9/11
I wake up groggy in California. It's way too early because I flew here from DC last night and my head is still on Eastern Time. This is my first night in the apartment my company rents for out-of-town visitors. It's nice, except no coffee. I walk over to the strip mall next door, though I doubt anything is open yet. Sure enough everything is still closed, the only sign of life a tractor-trailer delivering to a fast-food restaurant called Señor Jalapeño. As I approach, the truck driver is standing next to his open cab door with the radio up loud. He sees me and calls out, "C'mere! You gotta hear this!" A little wary, I come and stand next to him and listen. The radio repeats that a few minutes ago a plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Holy shit. Then, while we listen, the radio breathlessly breaks the news that another plane has hit the South Tower. The driver and I climb into the cab of his truck and sit and listen to the developing news for as long as we can before we both need to get to work. We wouldn't seem to have much in common, but in those moments together in the cab of his truck, we were brothers, shocked and mourning and scared and angry.
(This is a response to a writing prompt from Laurie Penny.)
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Breakfast