DAY THIRTY FIVE:Oct. 15:
The Bronx Bombers just took out the Oakland A's and if you listen very closely you can hear New York roaring. Sure, the Yanks make it every darned year to the World Series. And sure, the A's were long over due. But we needed this. Boy, did we need this.
When Mariano Rivera threw that last strike and Frank Sinatra's voice swelled through Yankee Stadium singing, "Start spreading the news...." I was grinning ear-to-ear. YES!
In any other year, any "normal" times, this Yankee swing into yet another World Series would be front page news, the lead story, banner header with a full color wrap, "Bronx Bombers Do It Again!". But this year the Yanks will have to sit far back, well behind the anthrax news, bombing in Afghanistan and Terrorism 101.
It was another anthrax day. This time it was a baby, the child of an ABC News employee, infected when his daddy brought him briefly into the building. It seems obvious that somebody is targeting the news organizations: Who? With what intent? I have many friends who work in the ABC headquarters, and my publisher, Hyperion, is inside one of the ABC buildings. Just as I instantly worried about colleagues working inside the NBC building a few days ago, now I wonder, "How is Deb? Leigh? David? Richard?"
It's beginning to look like somebody mailed out anthrax letters all over the country at about the same time, possibly all from a New Jersey post office that is near Trenton, New Jersey. The targets all seem to be media, if the Microsoft law offices in Reno can be considered media representatives. From a twisted point of view this makes sense, as cases of anthrax inside the headquarters of TV networks will inevitably gt masive news coverage.
But then, ominously, there is the anthrax letter to Sen. Tom Daschle.
I got into the office this morning, donned latex gloves and a surgical mask, grabbed my letter opener and went into a vacant room to open my surprisingly mundane mail. I felt like an idiot. But these are idiotic times.
"This is what life is like in New York nowadays," wrote New York Times columnist Bob Herbert today. "Terror has wormed its way into our daily routine. A sense of dread hovers over the city, undermining the most ordinary activities. Some New Yorkers are afraid to ascend to the upper floors of tall buildings. Others are reluctant to go down into subways. Or open their mail."
The experts -- and the world seems sudddenly full of "experts" -- tell us that right about now everybody in New York is going to start displaying post traumatic stress disorder. Just one problem: we ain't POST traumatic. The trauma just continues and continues and continues. Nevertheless, I do see people around me displaying symptoms of PTSD, especially those who witnessed World Trade Center victims making the decision to jump to their deaths. Today, by coincidence or otherwise, I had three seperate conversations with inividuals whose co-workers or spouses have been paralyzed by what they saw out their office windows on September 11, and are only now completely falling to pieces, unable to sleep or eat, even to speak. All three reportedly see people falling outside their window whenever they look up, and the faces of he falling turn every sleep into nightmares.
Meanwhile, some of the local magazines and the Times are putting a lot of ink into the question, "How do lonely people make it through this mess?" It' a sort of generic quiz on singledom amid tragedy. While it's true that single isn't simple during tragic times, being non-single is no guarantee of love, support and a path to mellowness in trying times. The city seems full of folks who are trying, as best they can, to cope, drawing on whomever seems sympathetic.
On the subway this evening, making my way up to teach at Columbia, the man next to me displayed one of the most creative coping behaviors I've ever witnessed. A giant of a man, perhaps 6'6" and well over 250 pounds, he looked about 35 years old and was impeccably decked out in hip-hop-chic. In a booming voice he called out to a compatriot seated on the opposite side of the car, "What was the name of George Jetson's son?"
"Elroy," the friend shouted.
"Who was the best friend on Leave It To Beaver?"
"What was Johnny Quest's sidekick's name?"
"Who was Fred Flintstone's boss?"
The questions went on and on, with people shouting answers joyfully from all sides of the car. Finally, I couldn't resist it: "Who played Ozzie and Harriet's next door neighbor," I asked.
The crowd was stymied. "It was Lyle Talbot, " I said, adding as I jumped out of the car, "And his son was Steve Talbot and Steve played Gilbert on Leave It To Beaver!"
Hey, we get our jollies where we can these days.
Se well. Be safe. Stand defiant.
Laurie Garrett
