Reply #9: Here's what happened (my 9/11 story) [View All]

[Newsjock]

I drove off to Montana anyway. All day the next Monday, I kept obsessively checking the radio for stock market updates. When I decided that the Dow had indeed not crashed, I continued my drive across the lonely parts of the state.

That night was an interesting night. I checked into a motel room in Dillon, Mont., had a couple glasses of wine, and walked up the street to one of Montana's fine mini-casinos to while away the hours at 20 cents a pop. I finally went back to my room, but slept unfitfully the whole night, waking up time and time again.

I distinctly remember waking up at about 5 a.m. Mountain time (7 a.m. Eastern), turning on the TV to the local news from Denver (yes, that far remote in Montana that the hotel's "local" TV was from Denver), checking to see that everything was OK, and sort-of dozing back to sleep.

Next thing I know, "KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!" at the door. I roll over, and it's about 9:30. I stagger over to the door and say "Hello?"

"Housekeeping! TURN ON THE TV!"

Well, gosh, that's an odd thing to hear. So I turn on the TV. And everything had happened. And the rest of my life had changed.

I hadn't paid the rip-off phone deposit for the room, so I had to walk next door to McDonald's to call work on a payphone. We talk about what's happened (I was almost a full day away from the office at this point), and we agree that I should head home and rest for a couple days and then return to work ready to relieve those who were carrying on in my absence.

I pack up and check out of the motel. As I head onto the street, a solitary pick-up truck is heading down Dillon's main street, the back overflowing with U.S. flags. Every so often, the truck stops, and the driver puts another flag by the side of the street.

I hit the Montana freeways and push it up to about 85 mph. The road is eerily empty. I'm going up and down the radio dial, as station after station realizes they aren't equipped to cover this and, one by one, taps into some form of network coverage.

Then, I realize: I have a very close friend visiting Boston. He was scheduled to return to San Francisco today. That's all I knew about his flight plans. I had not yet succumbed to the 21st century, so I did not have a cellphone with me. I find a payphone sitting outside an abandoned roadside restaurant. I call his cellphone, no answer. Again, no answer. As I walk back to the car, the payphone rings. (Thank goodness it didn't disallow incoming calls.) It was him, he was OK in Boston, but he wouldn't be going anywhere for several days.

About noontime, I reach a city where I used to live and work. I stop in the newspaper office there to plug into the wires and try to figure out what's happening. I give some rudimentary proofreading help to the staff in putting out their 9/11 extra. At least I've done something this day.

I get back on the freeway and head west. About an hour later, I round a corner at about 85 mph, and there's a state patrol car parked halfway in one lane and halfway on the shoulder. I slow down quickly and ease up to the scene. He's there by himself, and he waves me on.

As I continue across Washington, I stop in Spokane and happen to be in a gas station just as the Spokesman-Review's 9/11 extras arrive. I buy a small stack.

As I approach the Cascades, the variable message sign on the freeway is flashing "SEATAC CLOSED. NO ARRIVALS OR DEPARTURES."

About 12 hours after I left Dillon, I finally make it back home, where I turn on the TV and watch nonstop all night long.

And I wished with every fiber of my heart that the people responsible for most likely disrupting the rest of my life would ultimately burn in a special kind of hell for the damage they've wreaked upon this planet.