoming plan. The only place where he could gather some funds was his bank branch only two blocks away. Was it damaged? Had the employees been dismissed? If the answer was yes, the situation was hopeless. If the answer was no, he still had problems. How could he cash out his business savings account of seventeen thousand dollars without being recognized or having the transaction recorded? Answer: he couldn’t. This was the one weakness. If he were ever to be discovered, it would be here. Glenn James Fogerty, soaked to the skin and coated with dusty mud, strode confidently into the Apple Union Bank as if it were another business day. He waited patiently for one of the new tellers least likely to recognize him, slapped down his ID and related his plans to the bewildered young woman—bewildered by his appearance, his request, but most of all by the unimaginable horror that had just taken place only blocks away. Apparently, the manager suffered the same condition, because he didn’t seem to register anything that was going on. When Fogerty said, “I’m going to buy a boat—today—with cash,” the manager seemed to understand and signed off without a word. With a hundred and seventy one hundred dollars bill stuffed into his pockets the next thing he needed was a new set of duds. These he bought at a Gap, surprising the staff who stood outside crying as the second tower came crashing down. Who would be buying clothes now, they wondered. Certainly, this man was dazed and needed attention, but they had no spirit for questioning now—reality had vanished for all of them—so one clerk hurriedly rang up the sale and watched the man in jeans and tie-dyed t-shirt vanish from the store forever. Fogerty managed to catch the last ferry to Staten Island, before all but pedestrian traffic ceased in and out of the city. Now, he needed a car. Forget about air travel. All planes would probably be grounded for a day or two, and even when they flew again, he’d have to produce identification. So he hailed a cab with the curious directions to take him to the nearest used car lot, not part of a dealership, but an independent lot where he was less likely to be asked uncomfortable questions. There he bought an old Toyota, a brand noted for its reliability. He would need it, too, because the car already had one hundred and forty-four thousand miles on it, and he would need it to take him to the border of Mexico without incident. There, of course, he would leave the vehicle with the keys inside and hope somebody else could get some use out of it. He gassed up and headed south. Three days later, he ditched the car and bribed a truck driver to hide him in the empty trailer. (They rarely checked vehicles leaving the United States.) From Mexico he could go anywhere, and decided on the South Seas. Fogerty signed on to a tramp steamer, faking his credentials as an experienced cook. (If grilling burgers for holiday parties was experience, then perhaps he did not lie.) They must have fired his predecessor for substandard performance, because none of the crew ever complained about the novel concoctions he threw together for their sustenance. When they put to port near a U.S. Navy outpost, he disembarked, despite the protestations of his skipper. “This is as far as I go,” he insisted. He mollified his crewmates somewhat by leaving behind detailed recipes for canned beans and fresh fish. He spent his first afternoon shopping at the modest general store catering to the military, filling his back pack, which he purchased there also, with inexpensive jewelry and popular treats, assuming the indigenous population could not care less about little green pieces of paper, regardless of their denomination. He assumed correctly, and the accuracy of his insight pleased him. Thanks to a pretty little turquoise bracelet, and a couple of large Three Musketeers bars, two muscular caramel-skinned natives rowed him via outrigger canoe to a nearby islet, which they assured him sported game, wild fruits and unlimited sea food. “Luckily, you came during the dry season,” an interpreter remarked, “but you had better prepare for monsoons and high waves in a few months.” Let’s see if I survive, first, Fogerty thought, then I’ll worry about the elements. When he stepped onto the blinding warm sand near the shadow of palm trees, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply for the first time in over a week. By now Deborah and Janis would have adjusted to the finality of his absence, the tears, if there were any, coming less frequently. That’s when he fell on his hands and knees and finally allowed himself to cry. He rolled over on his back and lay in the sand, basking in the warm tropical sunshine and gentle breeze. Yes, he thought, I can die here. ****** Monday was the first morning Deborah awoke and did not start crying during the first minute of consciousness. She broke habit and did not turn on the television first thing, either. I mean what else will they be talking about, she thought. This will be the biggest news story for months, perhaps years, perhaps for ever. And frankly, the situation angered her, not because of the calloused cruelty behind the act, and not because of the traumatic impact it could have on her daughter and so many thousands of others. It angered her because it seemed to water down her loss. Glenn’s death should have been “special,” for lack of a better word—not one of thousands. His life should have been held up for the community, with grief and attention focused solely on him. But his dying in the biggest terrorist attack in history distracted even their closest family and friends, as if those other thousands were drawing them all away and minimizing the end of this single solitary wonderful human being. It might be part of family lore someday, to know that Glenn James Fogerty died in the World Trade Center, and maybe even a certain degree of respect will result from it—awe even—but that all seemed so cheap, so anti-climactic to the crushing immediate reality of his loss. Deborah rolled out of bed, donned her robe and tapped on Janis’ door. “Time to get up, Honey. You’re going back to school today.” When, she didn’t hear a sound, she tapped a little harder and began to repeat, but was interrupted, “All right! All right! I heard you,” the thirteen year-old growled.