I work as a professional service technician in the homes of clients. About a month ago, on the eleventh of September, I was scheduled to work for a gentleman I instantly had a sharp dislike for. I was running early that day, a rare occurrence which produces a whimsy inducing chemical in my brain, painting the world a golden hue of awesome. This so-called “gentleman” robbed me of this bliss by bluntly denying me early access to his home when I called him to politely ask for it. “I need you to arrive at your scheduled time,” he told me.
Jerk.
When I arrived to where my GPS said his house should be, I couldn’t find it. I was sure I passed it. I turned around, was sure I passed it again, turned around… I was getting stressed out. I ping-ponged back and forth in front of where I thought the house should be four times before he waved me down. He was this unkempt behemouth of a redneck, covered in tattoos, looking like he had eaten six Hell’s Angels before lunch. I was surprised to see he was wearing shoes. I was not surprised to find that he looked kind of familiar, like maybe he was an extra in The Hills Have Eyes or the Andy Griffith Show. I pulled into his drive, struggled to find an appropriate place to park my truck, and he was right at my driver’s side door as I opened it, anxious to get to work. He insisted on engaging in the most dreaded, obnoxious activity a customer can engage in.
He wanted to help.
He effortlessly moved his three tons of furniture around for me like it was made of paper towels. He talked about his work, smiling, answering my questions and asking his own, sincerely curious about my own job. He was a tattoo artist. A damn good one too; he showed me some examples of his work on his mobile phone. His specialty was black and whites, and he was a master (a fellow fan of Bernie Wrightson too). We worked together. We laughed. We got to know one another in those couple of hours I was scheduled to be there.
He told me that his boy, who I think he said was nine, had asked him about nine eleven that morning. The boy wanted to know if his dad knew about it. “I saw it happen on television,” he told his son. The boy asked if he could see it on the internet. He had agreed. His son watched it happen.
“How did he take it?” I asked.
“Very quietly,” the gentleman replied.
“A lot of people died,” the gentleman quoted his son.
He went on to tell me that years ago, he had been in a NYC barber shop while taking a vacation without his family, trying to sort out some shit he was going through. The barber had framed photos wallpapering one of his walls by a mirror. As he took a seat, the gentleman asked the old barber about them. “Are those all your customers?”
“They were,” he answered, draping the behemoth in a drop-cloth. “They sat in this very chair once. They were fireman and policeman, and they all died when the two towers came down.”
The gentleman was slow to speak for the first time since I had arrived. “I couldn’t believe it,” he told me. “I was sitting where they had sat…” We avoided eye contact. I knew he was teary. “They sacrificed themselves that day. I was sitting where they had sat. What an honor.” I was teary too.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not waving my gold-fringed American flag and shooting bottle rockets from my ass while smoking Marlboros and singing “God Bless America.” This is not about patriotism. This is about human beings coming together at a time of need and doing the right thing for each other, even at the cost of their own lives. This is about people who turned something vile into something heroic, and many of them were just doing their jobs.
This moment, these couple of hours that I spent with that gentleman on the anniversary of that late summer day in 2001, have stayed with me for the last month. I’m disappointed in myself. I’m disappointed that I judged that man who I could clearly connect with. He could be my friend. I’m surprised at myself as well; surprised that speaking of that fateful morning still brings up so much emotion in me, still brings up so much emotion even as I write this, even as I pull into my next customer’s home. It’s not my job to judge them. It’s not my job to be better than them. It’s my job to work with them, to respect their humanity, and to remember to work together towards our common goals.
Shiny Red Nothing 