Sean Williams' 9/14/2001

received 9/14/2001

Michelle and I touched base not long after I woke up, and we knew we were going to, at some point, try to make our way to the various places one can offer help. She gave me a list of what she had heard was needed; lightbulbs, flashlights, batteries, T-shirts, socks, clothes, any medical supplies, any prepared food, anything really.

I got my biggest bag, the one I have travelled around the world with, and started loading in stuff. I started with two gallons of bottled water and all of my canned food. Keep in mind, we live in New York, I don't actually keep food in the house. Every meal, I mean almost every meal every day, I eat in a deli or a restaurant or I order up for delivery. So all the food I could fit went in with tons of room to spare.

I decided that anything I don't wear all the time should go, but I still held on to a bunch of stuff just for sentimental reasons. I have a pair of fire engine red Z Cavaricci pants that I bought on the way back from a particularly lucrative visit to Vegas in 1990, a Mushmouth T-shirt that I stole from my nephew, y'know, stuff like that I wasn't going to part with.

Almost all of my nice clothes went. I want to say it was because I know the guys who worked at the WTC would want to have collared button down bank shirts, but the real reason is because in the years since I wore suits I have grown in all the wrong directions. SO they all went in the bag. I hoisted this thing on my back and, just for fun, got on the scale. I don't know if it's all those Arrow collared 16 inch neck white shirts, or the multiple gallons of water, but me plus the bag was about 350 pounds.

I tried to leave, but there was a bomb threat at the Empire State Building, which is right down 34th street from me. Every day I walk past Madison Square Garden and look right at the Empire State Building and think to myself 'this is a frickin' cliche.'

All of the buildings around me are evacuated, and the streets are teeming with middle forties Hispanic women who type 140 words a minute. The bridge and tunnel crowd didn't have time to switch into their work shoes, so they are standing in brown pumps that they only really wear normally from the elevator to their cubicles. They were terrified. There is nothing romantic about any of this for them, nothing noble, no hint of bravery. They got babies that they love, and they go to shitty jobs to have money to raise them right. 1/10th of these people are white. This is the dregs of the white collar work force.

A coupla more calls to Ian and Michelle and I set off down 9th avenue. Everything on the news has been so inspiring that I wasn't really ready for what I found. The homeless have been hassled out of the village, so there they were. Homeless not because of the tragedy, but because, I guess, the tragedy of being American. Everyone asking for change, but I didn't have any. I passed by a guy who was screaming at the cops stationed outside the post office. 'I wish that fucking plane hada took out Bush. I wish it hada took out all you mother fuckers.'

The cops. I mean, everywhere. Every street corner on 34th street, every three blocks walking down 9th. Eyeing me for a minute, a guy with a beard and a big over stuffed bag wearing a do-rag, but then seeing my white skin and not hassling me. I was so grateful for each and every one. I kept wanting to say something. I kept wanting to thank them, but I couldn't. I smiled some. I muttered 'thanks'. That's all I could do.

My knees were screaming, and I was so ashamed of myself. That's the thing. I haven't really enjoyed anything since this started. I can't really laugh or feel good regardless. I guess that is survivor guilt, and I know that many of my Jewish friends whose families made it through the Holocast have a hard time feeling like they deserve happiness. But this is the first time I have ever felt it.

Finally I had to stop. I worked my way over to eighth avenue and found a post at about buttock height and set my bag down. I unclasped it for a second and some guy walking by said 'are those donations?' yeah. 'Step out of that for a sec.' and I slipped out of the straps as he held the bag. I stretched my back and legs and slipped back in. Thanks. 'No, man, thank you'. Fuckin a.

I decided I wasn't going to stop until I made it to Tessa's just below 14th. Manhattan is closed below 14th to all but people who work or live there. There was a barricade and maybe twenty police and military people checking IDs. I told the cop that I was visiting my brother and sister in law who lived 'just there' and you can see her apartment. I had to call her and have her come and vouch for me to let me through.

It is martial law. It was never declared, but that is what it is. Our mayor is, today, our warlord, in our protectorate. If I had been shot, it was simply because I was bearded and carrying a huge overstuffed bag. I would have shot me today. Maybe not. But it would have crossed my mind.

The cop was really nice. Tessa showed up and took me through the barricade, and I noticed how much fouler the air was down here. We watched CNN and waited. It felt like we were waiting for this to be over, but we were actually just waiting to figure out where we were going to bring our mountain of shit.

Michelle showed up, having simply asked for a large bag of medical supplies gratis from her local pharmacy and getting it plus a shopping cart, so she was totally loaded down. We finally made our way several blocks to the Salvation Army on 14th street between 6th and 7th.

There were five hundred people sorting stuff, and I was immediately embarrassed about the shitty amount of stuff I brought. Socks? Right, of course, Michelle said socks. No-one is gonna want my old shitty shirts. Fuck.

We drop off everything and realize that there simply has to be something else. Let me be clear on this. The level of pathos and destruction in Manhattan makes you feel as if you are a bastard. Nothing you will ever do will make this better. We need Superman. Like, real Superman, from the comics and the movies, we need a guy who will fly in and remove the rubble and find hundreds upon hundreds of poor working shmoes all huddled in safe pockets under the rubble, smiling up and blinking as the sun pores in on them for the first time in two days. We need some miracle. We need CNN to say 'two thousand rescued today- total death toll not to top one thousand, according to the mayor...'

But shy of that... I have two gallons of water? I have eight cans of soup? They have *flats* of water. They have whole restaurants devoted to preparing entire vats of soup every hour on the hour. They want my T-shirts because they are going to tear them up and use them to staunch bleeding. I unloaded my stuff and we all split up. I was heading back uptown to get Jordana.

While trying to make it off that block, I was repulsed by the teeming homeless who were asking for change and grabbing supplies while no-one was looking. There was one homeless guy bumming a quarter or skanking a can of soup for every ten volunteers. Like vultures, I thought. I am mad at myself for thinking this. I don't believe that living on the streets and stealing volunteer food is a way of life that one would choose. But still I can't forgive it.

I didn't realize until I was almost home how bad my knees were hurting. I am supposed to go in for surgery some time soon, but all the doctors in New York are treating people who were hurt when a *building* fell on them. Still, there is no denying the pain in my legs. I guess the whole thing got me thinking about how we got into this.

The people who did this consider it a retaliation. And I know what they are retaliating against. I have never been overly fond of American politics. I have always been a firm leftist, and for the majority of my life I have pined for a time when left wing politics *existed* instead of this far right vs. slightly right. The debate in America is how much Affirmative Action should be curtailed, not whether or not it should be expanded. I was even producing a show which dealt with these exact sort of ideas. One of the points of the play is that we as Americans are responsible for things that happen beyond our fantasy of who we are, that there are countries around the world that suffer because we want Nike shoes and Playstations.

But they killed thousands of working shmucks. They killed thousands of guys who spent *hours* on trains and in cars to come to their shitty grind of a day. I hate them. I hate the guys who killed the guys that I laugh at.

It's worse than that. A woman is handing out American flags on the street. A guy who gets a flag from her tells her that he lost his whole crew. I assume this is the same thing as posse, but as I listen, he tells us that he ran a small window washing company, six guys, and they had been sub-contracted to clean the windows. He wasn't there but his whole crew was. They are all gone.

I get home and Jordana and I empty our closets and drawers. Those Cavaricci pants? It's good material and maybe they can be of use. I've never worn them except twice for about ten minutes. I spilled ketchup on them in 1995, and I didn't dare put them in the laundry for fear that my washer would never recover. Every sheet save one spare, every towel we could fit. Socks. All but six pairs of socks. I keep the Mushmouth shirt. I have to give that back.

We ended up going to a different site where they weren't taking clothes, so we decided to go back to the Salvation Army. A guy in a bicycle rickshaw demanded that he would take us down there, and we made it in no time. I was so glad because my knees may have made it, but I would be useless tomorrow.

And tomorrow. These days are indeed creeping at a piteous pace. Jonathan and I are getting up early to head out and see if we can be of use. It feels like all we can do.

Sean