1,000 Days & Nights in Hell !
I was Away for 40 Years and Buddy, Life Was Good! Returning, I've Done The "Right" Thing in The Wrong Place. Life As IT SHOULD BE (?); Wallow in it ! It's Yours !!!
Gender: male Member Since: March 14, 2006 Last Signed In: August 05, 2008 Profile Views: 682 Blog Views: 413 Cancel the Cab - I'll give you a lift. The Critical United States Citizen Soldier Returning Tomorrow poetry as events: truth or fiction? If I Could Sleep Until December 15th, I Would Friends Like No Kind of Restaurant in Town November 07 December 07 January 08 February 08 March 08 April 08 May 08 June 08 July 08 August 08 September 08 October 08 
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The Critical United States Citizen
Can I write this and can you read this and still be a loyal United States Citizen?
I came to my senses pretty early on September 11, 2001 in my apartment a few blocks from a Ventura, California beach. I wasn't awake when I clicked the cable on and walked into a small kitchenette to heat water for my french press. I remember returning to the television set and just staring at an airplane stuck and smoking in a tall building. Then, I watched an airplane stick itself into another tall building. I recognized the structures to be The World Trade Center. This is (exactly) what I said to my mother here in Bakersfield a few minutes later on the phone: "We sure must have pissed somebody off. '
I wrote the following a couple of years later when I considered the idea of a central evil place, a vortex of corruption and mis-deeds drawing un-natural elements of its own distruction.
Day 01
& nbsp;
Jane Brauntley’s intercom chimed and she tapped the button on her communications cluster that activated her headset to permit the incoming call from Sarah Tinger, extension 734. “Jamie is touring our new Vice President, Mergers and Acquisitions.” Sarah’s whispery and suggestive voice always bubbled with a grin when she talked about men. “His name is Jeff –from Maryland- he’s really yummy and should be coming into your office in about thirty seconds. Byeee!”
Jamie Hunt, Executive Vice President of Human Resources was piloting said Jeffrey Jackman through the multiconglomerate’s two floors of trading and administrative support. The executive meeting was to begin in twenty minutes, and it looked to Jamie that they would have half that time for Jeff to refresh himself while he attended to the one quick e-correspondence that he’d obligated himself to this morning. Briskly stepping to the Senior Legal’s office door, he knocked lightly, turned the knob and entered smiling, “Good morning, Jane! I want you to meet Jeffrey Jackman!”
The limousine glides to the curb of the NorthTower’s underground reception quad. This morning started early for the driver, beginning just a few blocks away where he picked up the Towncar at 4:00 A.M., but the drive back from Long Island was smooth. All he had to do for the old prick in the back was stop at Starbuck’s for a Viennese, black and grab a newspaper. The second guy was actually out of his building and in the car before he could get out to open a door for him. It was a clear bright fall morning
–beautiful! He logged the time as he hit the sunlight on the way out: 8:32 A.M. Edidston and Pope were already in the express elevator to the 105th floor.
Jamie concluded the Notification Form of Termination to the Fund at the same time as an HR staffer was escorting Ross Torson from the trading floor. Straight men, particularly the sort that were the most talented in this business, often failed to keep their goodies -or in Ross’s case the suggestion of his goodies- where they should be kept.
I swear, I’m hiring the next forty-five year old mother of five that can type and fills out an application. He closed down the link and walked from his office to the elevator; stopping only to confirm with his admin, a very nice young man named Robert, that reservations for lunch following the meeting had been made.
“I wonder if that would work,” Jamie said aloud as the elevator doors quietly opened.
A floor Trainer stopped talking as the HR officer walked by but he did not break eye contact with the young commodities trainee, his second day on the job. They were leaning against the wall opposite the bank of elevators, waiting for a down car. The younger man, a recent graduate in Finance from Tulane, looked perplexed. When the doors closed on Jamie Hunt, the Trainer continued, “Look, let me put it this way: Nobody here is forty-two years old; you’re ancient then. You’re dead and forgotten. If you can last until you’re thirty-five, that’s the last helium-ballooned woman-cop-stripper party you’re gonna’ get. After that, you deny it, you take the day off, you walk out of this side of the business before the young sharks rip you up and spit out your guts.”
Jackman, washing his hands, looked up from the pink marbled basin in his private bathroom. He liked what he saw and smiled. Jane Brauntley obviously liked it too. Carefully drying his hands to the manicured nails in the plush towel available to him, he rolled the sleeves of his tailored shirt in place and buttoned the cuffs. Taking his coat from the teak and gold-appointed hanger on the door, he could not take his eyes off his own image in the soft lit mirror. Maybe this weekend, maybe next –before Linda and the kids get here, and he walked back into his office for his micro-cassette tape recorder and presentation notes. He adjusted himself on the way out.
The action on the trading floor began to swell ten minutes ago. The pressure and density in the air preceded it; like atmosphere running before a giant storm or earthquake – even altering the look of the air: hazy and less defined across acres of floor. The precious metal and gem guys come in hot at 5:00 A.M. and never cool down for the next seven hours, but the crews that deal in petroleum and other commodities are just now getting jiggly, the choir of murmurs rising to a low roar. Stocks and securities brokers, commonly known never to get off their big rumps or walk away from their computer screens except for coffee, are standing and pacing, voices amping in volume, picking up the rhythm of the jabber filling the room. Commodities, already crowding the aisles and beginning to topple cubicle walls, get up on desks and then walk across them shouting invectives and profanities into their wireless infrared headsets, and at each other in one hundred and seventeen recognizable languages: searching, blindly colliding in space to do commerce. The wave of energy slams against the deck and the floor-to-ceiling windows begin to oscillate.
On top of the hundreds of shouted pleas, insults and threats there is the bellow of cattle being slaughtered in the sheds, the trumpets of elephants killed for ivory, and hungry cries of diamond-eyed black aids babies looking down at this stampede from cameras in the ceiling.
World Capital collapses, Exchange Rates rage, Futures’ cloven feet running, slipping on the bloodied carpets. Engorged, thrusting into a tight, dark, energy induced vortex. Lips opened, sucking, screaming, Oh God! Oh God as airplanes are pulled from the skies and into the Towers. Prayers follow in a moment’s pause and it all becomes reflection in vapors, a jet-fueled E Ticket Ride.
4 comments from 4 users
1
posted by
OldBlue56
on Mar 19, 2008 at 11:31 AM
So bake my day, how long have you been smoking crank? posted by
ChicoEsquela
on Mar 19, 2008 at 11:35 AM
posted by
sagefever
on Mar 19, 2008 at 12:45 PM
I like this,an interesting start.
posted by
ALICEN
on Apr 12, 2008 at 08:43 AM
bake_my_day: I'm new here. Where's the part about Obama?
1
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