The Honeymoon Is Over

Nineteen years ago today, I woke up to the first day of my life as a married man living with his Wife. Lindsay and I dated for just over a year and a half and were engaged for almost seven more months before we met at the altar. In that time we maintained separate residences, budgets, and belongings, only merging our individual lives into one upon the evening of our wedding ceremony.

Before moving into her tiny apartment, I'd gone through all of my belongings to eliminate those that were redundant or of a substandard nature and made large contributions to Goodwill, as well as placing several items on the sidewalk in front of my old house with a "free" sign on them. So when I woke up that morning, everything that hadn't gone with me on our honeymoon was in boxes stacked up in the living room, waiting to find their new home amongst the accoutrements of Lindsay's life. The rest was in a half-empty suitcase which I would unpack in dribs and drabs over the next couple of days, a habit that remains with me to this day, which still drives Lindsay crazy. If only she'd known then...

We were lazing in bed, enjoying the last day we would have off from work together before we had to leave the blissful equanimity of the honeymoon phase of our lives. Our plan for the day was to go to Sears and spend some of the generous gift card that we received from loved ones at our wedding, purchasing, among other things, a new television to replace the 70s-era console that dominated the living room. That oak-paneled beast was bigger than a Smart-Car, and was at that moment walled in behind stacks of my boxed belongings.

If it hadn't been for the alarm we might have lingered in carefree lassitude for hours longer, believing that there was not an evil in all the world. For if there was trouble anywhere on earth, we were in the place that it was furthest from. And indeed, it was far away. Just not far enough.

The clock radio came to life unbidden, braying the inane banter of one of those morning shows designed to propel you out of bed by the sheer force of the sunshine they blow up your ass. But what actually cleared the sleepy cobwebs from my brain was attempting to decipher how a plane hitting a skyscraper could be part of some insipid comedy bit they were riffing on. The second they mentioned the Pentagon I knew we were in trouble.

I tore out of the bed and ran towards the living room, stubbing my toe on the unfamiliar topography of boxes and obstacles in need of a home. When I turned on the television my confusion turned to real panic: Every single station was static. Immediately my mind replayed every EMP horror story that my science-fiction library had supplied to my imagination. At which point my lizard brain trotted out a tired but familiar refrain: "End of Days!"

Thankfully, the calm stoicism of my rational side insisted on testing the most plausible theory before jumping off that cliff. So I hurried to grab every box in the living room and move it into the dining room, thus freeing the television from the wall of boxes it had been ensconced in, and allowing the feeble, 70's-era rabbit-ears unobstructed space in which to do their job. When I tried the TV again those unwarranted apocalyptic fears were put to rest, only to be replaced by the images now seared in our national memory. And a new kind of much more realistic dread took their place.

When the narrative of events began to emerge, I knew that we had entered a new phase in our national evolution. We'd languished for a decade in the aftereffects of the Cold War, struggling to find a mandate for our government and a cohesive national agenda. "No Child Left Behind," a controversial Presidential election, and a mild recession were our biggest concerns. Of course these banalities were continually shrieked at the top of our collective lungs as harbingers of the end, because we always have to have something to worry about, and it always has to be the absolute worst thing ever. 

On that terrible day, we were reminded of what the worst actually looks like, and for too brief a season we became Americans again. Just Americans. Not left or right. Not Democrats or Republicans. Not Red or Yellow, not Black or White, not Gay or Straight. Americans.The country again felt like the one I grew up in, where you only disagreed with people on the other side of the political aisle. You didn't actually hate them.

We remembered for a moment that whether we rise or fall, we meet our fate together.

Nearly every business closed down that day, and rightly so. No one was doing anything, the streets were barren, and the only people out were on foot. A group of us randomly congregated outside the drive-thru coffee shack a block from my new home to watch their tiny TV through the serving window, mulling our shared fears over a warm cup of Joe. There, huddled around a bottomless pot of free coffee with a group of total strangers, I was witness to the fall of our towers.

I've never had so many friends, before or since.