A stroke of luck (if you can call it that): on the 105th floor, I get a signal on the cellphone. I call Mary at home.
“Hello?”
“Mary? It’s Carthew. Sorry about all the coughing, but the boys are fine, we’re going to do our best to get out of here.”
“Carthew? Why are you whispering? What are you talking about?”
“There’s been an accident, but I’ve told the boys that it’s a theme-park ride. Turn on the TV, you’ll see what I mean.”
Silence, not a sound, I hear a television being turned on, then a piercing scream. “Oh Lord, tell me this isn’t happening. Carthew, don’t tell me you’re up there!”
“Shit, you’re the one who told me to get the kids up early so they didn’t get out of their school routine! I’d rather be somewhere else, I swear. I saw it, Mary, I SAW that fucking airplane crash right under us! It’s starting to get hot and there’s smoke everywhere, but the kids are okay. Hang on, Jerry wants a word.”
“Mom?”
“Oh, honey, are you all right? You’re not hurt? Look after your little brother for me, okay?”
“Mom, this ride is awesome, the place really stinks. Here’s Dave.”
“…”
“David?”
“Kof, kof,” (he coughs), “Mom, Jerry won’t lend me his camera!”
“Hi, Mary, it’s Carthew. Try and find out if they’re sending in a rescue team. We can’t get through to the lobby from here. We’ve had no fucking instructions on how to evacuate! Call me back. Later!”
We’re still in the neon-lit stairwell following the herd down the stairs like lambs being led to the slaughter. Solzhenitsyn compared those exiled to the gulags to lambs. Baaa. What a stupid bloody idea, bringing the kids here, they were bored shitless, they were as bored as I was. All these things we put ourselves through thinking it’s for the best…Now we’re being punished for not sleeping in. Look at them, all these early risers in their shirts and ties, freshly shaven, the overperfumed working girls, the disciples of the Wall Street Journal…They’d all have been better off staying in bed.
“You okay, kids? Keep your napkins over your nose and mouth, and don’t touch the rails, they’re really hot.”
In the silence, the herd swells; at each floor we’re joined by a traumatized legion in gray suits and pink pantsuits. We step over the tiles from the false ceilings obstructing the passage. The heat is suffocating. Sometimes someone gives his neighbor a hand, or cries, but most say nothing, they cough, they hope.