In some ways, it was like any other late summer morning, only more brilliant than usual.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that seemed even bluer than blue.  The air had the first crisp edge of the year, still pleasant in the low seventies, yet dry and somewhat cool.  After weeks of hot humidity and soot-filled air, the city seemed cleaner and almost radiant on this morning as Jack headed downtown.

He took his usual route to the subway station at 72nd Street.  Jack, a creature of habit, had a usual morning routine. Grab a NY Post at Gus’ newsstand, catch the local C train at 7 AM, change to the A train express at 59th St., and then six stops to Chambers Street. Once there, he’d get a Mocha Latte Grande at Starbucks, and a salt bagel with a slice of tomato and a light schmear at Freidman’s deli cart before hitting the elevator that would take him up to work.

Jack arrived on the 59th street subway platform just as the A express train began to pull out of the station.  The trains on the A, C, E lines had been running off schedule all week, and by missing the express, Jack would have to take the slower C train, adding several extra stops to his trip.  As the station began to fill up again for the next train, he noticed that he was standing right next to a transit cop leaning up against one of the platform posts.  The cop looked like he was taking his break.

“How’s it going?” Jack asked him, but the cop just nodded his head slightly in Jack’s direction without changing his bored expression.

“You pretty much work the A,C,E?” Jack tried again.

“Whasit to ya?” the cop responded.

“Nothing, nothing” and there was a long pause as the two men stood side by side, glancing around the platform, but not at each other.  As if trying to get the cop to help him paint an imaginary fence, Jack continued, “You’re not MTA, but I was just thinking you might know why the trains are all messed up is all.”

“Oh that, its nuthin too big, uh, last night the B caught fire at 125^th and everythin stopped for a few hours.  Aroun the same time, there was a mess on the E at Queens Plaza – some homeys capped a prenant lady and threw her on the tracks.  She was sumthin though; they say she pulled herself back t the platform before the next train came.  You don see that every day.  No ya don.  The MTA is still catchin up is all; by this afternoon  they’ll be O.K.”

Just as he finished a late middle-aged couple stopped to interrupt.  They looked perplexed.

“Sir, you’re a policeman, aren’t you?  George my husband thought we shouldn’t bother you, but we’re from Ohio and we don’t have a subway.  Can you help us?”

George looked like he wished he were back in Ohio.  He had the basic Lonely Planet attire, a baseball cap with New York City printed on the front, a collared shirt with Canton Auto Body on the breast pocket, shorts that were too short, knee-length white tube socks covered with tennis shoes, and a camera slung over his shoulder.  His wife looked like she shopped at the same store, and also sported the ubiquitous fanny pack.  They did have a subway map but were having trouble making any sense of it.

“We want to go to the Guggenheim Museum, there is a Picasso exhibit that my pottery teacher told me about.  We started out at the Marriott Hotel in Times Square, and George thought we should walk, but I wanted to have a real New York City experience so I dragged him into the subway, but my George doesn’t have the best sense of direction and before we knew it we ended up here. Are we close to the Guggenheim?  As I said we don’t have subways in Ohio, or at least not in Canton, I think there’s a small one in Cleveland, but -.”  George reached up and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, gave her a slight squeeze and she finally stopped talking.  He smiled wanly in the cop’s direction.

“The Guggenhein is on the uppa east side, you’re on the uppa west,” the transit cop said indifferently.  “You’ll havta get on a train goin uptown on the otha side,” he added pointing to the platform across the tracks, as he gazed away from the couple who he was clearly not interested in having any further dealings with.

A slightly built man with thick black-rimmed glasses poked his head in front of several people, and in a whiney, nasal-sounding voice called out to them, “the best way to the Guggenheim is to walk over to Lex and take the IRT.”

“IRT,” yelled a small bearded man with a yarmulke, “no that’s not it!”

He turned to the couple that looked more confused than before and spoke very quickly.  “You follow that advice, you leave the subway, you pay another fare – no, no, you go over to the downtown A train – its an express, it takes you directly to 42^nd Street, you get off there and find the 7 train and take it over to Grand Central and change to the – ”

“The 7? What irya tryin to do, send em to a Mets game or somethin,” chimed in a third, “I was born on the subway, its simple…”

The C train charged into the station drowning out the third man’s directions, all Jack heard as he got aboard was the same guy calling out to the couple left alone on the platform,

“You’ll be fine, be there in half an howa max.”

As the train pulled away Jack chuckled to himself thinking how the world usually viewed New York City as an unfriendly place.  As the train rocked downtown, he thought about the tourists.  They should have walked to the Guggenheim on a day like today.  Central Park would have been glorious.  He was thinking this just as the train pulled into the 14th Street station.

Maybe it was the thought of those tourists walking through the lush green of the park or the picture-perfect day outside, or maybe it was the rut he was complaining about to his admin the day before, but Jack out of the blue decided to get out at 14^th and walk.

Hardly ever this impulsive, it was even more unusual since Jack rarely walked anywhere that he couldn’t take a bus, taxi or subway.  Like most New Yorkers, he felt it a sin to waste any time – getting somewhere or otherwise.  As he walked up the subway steps, Jack thought about how there really wasn’t anything all that pressing at work.  His boss would already be at the tech conference that started at 7 AM, and she had told him to skip it this year.  He wouldn’t see her until at least nine, and he could easily walk downtown in less than 20 minutes, so for once, time wasn’t his enemy.  He smiled as he reached the top of the steps and sauntered out into the sunshine.

Jack had never before walked through this neighborhood on a weekday morning.  It was a part of the city with dozens of small businesses and quaint shops.  He walked along as the shop owners swept and hosed down the sidewalk, or chatted with one another about the beautiful day.

He slowed to watch a flower shop fill a huge display of different plants and flowers.  Tulips, daisies, wheatgrass, roses, daffodils, and azaleas – the view was an orgy of color that would have made any artist excited.  As the shop owner sprayed water on the plants, the mist beautifully reflected the long morning rays of the sun.  To Jack, it was like a scene out of a movie, and for a fleeting moment, he had a feeling of what he was missing in his busy urban life – what was passing him by.  Without any idea or plan, Jack approached the shop.  He picked out a single gorgeous daffodil with the water dripping off it like dew.  Jack’s insouciance must have been contagious as the elderly shop owner gave it to him for free.

As he turned to leave the front of the store, he noticed an older woman down the sidewalk coming his way.  She had a kerchief wrapped around her head and a light gray shawl pulled over her shoulders.  She walked with a certain purpose, yet stooped as she pulled along a two-wheel cart, with a worn expression on her face.  She could have fit in just as easily in Kyiv or Gdansk as in lower Manhattan.  Maybe he wanted to share his newfound awakening, or at least his lighthearted mood, because as the woman approached he stopped and gave the flower to her.  After catching her eye, he flashed a smile and kept on walking.  She straightened up and turned to watch him go by.  A small smile came across her face as she sniffed the flower.  She glanced over at the shop owner who laughed and jeered at her.  She chuckled to herself, shook her head, and continued on her way still sniffing the flower.

Jack continued walking downtown passing many more shops.  As he approached one not yet visible around the next corner, his gait slowed to a crawl as he sniffed the air.  The wonderful smell that suddenly hit him, getting stronger with every step he took – was heavenly.  It was a fresh yeasty dough kind of smell and it made Jack’s mouth water.  As he turned the corner he saw that the name of the shop was Annie’s Bakery.

Not only did the place smell great, but it also had a Parisian café feel to it.  Several small tables were surrounding the shop on the sidewalk – most were showered with sunshine.  Jack took in the picture and thought what a perfect beginning to a perfect morning – and why not stop, he had already broken every other morning ritual.  Today, there would be no fast food coffee and a bagel from the roach coach; he was going to live a little.

He entered the bakery and they seemed to make everything. Everywhere he looked there were baskets and displays of baked goods – fresh rolls, all types of bread, scones, bagels, cakes, cookies, and Jack’s favorite, croissants.  In addition, they had all types of gourmet teas and coffees and a special chocolate drink they made from a secret recipe called Annie’s Chocolate Delight.  Jack found a woman behind the counter of the shop.

“Would you be Annie,” Jack asked the woman behind the counter?  She was petite, wearing a white chef’s coat, and with her bobbed blonde hair was exceptionally, well…cute.

“I am.  We only opened a few days ago, so please excuse the lack of selection.”  They both swept the crammed shelves and bins chock full of all sorts of delightful baked goods, looked at each other, and both laughed out loud, “well, maybe I’ve been a little obsessive.” It was a fun moment that when the laughter subsided, there was a pregnant pause that caused an almost embarrassing moment as each took an extra look at one another beyond the customer-clerk engagement.

A bit unnerved Jack blurted out, “ I think you’re going to be a big hit.  You look great – I mean, um, your place looks great.  Another pause settled between them as they looked into each other’s eyes. “All you have to do is bottle that great smell of yours and spread it around the neighborhood a little.”  He paused as she began looking at him with a questioning look,  “No, um, no…I mean the bakery, the fresh dough…not you…not your smell, you smell great too, but I meant the bakery.”

After a few more seconds of looking into each other’s eyes, Jack’s face began turning a bright shade of pink.  He tried to change the subject and asked, “How about a few of those croissants, can you make one chocolate?”

Annie smiled and chuckled to herself as she went to retrieve the croissants.  She noticed how tall and handsome he looked, dressed in a beautifully fitted dark blue suit.  A lot of customers flirted with her, but she got a different vibe from this one.  There was something genuine about him.  She could also sense that he was a good guy, and he had a great smile.  Over her shoulder, she asked, “You seem to like chocolate how about a glass of Chocolate Delight?”

“I’m not so sure, just the sound of it has my arteries clogging up.  What’s the big secret anyway?

“You’ll love it and it’s not too fattening or too sweet.  It’s made from special Venezuelan chocolate, with a little fresh vanilla bean, powdered pralines, and the freshest milk I can buy.  It’s really good – live a little.”

Jack headed outside with his two croissants and a tall glass of something he was sure wasn’t on his personal trainer’s top ten list.  Not that the croissants were either.  He stationed himself at a table so he could look down West Broadway toward the downtown skyline.  He loved the view of all the tall buildings as the old skyscrapers blended in with the new.  He liked the fact that his was the tallest.  He also made sure that the sunshine flooded his table and that he had a good view of the people as they strolled by.  Being in the city for the past eight years, he never got tired of people watching.

His mind wandered back to Annie, he wished he had asked for her phone number.  She seemed different somehow.  He also noticed she didn’t have a ring on her finger.  But he frequently said this to himself since he rarely ever asked a woman for her phone number.  He was really shy when it came to that sort of thing – but as he tried her chocolate drink he had to smile – she was right, it was awesome.  He was thinking that all she could do was say no.  It wouldn’t be that humiliating.

Jack stood up to go back inside.  He glanced at his watch to check the time and was saved by the bell once again.  It was almost ten of nine.  He would have to hurry down West Broadway if he was going to make it before his boss came down from the conference.  He sighed and thought to himself that there would be other Annie’s.

As he was thinking this, he heard a loud roar and looked all around wondering what it was.  He looked up.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an amazing site – an extremely low flying passenger jet.  He could almost see the faces of the people in the window.  Before he had a chance to collect his thoughts, the plane roared right over him, seemingly speeding up as it flew by overhead.  A few seconds later it disappeared crashing into what looked like his building about two-thirds of the way up the tower.  He blinked several times not registering what he had just seen.  It seemed so surreal.  He couldn’t fathom what his eyes had just witnessed, but in just a few moments he quickly came out of his stupor.  Several women came screaming out into the street.  People began pouring out of their stores and shops, all staring up at the Trade Towers that now seemed much closer than their 9-10 block distance. A few seconds later everyone scattered for the sidewalk as if out of nowhere a fire truck came screaming around the corner with its siren blaring and barreled past them down the street.

Annie came up to Jack and asked, “What happened?”

Without averting his eyes from the Tower, Jack answered, “I’m not sure, but I think a jetliner crashed into one of the Trade Towers.  It just disintegrated into the building.”

Jack in shock, unemotionally droned on, “ I saw the whole thing, and I’m pretty sure that it was my building – and it looked like it crashed into the area where my office is.”  He looked down at Annie as if he had known her forever and for the first time realized that he had to do something.

“I have to get down to work.”  He started to leave when Annie grabbed his arm and said, “You can’t go down there, they’ll have police and rescue people everywhere.  Don’t you remember what happened in ’93?”

“I know, but I have to do something.”

“The only help you can give is to stay away and let the cops and fireman handle it.  My God, I wonder how many people were on the plane. Are you sure that the tower the plane crashed into was your building?”

“Positive.  It’s definitely the North Tower that’s full of smoke.”  For the next five minutes or so they both silently stared at the tower as it billowed black smoke and the fire raged. They could hear siren after siren blowing by on their street and the streets surrounding the neighborhood as rescue workers streamed to the site of the crash.  A dozen thoughts were running through Jack’s head. Did the plane crash into his floor?  Did it crash above or below?  How was his boss?  His admin?  He knew tons of people in the building.  Were they O.K.?  He suddenly felt guilty for not being there.  He knew Annie was right, but he felt as if he must do something – but what?

“Do you realize Annie that I should be in that building right now?  Normally, I’m at work by 7:30.  It’s now after nine and this is the first time that I have ever gone in late.  Instead of being here with you, I would be at my desk and…” Jack stopped talking. There was nothing at that moment left to say.

Jack slowly looked back up and concentrated his attention on the North Tower as the realization swept over him.  He had a very solemn look as a small tear trickled down his cheek.

They stood side by side, looking straight ahead as she slipped her hand into his and gave a gentle squeeze, not realizing that their day was only just beginning.

Sunshine streamed in through the large bay windows as a few men polished the chrome and others repacked hose.  It had been fairly quiet all day with only a handful of false alarms up at Ridley Hall in College Town.  It was amazing that this alarm was tripping at least once a day for a week and the glitch hadn’t been isolated.  Of course, each time Engine Two and Truck Three had made the half-hour round trip to investigate.  To Bob, this seemed absolutely ridiculous, but the guys he was covering didn’t complain at all.  They just seemed to take it in stride and not get fazed, regardless of the frustration.

Bob was a freelance writer who had been given an assignment by the New York Times Magazine to do a story on an unusual group of city workers in Ithaca, a small Upstate New York city dominated by Ithaca College and Cornell.  A college town in every way similar to the fabled Farber of Animal House, Ithaca had for years run a program with both schools offering a job and free room (no board) to any male student in need of financial aid.  The unusual aspect was the job the town provided.  For the commitment of at least one year, the town would provide housing at their Central Fire Station and a job starting at $9,000 per year as an entry-level fireman – or Fire Bunker, as they were called.

Bob watched the men go about their mundane duties in the fire bays.  There were three engines and one truck stationed at Central.  The engines held hundreds of yards of various sized hoses and pumped the water from the city’s water hydrant system to the hoses used to fight a fire.  Truck Three was a very long ladder truck that had a cherry picker and because of its length, it had an extra cab on the back to steer the rear wheels to navigate turns quickly and efficiently.  There were also two small pick-up trucks to ferry the chiefs to the scene.  Bob had been sitting off to the side for the past three hours, fully dressed in boots, pants, coat, and helmet, periodically slapping a pair of gloves against his thigh.  Being from The Times, and against the Chief’s wishes, the Mayor had granted him full access, which also meant that he could join the Bunkers on any call he wished.

Bob was dozing on and off when finally the internal bells in the station went off – and they were loud.  Immediately men began dropping through the fire bay ceiling from four different points, sliding down fire poles.  They landed with a loud thud and in a determined way walked over to their assigned vehicle and climb aboard.  They quietly chatted amongst themselves, fully believing that they were on their way to another false alarm.

⇐⇒

The Bunker program had begun after World War II as a post-depression era solution to higher education.  A big success in the Ozzie and Harriet ’50s, when civic duty was still a priority, the program endured through the radical 60s, the Vietnam 70s, the punk rock 80s, and the dot-com 90s.  Except for people in the firemen’s world and a few admissions officers at local area schools, most weren’t aware it existed, even in Ithaca. Most people Bob asked around town, told him that the Fire Department was made up of paid professionals. There was no reason for them to notice anything else.

Outwardly, the Bunkers blended in well with the veterans, but the differences were stark. The salary was less than half what a career-minded entry-level fireman received, and the accommodations were very spartan.  They mirrored what Bob thought was similar to a marine barracks. The bunker quarters were each comprised of ten single beds, with a metal side table and that was it. The walls were cinder block, painted off white, and there were two small windows at ceiling height without curtains. The floor was yellowing linoleum with small black flecks. There were a pair of boots with thick yellow pants and suspenders sticking out of them standing abreast of every single bed – as if waiting for someone to jump into them feet first.

In a corner of the room, there was a pole attached to the ceiling that ran down through the floor.  Next to the pole along the wall were long yellow coats hanging one after the other, each with a black fire helmet together hung on a hook. They looked like sentries, leaning up against the wall waiting for the bell. There was nothing else in the room at all – no personal effects or alarm clocks or pictures. All the Bunker’s personal items had to be kept in a large locker. Basically, a cupboard that opened with two doors and consisted of a small set of drawers and a place to hang clothes, and that was it.

In itself, the Bunker program would make a nice story, but more was needed to have attracted the interest of The Times, and that “more” was Jake O’Conner. Jake was, at the time of Bob’s visit, a sophomore at Ithaca College. He had been a Bunker for about a year and a half starting in his freshman year, and never in his wildest dreams was being a fireman anywhere on the list.

⇐⇒

Jake was the last of five children from a middle-class Irish family and was a perfect fit for the Bunker Program. His family believed strongly in higher education, but the money had run out by the time it was Jake’s turn. He also had a distant Uncle that was a career fireman, and both his Dad and his oldest brother were alums of Ithaca College. When it was all added up, the admissions office already had Jake signed up before he was even notified of being accepted at the school. Before he knew it, he was at the Ithaca Fire Training Center, a few weeks before school began.

Jake was an exceptional athlete and a natural leader. In high school, he was captain of the soccer and basketball teams and was the MVP in soccer his senior year. He had been brought up by a father who was an extremely successful college coach, and a mother who was a librarian and supported and pushed him to excel. If being a firefighter were in the cards for Jake, he would do what it took to excel at that too.

It seemed that Jake was born to fight fires. Everything came easily to him, and it wasn’t the skill of handling a two and a half-inch hose with 1,000 pounds per square inch of pressure or scampering up and down ladders with flames licking at his heels – it was that Jake just looked like a firefighter.  The fire gear he wore seemed to fit as if he were about to model it down a fashion runway.  It wasn’t that he was so great looking, but without trying he had the part down as if he were the star of a fire-fighting movie.

Not long after joining as a Fire Bunker, he got noticed more broadly outside of the firehouse during a fully involved five-story sorority house fire in Cornell’s College Town neighborhood. After the house was declared a goner, and all of the firefighters were called out, it was learned that there was someone trapped in an upper room.  Jake was just coming off the roof after ventilating the building when he heard the screams. He slid down Truck Three’s huge ladder and when he got to the floor where the screams had come from, glass and all, he dove through a window. After a few tense moments, totally surrounded by smoke, he emerged with the girl and carried her down the ladder to safety.

It didn’t hurt that the local TV station had a camera crew there and caught the whole thing on tape. It was such dramatic footage that a number of TV stations across the state picked up the feed and aired it on their news programs – including a quick sound bite of Jake explaining that the glass couldn’t keep him out – and that maybe when the Coed was better he could finally get a date. It wasn’t before long that letters from women all over the state started flowing into the Central Fire Station, asking if Jake would take them out. He was razzed to no end by the rest of the guys.

⇐⇒

As the alarm bells sounded, Bob stood off to the side not sure what to do when he felt his coat being grabbed from behind. It was Jake who checked Bob’s gear and helped him button up his coat all the way. Bob followed Jake onto the back of Engine Two. In Ithaca, the back really meant the back.  The Bunkers had a tradition of riding to all calls by standing on the back platform of the engine and holding on to a bar positioned over the hose bed. Winter or summer the residents of Ithaca could see their firemen in plain sight, sometimes hanging on for dear life if they were heading to a “worker,” (a fully involved blaze). Jake showed Bob how to slide his arm under the bar and hook his elbow joint around it to keep from falling off. He tightened his chin strap for him and made sure that he had his gloves on correctly while telling Bob to stay right by his side and do whatever he said. As they pulled out of the station, the last thing Bob heard was the loudspeaker crackle, “heavy smoke at South Side Fuels.”

⇐⇒

Fire after fire, Jake was always in the thick of things. He was quickly made lead attack firefighter and shortly thereafter Lieutenant of Company No. 4, and was always the first to enter most fire scenes.  At a particularly nasty worker that burnt down an entire block of State Street, Jake had led an entire family out of the back of a building, moments before it collapsed to the ground. He later said that he was very lucky to just be at the right place at the right time.

News stories just seemed to follow Jake around that year, and like at State Street, he was in the right place when it counted. There was a very large goat cheese manufacturer, located just outside of town that was having trouble making ends meet. The owners had no trouble making cheese, but they had no clue how to handle two hundred goats. It wasn’t before long that a call came in reporting that the huge barn at the goat farm was on fire. Being a full ten miles out of town, by the time the firefighters arrived the barn was fully ablaze. It was an amazing sight as there was little smoke and the thick rafters of the upper half of the barn and its roof were still intact and between each burned what could only be called a furious fire. The barn’s wood was so dry that it burned a gorgeous deep orange. Jake, like the rest of his mates, wasn’t there to save the building as they could tell right away that it was a total loss.

As they set up their hoses to surround and drown the building to keep the fire from spreading to the farmhouse, Jake could hear loud wailing coming from inside the barn.  He grabbed a fire pole, a long pike-shaped tool, crept up to the side of the barn, and hacked a small hole through the burning siding.  He could see through the smoke inside that a large herd of goats was pushing on the door of the barn trying to get out.

Jake ran to the door and noticed it was padlocked shut. With flames ready to pounce on him, he stared with disgust toward the farmhouse, where the owners were looking out their windows at the fire. With one swift whack of his pole, he knocked the lock off its clasp and the doors blew open. Jake was bowled to the ground as a sea of goats rushed over him out into the open air. As it happened, the great goat rescue was once again captured on film. Merely by accident, a local newspaper photographer clicked his shutter just as Jake did his thing and the goats piled over him.

The image was so good that it was picked up by every wire service in the country, eventually being printed in over 300 newspapers nationwide (many in color on the front page).  The picture won the photographer a “photo of the year” award. More importantly to Jake, the goat farmers were successfully prosecuted for arson and insurance fraud – never to harm innocent goats again.

⇐⇒

They blew through intersection after intersection with the siren constantly blaring, and it finally occurred to Bob that his George Plimpton act might not be such a great idea. Riding with the Chief earlier that week, Bob had been to a few fire calls and noticed how the guys pounced on a fire scene once they arrived and wasted no time getting the hydrant hooked up and investigating the building. From what he had heard on the loudspeaker, this was no false alarm, and the look on the faces of the guys surrounding him was grim. Only Jake looked the same as always, and as he was to stay by Jake’s side, Bob became a little more confident – but not by much.

As the engine approached, Bob could smell smoke and he tried to peer over the cab of the truck to get a better view. He could only see a sign that read, “South Side Fuels, serving Ithaca’s oil and propane needs.” One of the guys mumbled something about this being a refueling station, as the fire engine pulled into the parking lot and ground to a halt.

Normally, at this stage of a call with a working fire in front of them, the men would be scurrying like bees in a hive, but the danger was telling as everyone just peered at the fire from where they stood.  They made sure for protection that some part of the engine was between themselves and the fire. Most of the guys didn’t know what was inside, but with fuel as part of the company’s name, they weren’t too keen on trying to find out.

Jake got everybody’s attention quickly thereafter.  He got a group of the guys to get a hydrant attached to the engine, and from a good distance to begin setting up a few two and a half stations just in case.  He then grabbed Bob by the arm and told him something he was hoping he would never hear, “Let’s go take a closer look and see what we’ve got.”  Bob felt he had no choice but to follow.

They both squatted down about 100 feet from the building to survey the scene.  There were two large and tall one-story buildings that were attached by a roof that seemed to be high enough for a truck to drive under.  The buildings were smoking a lot more than when they first arrived, but Bob couldn’t see any fire yet.  He looked over his shoulder back at the entrance to the parking lot, hoping for some help, but there was still only one engine and everyone seemed to be doing something.  Bob’s attention was jerked back to the fire when he heard a loud bang coming from the closest building.  Just then a wisp of fire shot out of a window and snuck back inside.  Jake tapped Bob’s shoulder and pointed toward the space between the buildings, “I want to see if we can save the other building – it may not be involved yet. Let’s go!”  Bob wanted to run in the other direction, but something made him nod his head.  Neither of them had air tanks, but Bob had figured that Jake hadn’t bothered with them because he wouldn’t be going inside.  As they approached the buildings the smoke began to get really thick and Bob wished he had stayed back by the truck.

Both Bob and Jake were now just outside of the drive-through area.  It was so smoky that Jake had Bob lie on the ground where the air was a little clearer.  Jake’s radio crackled, “We just got word that there are three oil truck bays in each building.  Can you tell me if there are any trucks currently inside?  We need to know if we should evacuate the area.  A lot of kids live around here…” As Bob listened to this message from the Chief, the smoke was so thick that he couldn’t see anything.  Worst of all he couldn’t breathe.  Everything in front of his burning eyes was grey.  He began to notice black spots that were moving fast by his head.  As one approached he saw Jake’s nose and face push out of the dark smoke, literally breathe in the black spot, and disappear back into the gray void.  Another spot came cruising by and Bob mimicked Jake, breathing in the cool air and relieving an edge of the anxiety-filled panic that was overcoming him.

Just as Bob felt that he couldn’t take anymore, the wind shifted and the smoke completely lifted.  He saw Jake squatting close to the ground right next to him.  He turned and grabbed Bob by the coat collar and dragged him to the door of the closest building.  Bob crouched next to Jake as he tried the door.  It must have been locked because Jake got up and immediately began kicking it with a fury.

Right then the radio crackled again, but only Bob heard it over the racket Jake was making. “We just caught up with the owners Jake, you don’t want to know what they’ve told us – just get the hell out of there now!”  Bob approached Jake from behind to tell him that he was leaving, just as the door flew open.  Bob could see right into the building and despite the heat, a freezing cold streak shot through him.  Lined up along each wall as far as he could see were propane tanks – five and six deep. He saw what looked like two propane filling stations just to the right of the door.  In the center was a smoldering chassis of a large truck that had been melted to the floor with only the tires left smoldering.  The fire was mostly confined to the ceiling toward the far end of the building, but Bob noticed right away that the flames were moving quickly in their direction – apparently drawn by the surge of oxygen provided by the open door.

Jake turned to Bob and yelled, “Try to beat me back to the engine – let’s go, now!”

Jake and Bob got about five or six strides toward the engine and away from the horror they had just witnessed when hell was finally unleashed.  Too late, the Chief had learned from the fuel company owners that in addition to the full oil trucks parked in the buildings, there were about 1,500 propane tanks, but most importantly there were two 30,000-gallon gas tanks buried below the surface.

Bob felt as if he were run over by a truck as he lay on the ground not more than 10 feet from the engine.  Somehow he had made the 100 feet back to the engine, but he didn’t know how.  He couldn’t hear anything, but he felt himself being dragged along the ground.  He looked up and saw Jake pulling on his coat sleeve.  He thought he was seeing things because all of the logos and reflection tape on Jake’s coat were blurry, but he wasn’t as they were melted.  His helmet looked like a skullcap with all of its edges chipped away.  After a few feet, Bob pulled himself to his feet.  He gave Jake a wink and walked the remaining feet to the other side of the fire engine.  As he made the turn he glanced back toward the fire and noticed that no part of the buildings was left standing, but there was what appeared to be a forty-foot high flame shooting into the sky like a giant Bic lighter.  Both he and Jake pointed at each other and began hollering for joy at the top of their lungs.  They hugged each other, danced in a circle, and burst out laughing.

⇐⇒

Days later, Bob sat at his desk late at night staring at a blank screen on his laptop. He held a glass of 16-year-old Lagavulin single malt scotch in one hand, and a picture of a burnt South Side Fuels in the other.  He shook his head, flicked off his computer, and as he left his study thoughts of new topics that would interest his editor at the Times ran through his head.

 

Greg was in his basement office reviewing the night’s receipts. It had been a pretty busy dinner at Nathan’s and Greg’s eyes were blurred looking at the numbers. As the General Manager, he usually arrived early in the morning and managed the staff through the lunch hour leaving around six or seven in the evening, but today was different.  Sean, his night manager, had scored tickets to a rare Redskins Thursday night game and had begged Greg to cover for him.  Being that it was 10 PM, Greg had been on the job since seven that morning and he was dead tired.  He was on his third pass through the Visa charges and so far none of his totals matched.  As he reached for his cup of coffee, he heard a loud thud hit the floor just above him.  Dust sprinkled down on his head and onto his desk from the building’s 100 year old floorboards.  As worn out as he was, he climbed the stairs two at a time and within seconds was in the bar area where he figured to find the disturbance.

Nathan’s Bar and Grill is a Georgetown institution.  It has graced the coveted corner of Wisconsin and M Street for decades.  Once a pretty rough bar in the heart of a rowdy part of town, where a shot and a beer was the usual call, Nathan’s hadn’t experienced a bar fight in years.  Over time Washington had changed from a swampy backwater where foreign diplomats were awarded hazard pay, to a sleepy southern city with a ragged edge, to a cosmopolitan metropolis fitting of the most important city of the most important nation on Earth.

Georgetown was a neighborhood of D.C. where tourists descended after a day of traipsing through the city’s museums and monuments for a bit of shopping, a bite to eat, or a beer or two or three.  Along the way, Nathan’s had mirrored the city’s evolution and presented a much softer image in its current rendering.  It now had beautiful paintings and photos of famous sailing yachts on the walls (the owner was a big sailor), and it was the kind of place where you would meet a friend before heading out on the town over a glass of chardonnay and an order of crab cakes.

The main dining area was separate from the saloon that sported the original gorgeously maintained mahogany back bar dating back to the 1880s.  The bar was just starting to get crowded, and most of the patrons were gathered in front of the large bay windows overlooking one of the best corners for people watching in the city.   Stepping into the bar area, Greg noticed a man trying to pull himself up from the floor.  There were three couples, mostly in their late twenties that were somewhat standing over the man as he slowly stood up.

As Greg approached the fracas, he quickly surmised that the man on the floor had had way too much to drink.  Greg put his hands on his hips and slowly turned toward the bartender with a “how could you “ look on his face.

The barman innocently raised his hands as if to surrender and said, “Not a drop from this bar boss.”

The couples had been trying to help the man sit down on a barstool when for some unknown reason he took a wild punch at the nearest person, lost his balance, and fell to the floor.  Greg being only five foot six was easy to overlook, and none of the couples noticed that he was the manager.  They ignored him and began all talking at once.

“Look at him now, he doesn’t seem like he’s going to cause much trouble”

“I can’t believe he took a punch at you, he’s so baked he can barely see”

“He’s absolutely bombed, let’s try to get him into a cab and send him home”

“We can’t help this guy, just look at him, he’s a disgusting mess.”

“Yeah, he couldn’t even tell us his address

The man was sitting on the floor blankly staring up at the group towering over him when he suddenly raised his hand and shouted, “Hold it!”

Everyone had stopped talking and stared down at him. He slowly blinked as his eyeballs rolled back into his head.  When he reopened his eyes.  He then loudly called out to no one in particular, “3415 Cathedral Avenue.” There was a long pregnant pause until the drunken man began singing The Beatle’s “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band” with all the words jumbled up.

Just as Greg readied himself to escort the guy out of the bar, a woman came towards them wedging her way through as the crowd parted behind her.  It was strange until Greg saw who was following her.

“There he is officer. He took a swing at us and has been bothering us for the last half hour.  You’d think that a place like this wouldn’t put up with people like that.”

“O.K. lady, take it easy.”  John and Kevin were the Georgetown beat cops that worked most nights.  Greg knew them well but hadn’t seen either in quite a while.

Kevin went over to get the drunk man up on to his feet as John walked up to Greg with a smirk, “Well, well, what has you working on a Thursday night, I don’t think I’ve seen you in seven or eight months.”

“And it’ll be twelve months before you see me again once I’m done getting payback from Sean!”  Knowing the question coming next about Sean his Night Manager, Greg added, “He’s at the Skins game tonight.”

John led the drunken man by his neck over to where his partner was talking with Greg, “So what do we have here,” he asked them?

The group of couples began telling what had happened.  As they were talking, the man tried to take a halfhearted swing at Greg, but John held him at a harmless arm’s length away.  Greg backed away a few steps to take a better look at the man.  He seemed to be about fifty, and his hair was sticking up in all sorts of directions held askew by the gel that he obviously was very fond of using, based on the amount in his hair.  He was dressed in what looked to be a super expensive Armani suit that had large mud stains smeared over one whole side of his body.  He had a Hermes tie that was barely hanging off his neck and a kerchief that was stuffed clumsily into the lapel pocket.  Half in and half out of the side pocket of his suit coat was a women’s brassiere and panties, and hanging out of just about every other pocket were large chunks of fresh grass and weeds.  Greg noticed that the man was also wearing a Rolex Oyster on his wrist.

Something didn’t add up.  He was definitely a mess, but underneath all of the mud, weeds, grass, and drunkenness there seemed to be a pretty substantial foundation.  Maybe it was Greg’s years of working in the restaurant business that prompted him to find the best in people.  There were so many times that he had covered for men out on dates without their wives or business executives interviewing for better jobs under the noses of their bosses that he was prone to protect and serve.  Maybe not like the police, but it was effective at times in helping make the world go round a bit more smoothly.

Greg walked into the middle of the couple’s explanation to the police, and with a wan smile on his face, imitating the drunken man he held up his hand and shouted, “Hold it!”

Everyone stopped and looked at Greg.  He walked over to the bartender and said, “Give me two Jacksons.”  The bartender opened the register and handed him two twenty-dollar bills,  “…and crack open a bottle of Cliquot for these six people on me,” as he pointed to the three couples.  He then walked over to the cops and looked John in the eye, “This is your lucky night.  I’m about to save you two hours of paperwork.  You can thank me when you see me again…next year.”  With that, Greg grabbed the drunken man by the arm and yanked him through the crowd and out onto Wisconsin Ave.

A cab immediately pulled up and Greg pushed the man into the back seat.  He leaned through the front passenger seat window and told the cabbie, “Take this man to 3415 Cathedral Avenue.  If he asks you to take him any place else ignore him. Here’s a twenty for the three dollar fare, and another twenty for your trouble, and this is my card, if there’s any problem, call me.”  As the car pulled away he thought that it was probably not such a great idea to give him his card, but it was too late to worry about now.

…

“I told you not to sign any of the liquor orders without fully checking everything on the invoice.  How many times do I have to tell you not to do this? Just go upstairs and polish something, will ya?”  Greg was in a foul mood from the minute he stepped into the building.  He slept all of three hours the night before and had been snapping at everybody.  He hadn’t thought at all about the events of the night before.  He had experienced just about everything in the past fifteen years in the business, and it was his nature to quickly turn the page from past events.  It seemed to help keep his life from becoming too monotonous.

After a while, Greg went upstairs to get his eighth cup of coffee of the day.  On days like this, he would go through ten to fifteen cups and half of those were usually double espressos.  He ambled into the bar area looking to find the steward.  He wanted to let him know that he really wasn’t mad at him about the liquor order and that he should try to ignore any future venom that Greg may toss his way before the end of the day.

The steward wasn’t there, but Greg couldn’t help but notice a beautiful antique Bentley parking right in front of the restaurant.   An impeccably dressed man carrying a leather briefcase got out of the back of the car and came right into the restaurant.  He wore a very conservative three-piece suit that was accentuated by the sheer size of the man.  His hair had a touch of gray around the temples and he possessed a neatly trimmed mustache to top off his very distinguished presentation.  Towering over Greg, he walked up, handed him a card, and in a very deep voice asked, “Could you please fetch me this man?”  Greg looked at the business card and noticed it was his.

Greg looked up at this man and asked, “What should I tell him is the nature of your business?”

“That would be a personal matter between Mr. Dougherty and myself.  Please be a sport and tell him there is someone here to see him.”

Greg paused and looked up hesitantly into the man’s face and finally said, “That won’t be necessary as I’m Greg Dougherty.  Are you interested in holding a private party here at Nathan’s?”

“I’m afraid not, but I really must insist that I speak with Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Dougherty only.”

“I assure you that I am one and the same.  What is this all about?”

“Very well Mr. Dougherty, allow me to take a little of the mystery out of my visit.  I represent a very grateful individual that appreciates a man who understands what a true sense of discretion can mean.  Although he is not prone to exhibit poor judgment often, my employer recognizes that at times it’s possible to find oneself in a compromising situation.”

“You work for the frustrated groundskeeper, from last night.”

“An interesting choice of words Mr. Dougherty, and although they wouldn’t be my choice, I can see how they might be appropriate.  Yes, Mr. Dougherty, I represent Lawn Mower Man, but let’s keep that between us shall we?”

“No problem.  Tell your employer that I accept his thanks, but that he might want to choose a few other nightspots for the immediate future as D.C.’s finest won’t be as lenient next time.”  Greg offered to shake the man’s hand in an effort to end the meeting and get on with the day, but the man merely ignored him.  He looked over his shoulder and loudly snapped his fingers in the direction of the Bentley.  As Greg watched through the window a man in a uniform with a chauffeur’s hat got out of the car, walked back to the trunk and pulled out an enormous bunch of long stem roses, and brought them into the bar handing them to Greg.  There were at least four dozen.  Embarrassed, Greg placed the bouquet on the bar.  The chauffeur removed his cap, reached into an inside pocket of his coat, and pulled out an ornate envelope, handing it to Greg. Without saying a word he clicked his heels together and tilted his head in Greg’s direction and strode out of the restaurant.

“I trust that you will be able to maintain your high level of discretion concerning this matter for a long time to come.  Thank you and have a good day.”  With that, the tall man followed the chauffeur out to the Bentley, and it quickly pulled away.

Greg stood staring out the window for quite a long time trying to digest what had just happened.  He was standing there when one of his favorite wine salesmen, Patrick, walked in to get the week’s order. Patrick was more than a professional acquaintance to Greg.  They had a lot of the same friends and hung out together outside of work.

“Man Greg what’s up with you?  You look like you’ve been sitting with five fat women in a Volkswagen.” Patrick had said this same line about a hundred times, but each time he’d laugh at himself in a way that was more fun that his silly comment and usually others would chuckle along. Realizing Greg’s mind was elsewhere, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine but the damnedest thing just happened to me.  Did you see that old Bentley just pull out?”  Greg went on to tell Patrick about the tall man, the chauffeur, and the events of the night before.

Patrick eyed the ornate envelope and listened to the story getting more agitated by the minute as Greg slowly relayed all the details of what happened from the night before and into the morning. Eventually, he couldn’t stand it any longer and blurted out, “So open the letter already for Christ’s sake!”  Greg looked at Patrick a bit hesitantly, not sure what the letter’s contents may contain, but he gingerly pulled back the flap and pulled out a piece of fine parchment.

Dear Greg,

I can’t thank you enough for your help last night.  Without your actions, my life and career would have been in severe jeopardy.  It is men such as yourself that help maintain a high level of valor in this world. 

I want to do something more for you than a simple thank you. Taped to the inside of the envelope that Karl left, you will find a key. 

If you proceed approximately 50 miles east to the village of Annapolis and go to slip 213 at the Harbor Marina, Switch will be waiting for you.  The key will let you in.  I have not seen Switch for over three years and have no future plans to do so.  She is yours to use at your leisure.  She’s a fine girl, a 40 foot C&C racing cruiser, and I’m sure you’ll be pleased with her.

Thank you again and good luck,

Fritz 

They both looked at each other and began to howl.

After a few minutes, they calmed down and both sat on a stool with their backs to the bar. Greg rolled the key to Switch between his fingers in thought. Then he asked Patrick, “I’ll be off at 3, can you meet me here?” Not waiting for an answer and in true manager mode, he added, “And tell Mike, Rick, and K.C. to come too, after 3 years we’ll need help scrubbing the deck?

 

With Led Zeppelin providing a baseline in the background, thirty some odd partyers, mostly in their late teens have gathered at a “rents-less house” outside of town on the Mohonk side of the mountain. The party has been going on for several hours and there’s a hum of chatter and a haze of pot smoke drifting through the house. In the garage, there’s a keg of beer surrounded by five guys.

The tallest, and least buzzed of the five calls out, “Whales Tales Prince of Whales calls on his court. Whales Tales -” He looks expectantly at the guy to his left who looks back with a blank look, then says, “Wha?” In unison, all of the others call out, “drink!”

The tall one again says, more insistently, “Whales Tales…” and points his elbow at the man to his left who after swallowing calls out, “ones,” and looks to his left, a shorter guy calls out, “twos.” The other two guys in the circle call out “threes” and then “fours” in quick succession.

The tall guy, McGlinchey, raises his red Solo cup and calls out, “Whales tails fives and social!” All five take a drink simultaneously. Then he calls out, “Whales tails twos,” and Inch, the short guy two men to his left calls back, “Nays!” McGlinchy says, “Who’s,” and Inch calls out, “Ones.” Dave the guy to Inch’s right quickly says, “Nays.” Inch replies, “Who’s,” and the reply is, “Threes.”

This all happens in a few seconds and all eyes move to the man in the circle, who made the last mistake one spot to McGlinchy’s left. He looks back with a “who me” expression. Inch calls out, “Drink Lenny!” Lenny drains his beer, laughs, and reaches for the tap for a refill.

The game has been going on for a while and all five are pretty toasted. Brian and Barry walk over to the keg and break up the action. Lenny jabs Barry in the ribs and says, “Call shotgun, Bar’s not leaving the mountain tonight.” Barry had been fondling a big chested junior named Marybeth all night and he grinned sheepishly at Lenny, his close friend that lived just up the road back in town.

Brian was by far the soberest of the gang and for good reason, Lenny, Dave, and Barry had come to the party in Brian’s VW bug and it was a good 10-mile drive off the Mountain back to New Paltz. About an hour later, Brian, Dave, and Lenny couldn’t find Barry anywhere, and figuring he was hiding out with Marybeth somewhere, they decided to leave without him.

Fate is a fickle thing.

Marybeth had actually already left, and Barry was out in the backyard taking a leak and they just didn’t see him. Brian did an amazing job navigating the backcountry roads making it within a quarter-mile of Lenny’s house when his little VW rang straight through a telephone pole. Lenny riding shotgun without a seat belt flew out through the small windshield. They found him later wrapped around a tree. At only 19, Lenny was killed instantly. Brian and Dave walked away from the crash unharmed, at least nothing was broken physically.

The next morning at 9 AM, Barry was sound asleep when the clock radio by his bed came on to wake him. He always set it to WPDH, the Hudson Valley’s popular rock station. Since it was on the hour, the news came on. Barry woke up to the announcer saying, “Tragedy in New Paltz last night as a 19 year old was killed when the car he was riding in crashed on Rt 32. The name hasn’t been released until next of kin is notified. Stay tuned for more details as they are released. In other news…” Barry knew instantly it was Lenny. Later he would only say he just knew.

I woke up a bit later, grabbed a glass of OJ, and walked out on the back deck. Barry was sitting down in the yard at our picnic table with his head in his hands. He was three years older than me and about twice my size, so to see this big man crying was surreal. I walked back into the kitchen and our Mom was washing dishes in the sink. Her eyes were all red and she told me what happened to Lenny. As a high school freshman, it was impossible to fathom. It was even more difficult to fully grasp the loss my big brother was experiencing, along with the sense of guilt he felt for not being in the car with them.

The next week was a blur. Hundreds came to Lenny’s funeral. The casket was closed due to the accident’s trauma. I knew Lenny’s sister, Janet, as she was a grade ahead of me, but wasn’t good friends with her. I don’t remember meeting Lenny’s parents, but I’m sure I did. Most of Barry’s friends were macho types who showed little emotion and quickly tried putting Lenny’s death in the rearview. I don’t think Barry ever did.

Eventually, the rest of the world moved on.

⇔

A few years later, needing to fill out my class schedule, my mother was trying to guide me.

“Mom, there’s no way I’m doing calculus. After a 72 on last year’s geometry Regents, cruel and unusual punishment is not a hobby.”

“Well, what would you take in its place. You can’t just play with cameras and kick soccer balls.”

“Mr. Campbell is teaching a new elective this year, I’ll take that instead, even though it doesn’t sound like much more fun than math.”

⇔

George Campbell was the kind of guy that craved an audience. As an extroverted nerd who was 140 pounds dripping wet, he found his audience as a ninth-grade earth science teacher. George had the energy of three teachers and had an unbridled enthusiasm for everything. He was able to make this work in high school, with a quick mind and an active dry wit, every class was an adventure. For most, he was a favorite teacher, but for those who wanted to melt into the background, he could be a bit too much. I had previously gone to middle school in a semi-private Campus School and was still trying to find my footing in the public High School in ninth grade. George Campbell’s class was a wake-up call that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, and for the most part, I survived to wake up back in black and white by the end of the year.

Teaching earth science was not enough for George. He led an explorers troop, the scuba club, and in my sophomore year, got the school to let him teach a Death class. Having sat through a year of George’s exuberance in earth science, it seemed like an odd choice. It was offered as a half-year elective class, and skipping my love for math, I signed up for it during my junior year.

It was a very different George Campbell that taught about death. It was something most of us avoided, so he took a measured approach that slowly engaged the class and evolved into many deep discussions.

In the first month or so we learned all about the stages of death and dying. Pretty sober stuff. That section ended with a trip to the cemetery where we were encouraged to do gravestone rubbings. New Paltz was over 300 years old, so there were some very cool ancient tombstones, and I got rubbings from a guy who died in 1707.

Then things got weird. George invited guests to come and speak to the class. One woman came dressed as a 1960’s flower child who talked about mysticism and visions she had that were far-out! Another had a Russian accent and talked for an hour sharing how she was a “medium” able to commune with the dead and heard voices from people stuck in Purgatory. She handed out business cards to the class that gave 50% off for a 30-minute session. These were clearly cranks and fakes George wanted us to experience, but it got us all to begin questioning whether there was life after death. He had a revivalist preacher come to class who clearly wasn’t a crackpot and made a strong case for followers of Jesus and spoke at length about religion.

In the very next class, George asked each of us to describe any actual experiences we had with death or the afterlife. One of my friends Jessie lived in a former 19^th century boarding house, and he told the class in a very “matter of fact” way how he sees ghosts all the time roaming the halls. He said that they were boarding house guests who died there. I had been to his house, and although I never saw a ghost, his place was pretty spooky.

Another friend of mine told a story about the old stone house that was on his family’s property. The house was originally built in the late 1600s and had been inhabited by French Huguenots who emigrated due to religious persecution. He told how he and his Dad camped out in the house and were woken in the middle of the night by loud voices coming from the chimney. The voices were speaking in French.

When it came to me, I didn’t have any ghost stories to share. Instead, I told a story about a sports camp I had attended back when I was 10 years old. My Dad was a pretty well-known college basketball coach and was always invited in the summer to coach at camps held by pro coaches and athletes. He usually took me along, and that summer between 5^th and 6^th grade we went to a camp hosted by Tom Landry and Roger Staubach of the Dallas Cowboys. They had evening entertainment throughout the week, and one night a “light artist” performed. He had a huge canvass the size of the entire stage where he would paint using colors and lights to tell a story while a musical soundtrack set the mood.

It was impossible to truly share what I experienced, and I told the class that they’d have a hard time believing what I was about to tell them. The artist started with a blank slate and the audience had no idea what the story was about. As it unfolded, we were all drawn in, and the artist painted the story of the life of Jesus. I was only 10 and not deeply religious at all, but when he was finished, there were tears in my eyes. I actually felt as if something had entered my body and an intense feeling of passion was inside me. I wasn’t the only one. When the artist was through, no one applauded, and you could hear a pin drop among the 1,000 or so young boys in the audience. The silence lasted for about 5 minutes. Then everyone just got up and quietly walked out of the auditorium. When I was through telling the story, the class ended, and no one kidded or laughed at me on the way out.

⇔

As the class wound down to the end of the semester, George had one last powerful session to spring on us. He had already taken us on a journey about life and death and we would never be the same. Then Lenny’s mom and dad walked through the doors of the Death Class.

It was only a few years since Lenny had died. To ensure his death wasn’t meaningless, both his parents had become strong advocates against drunk driving, and I figured that’s what we’d talk about when George introduced them.

Instead, Lenny’s dad started out by saying how he missed Lenny and how unfair it was for him to be taken so young. We could all see tears starting to fall out of his mom’s eyes. He told us how he always raised Lenny and his sister Janet by making sure they knew they trusted their judgment. There was no curfew; they never checked their breath for alcohol or pot. He wondered aloud if he had made the right choice in raising them this way. His mother spoke up…

“That night, the kids were out and we stayed home. We had a wonderful dinner, watched some TV, and went to bed early. At 1:13 AM, I was woken by Lenny standing over me and shaking me awake. I knew it was 1:13, because we have a digital alarm clock on my bedside table, and it was the first thing my eyes saw when they opened before I saw Lenny.”

It was established by the state police that Brian drove his VW off the road, hitting a telephone pole between 1:10 and 1:30 AM. The accident occurred about a quarter-mile from Lenny’s house.

“Lenny had a calm look on his face, but I sensed he was worried about me. I looked over to shake my husband awake, and when I looked back, Lenny was gone. I knew that something was wrong; a dread came over me that I live with every day since the accident.”

Lenny’s parents then got up out of bed, got dressed, and walked out to the end of their small street where it met the state highway. They saw the flashing lights down the road at the accident scene.

“Tears were streaming down my cheeks and I knew Lenny was gone,” his mom gushed as she closed her eyes reliving the scene in her mind.

Lenny’s family didn’t blame Brian, as they felt the pain and anguish he suffered would be enough of a burden.

“There is no question in my mind that there is an afterlife. Lenny woke me up to say goodbye. He wasn’t transparent or ghost-like, he was as real as you’re sitting there at your desks. I wish I had given him a long hug, but the look in his eye that night was his concern for me. I truly believe he appeared to me on his journey to his next life to let me know he would be all right.”

George thanked them for sharing their story, and when they left, he let out a huge sigh and wiped his eyes. He looked at the class and told us there was nothing more he could teach us.