I often think about how much there is that’s from the past. Deep in the past. Let’s say, fifty years. Sixty, seventy, eighty, more. There’s a lot: Most of the buildings on my block. The park across the way. The street itself—though I guess it’s been repaved. But someone a long time ago invented this street—thought it’d be a good idea. They made it straight—just as straight as it is today. They made it begin somewhere, end somewhere else. They connected it to other streets. They gave it a name—the name we still pronounce in 2012. That dead person—OK, a few people, a few dead people—created our reality, created what we experience as now.

We think we live in a hypermodern world, full of brand-new bells and whistles, the new ever supplanting the old. Yet we’re beholden to the past. Wasn’t it unsophisticated, relatively? Wasn’t it naive? In the past, blacks were slaves. Women couldn’t vote. But men were making blueprints for the world in which we live today.

Had a thought while reading the latest scary article about the presidential race in the Times. Apparently, a third of voters believe Romney has become more moderate since becoming the Republican nominee. If so many voters believe that this 65-year-old, experienced politician has significantly changed his political views in the last six months, why are the polls so close—basically even? “Flip-flopper” has long been a damning label in presidential politics. But the difference between Romney and, say, John Kerry is that Romney is an avowed flip-flopper. I think the American public, by and large, see him as a gleeful opportunist, happy to change his tune to suit his audience, from the liberal voters in Massachusetts to the hyper-conservative ones in the Republican primaries to the moderate undecideds who are the prize target now. It’s OK because he’s doing it callously, connivingly. Like a man. Like a good old, Machiavellian leader. Kerry, of course, got the label hung around his neck in spite of his meek protestations. Like a pussy. Americans will respect—maybe even adore—all sorts of equivocation as long as it’s carried off brazenly. With balls.

Fortunately, the Obama strategy has been to take him at his word for saying he was “severely conservative.” As opposed to any politician who might win, that’s a specific politician who can’t win.

The Enterprise - 46

One December night, Melissa and I sat in the Indian restaurant around the corner from her place. She told me she had been depressed.

“For how long?”

“For a while. For quite a while.”

She’d started seeing a shrink, she said. I asked her if she’d talk to me about her sessions. No.

She’d been prescribed an antidepressant whose side effects included reduced libido.

“Are you on them now?”

“Yes.”

Still, it was over. I knew it. Had been over for months. It was over more than ever. Going to end soon, soon, soon. Still, I was relieved. Maybe the malaise in our relationship hadn’t been my fault. And I allowed myself to be flattered by her confession. Didn’t it mean she wanted me to stay? To play the role of the supportive boyfriend? Could it be that all I had to do from here on out was be there for her?

I told her I’d do whatever she wanted. We’d do whatever she wanted. And that I understood. Hell, I’d felt that way too. Together, we’d get thr—

It was late at night on Valentine’s Day when she told me it was over. I lay in bed beside her, formulating my reply. Staring at that old, familiar ceiling in a whole new way. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I was devastated. I was elated. I was hungry.

“I feel like I haven’t been myself around you,” I ventured meekly.

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t been acting like me. The person you just broke up with isn’t me.”

I could tell she was annoyed by the way that she was quiet. Like a fool, I persisted.

“Let me show you who I am. Please.”

She took a drag off her cigarette. Women are so cool and cinematic when they’re breaking up with you.

“If you aren’t you, then who the fuck have I been with all this time?”

It was a strong question. Diamond-tipped. All the best questions have no answers. Or answers so obvious no one dares to speak them. This one hounded me into my pants and out the door.

The Enterprise - 45

You could be among the dead. There’d never be shame in that. You could be among the lucky ones, standing one moment at the copy machine, thinking about lunch or sex or how you have to drive all the way to Rhode Island to see your in-laws this weekend—WHAM!, you’re pulverized out of existence. Now you’re a beloved memory. You’re perfect. You’re a face in a Pulitzer Prize–winning series of memorials in the paper, a sainted name projected onto the walls and rafters of Madison Square Garden during a performance by U2.

You could be among the survivors. Not among we survivors, who’d watched the towers fall on television. But those who’d scrambled out of the ash and debris, ties flailing over their shoulders, personal effects abandoned, heels snapping off. Those who’d gone down 82 floors in the smoke and the darkness just before the floors had gone down, too. They’d been suddenly conscripted in a one-day war. We were the folks back home.

You could also be a rescuer. Official or not. Anyone could walk past the barriers at 14th Street and volunteer for service. You got a shovel. A face mask, maybe. You could dig through the rubble all day, come back and do it all over again the next. The point was to find someone alive. No one did. But as long as there you were digging, you were alright. Many who did proclaimed that they had no choice, that the disaster site exerted a stronger pull than their families or their jobs or any kind of self-concern. Such duty was obviously hazardous, possibly suicidal. (The maw at Ground Zero was smoldering with bones and hair, with glass, paper, rubber, steel, plaster and asbestos; with nylon, vinyl and formaldehyde; with polypropylene, polystyrene and a thousand more of man’s creations; the disintegrated elements of city. The smell of death and poison, sickly-sweet and acrid, hung over the island for weeks.) Who did this kind of work? Not us. Not me. We weren’t among the dead or wounded, the survivors, nor the saviors.

Still we tried so hard to rise to the event. By talking about it, thinking about it. Writing about it. We took some idiotic pride in having been here, in being New Yorkers, in being able to say, yeah, I saw the planes come in, or I know someone who saw the planes come in, or better yet I know someone who died. Well, don’t know them maybe. A friend of my ex’s brother. Didn’t matter who. Someone. Anyone would do. We’d take anything we could. Gimme gimme gimme. I’ll take it. Did you see the wall of tributes in Grand Central? I sure did. So poignant. It was a thing you could say at a bar next time, or at a party. And then we felt foolish, ashamed even, for this pride. In our darker, honest moments we realized none of this had anything to do with us at all. We wished to be implicated. We were not.

Maybe this was a test. Not by design but anyway. The event that determined once and for all who we were. And we were the consumers. The watchers of TV. We were just like everybody else.

Oh no. Way more than that. Two hundred thousand.

There were a few things that people like us could do. We could give blood, everybody said. My sister and I dutifully presented ourselves at the nearest donation center. A line of like minded souls stretched out the door and around the corner of 67th Street and Second. Inside, perplexed staff members scrambled to manage the influx. We were turned away. Plus: no one needed blood.

So here we were, some coworkers and I, traipsing down Chelsea on a sunny weekday. Kevin towed a Radio Flyer filled with provisions we’d earnestly assembled and purchased at a Duane Reade. Boxes of PowerBars, a case of Gatorade, Bounty paper towels, Advil, Slim Jims, M&Ms and Visine. We were told they needed Visine most of all.

Many years later I passed the Memorial by chance, on my way to a bar downtown. I wasn’t even thinking about it, didn’t remember it was there. And there it was. I had to look. The scene was quiet, inconspicuous. A few people along the railing, no more than you’d see in any little square. I approached the wall with no idea what I was about to see. The ground opened up into a vast, square space and opened up again into a smaller one into the void. Water poured down and down again from every side into the middle. It brought to mind a scene in a sci-fi movie on a barren planet, or maybe Earth post-apocalypse. A structure built outside of time by a civilization not our own. You were scared the hero might fall in.

The Enterprise - 44

It felt strange to return to work. But what was the alternative? Some reappeared on Thursday, others on Friday. Still others waited. The solemnity of their empty chairs and darkened screens had the effect of a reproach. What are you doing here? The world is burning. Think of the dead.

Conversation arose fitfully, all of it concerning the Event, its aftermath, and corollary concerns. The well-being of friends, of former coworkers. Of acquaintances. Everyone knew a victim—or a missing person, anyway—or knew someone who knew one, or knew someone who knew someone who knew one. The closer you were to such a person, the louder and more animated you had license to be as you told their story. The prouder you could be. This was understood to be a rule.

It occurred to me that I knew no one. I told myself that was a good thing.

I tried to do some work. Tinker with code, scrutinize error logs. To get the least bit done seemed to require enormous concentration. What was work? It now seemed absurd. Had civilization itself not just been uninvented?

We all thought they were coming for the rest of us. Wouldn’t they? We also thought we could never tell the same old jokes again. On both counts we were wrong.

We reprogrammed certain aspects of the Product’s algorithm in order to reflect the new reality. We made it—him, it really was a him now—in equal measures mournful, dignified, outraged and steadfast. All the proud, new American qualities.

In the news, authorities had yanked a Sikh off a commuter train, citing precaution. His turban, it appeared, had rattled the nerves of fellow passengers.

Messages arrived from out west, expressing bewildered sorrow and sympathy. Yet among them was the following note from Judy to the creative team, cc’ing Neil and Sam:

All,

As I’m sure you’re aware, there remain several outstanding action items from our conference call on Thursday the 6th. I think we all need to make sure nothing falls through the cracks.

Judy

Upon reading it, Bob smacked the metal surface of his desk five times, hard, in quick succession. Soon a small group had gathered behind him to read the offending e-mail over his shoulder. There were howls of disgust and disbelief, of derisive laughter. The message was forwarded around the office, annotated in turn by each recipient with a suitably scathing remark. But once we all had seen it, a silence fell upon the room. We began the Enterprise anew.

TROOPS

The factor critical to managing reservoir pressures

On a beautiful day we walked a long way through Brooklyn Heights and Dumbo, down streets that looked like other cities, to Brooklyn Bridge Park to ride the famous carousel. As Jackie and Sara rode I leaned on the glass barrier and took note of the surroundings. The merry-go-round was built by the Philadelphia Toboggan Company of Germantown, Philadelphia PA. When the sign rotated away you saw two drums behind it, on either side; bass and snare. Little mallets beat a skittish, mechanized tattoo as the organ played its roll of funhouse music. Around the inner column mirrors were interspersed with odd bucolic scenes: A little girl dangling a rag doll into a bucket. A maiden standing on a rock beside a waterfall, holding aloft her bicycle. Outside, the Brooklyn Bridge loomed over a patch of lawn and the walkway by the river. Everyone. Everyone seemed very happy.

The glass upon which I leaned bore a stenciled message: PLEASE DO NOT LEAN ON THE GLASS.

A wedding party took a turn: the couple in question, the best man, the maid of honor, the ushers and the bridesmaids. The bride held her bouquet like a sword and thrust it forward as the ride began. She didn’t yell “charge.”

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The Philips SureSigns VS3.

Medical Equipment I Have Seen

The OxiMax N-600X.

All Those Times I Bought You Fireworks

(A one-act play.)

CHARACTERS

The Man: A man in his late twenties. He wears a Yarmulke and speaks with a strong Brooklyn accent.
Julie: A woman in her late twenties.

TIME

The present. Early Friday evening.

SCENE

The emergency room of a Manhattan hospital, ringed by long banquettes and end tables piled with magazines. A few framed posters for Impressionist art exhibits hang on the walls. The receptionist's head is just visible above a tall counter at the far wall. A large clock hangs on the wall behind her, reading 6:17 when the curtain rises. A closed door, leading to the examining rooms, is to the right of the reception counter. The Man is sitting a bit hunched over, speaking on his phone. His girlfriend, Julie, sits beside him. They are angled toward each other so that their knees touch. She occasionally fondly caresses his knees and thighs. Around them other patients sit and wait silently, doing the things people do in waiting rooms: leafing through magazines, checking their phones, urging restless children to keep quiet and behave.

The Man: I’m still in the city.

No, I’m still in the city. I need to ask you a favor. Big favor. You going by a liquor store?

A liquor store.

A LI-QUOR STORE.

I need a bottle of wine.

[A few seconds pass.]

What about your uncle?

He’s not home? Where is he?

[A few more seconds pass.]

You think he’ll pass by a liquor store on his way home?

Why? I need him to buy me a bottle of wine is why. Like I told you so.

[A few more seconds pass.]

Alright.

[The Man hangs up and dials another number.]

Jonah! Where are you?

You’re not home? You heading home?

Are you by any chance driving by a liquor store?

LIQUOR. Liquor, liquor, liquor. Wine.

Not now. On your way. On your way home, Jonah. Do you think you will be driving by a liquor store on your way home? If it’s on the way.

Why? I would like a bottle of wine.

What do you think I’m going to do with it? I’m going to drink it, that’s what I’m going to do. I like to have a nice bottle of wine for shabbas.

The Carmel. I like the Carmel.

Well are you going to pass one?

You don’t know. [To Julie, mockingly, not making an effort to cover the receiver: He doesn’t know.] Where’s Morty? You think he’s at work still?

I’m still in the city.

His train is two stops shorter. He’ll get home before me. Maybe he can go pick me up a bottle of wine at the liquor store.

OK. Alright.

[The Man hangs up the phone. Julie gazes at him quizzically. She no longer caresses him but her hands still rest on his knees.]

The Man: Why you looking at me like that? The look.

Julie: I’m not! It’s just...

The Man: It’s just what? It’s what?

Julie: It’s just... Nothing.

The Man: It’s what? It’s what? It’s what?

Julie [loudly]: The wine!

The Man: The wine?

Julie: The wine! You and your bottle of wine.

The Man [defensively]: What, I like to have a nice bottle of wine. What’s wrong with that? For shabbas.

Julie: I know...

The Man: We’re stuck in this verkochte waiting room. I would like to have a bottle of wine when I get home.

Julie: It’s just...

The Man: What, it’s just?

Julie: It’s just that you’re being so weird about it.

The Man [shaking his head and rolling his eyes]: I gotta call Morty.

[The Man dials another number.]

The Man: Morty! Where are you?

I’m in the city still. I’m still in the city. Listen—

No, no. I know. What?

[A few seconds pass.]

Really? She what?

She said that to him directly?

She said that to him on the phone? She said those words to him on the telephone?

What’s he going to do?

Uh-huh?

Uh-huh...

Ruthie warned him about that! She warned him about exactly that! She warned him about that exact thing.

Uh-huh...

I cannot believe she said those words to him by telephone. Morty, you are pulling my leg. Listen!—

Uh-huh?

Uh-huh...

Well tell them shabbat shalom from me, OK?

[Julie nudges the Man on the knee and gives him a pointed look.]

Tell them from me and Julie. From Julie too. Hey! I’m forgetting what I called you for with your crazy story.

Hmm? I need to ask you a favor. A simple favor. Will you pass a liquor store on your way home?

For what? A bottle of wine. A bottle of red wine.

Get me the Carmel. I like the Carmel.

What do you mean, you don’t know? A man doesn’t know if he passes a liquor store on his way home from the train? Day after day after day? You don’t know.

Morty, you get home fifteen minutes before me. Even if I leave now.

In the city. I’m still in the city.

[Away from the receiver, to Julie]: Honey, find out if we’re next. Please. Find out if we’re next.

[Julie releases his knee brusquely, with a trace of contempt (but only a trace), and walks up to the counter to find out if they are next. She and the receptionist can be seen speaking to each other but their words are inaudible.]

[In the meantime]: Yeah, so, Morty. I need you to do me this favor.

Well go out of your way a little. Not too far. A little. As a favor to me. For all those times I, you know.

[Julie returns. The Man looks up and inquires with his eyes. She shakes her head and sits back down. The Man shakes his head slightly as he returns to his conversation.]

All those times, I don’t know. All those times I bought you fireworks.

[A few seconds pass.]

[Dejectedly]: Alright. Yeah. Alright, bye-bye.

[The Man hangs up with a sigh and notes the time.]

[To Julie]: What, are you saying we should get out of here?

[Julie gives him a funny-reproachful grimace.]

[About 10 seconds pass.]

The Man: Alright, let’s go.

Julie: You sure?

The Man: Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Come on. Up.

Julie: But what about—

The Man [interrupting]: We have to go. The time.

Julie: OK.

The Man: We’re running out of time.

Julie: OK.

[They both get up but the Man does so with extreme difficulty. He can barely put any weight on his left leg. He winces and makes some half-suppressed exclamations of pain.]

Julie: You OK?

The Man: Yep.

Julie: Take it easy, honey. Easy.

The Man: Yep.

[They walk slowly, laboriously out of the office, Julie supporting the Man from under his shoulder, and helping to direct him until they are finally out the door.]

THE END