It'll take time to fully fathom New York's horror

I spent my first time in New York trying to play it cool.

I took to heart a warning from a crusty editor at the Elizabeth Daily Journal, the New Jersey newspaper where I worked for a brief time.

"Don't make eye contact with anyone," he advised. "And for gawd's sake, don't stand around gawking up at all the big buildings like some boob.

"You do that and everyone will know right off that you're a hick from Podunk, Idaho."

So I took the train into Manhattan. I walked around with my hands stuffed in my pockets and eyes on the sidewalk in front of my feet.

I tried hard to exude that fabled "New York state of mind." The only people I fooled were probably other rubes from Idaho.

Ten years later I made another trip to New York.

This time I was mature enough to realize I was not Frank Sinatra. This time I succumbed to the city's magnificence like a glutton at a free smorgy.

I ordered pastrami in delicatessens. I strolled in Central Park. I browsed some extravagant shops near Park Avenue that were several light years out of my credit limit.

All right, I'll come out of the closet. I bought Big Apple key chains for my kids.

Mr. Tourist nearly threw his neck out gawking at all those stratospheric buildings.

Then, not too many hours before my flight was scheduled to depart, I took an elevator ride to the top of the world.

The cabbie who drove me to the World Trade Center was a scruffy guy with sunglasses and a three-day beard. He gave me a brief, opinionated lecture on New Yorkers while negotiating the cab-heavy traffic.

Cabbie Guy told me that Manhattan dwellers believe they're cultured because of all the art museums and theaters that surround them.

Trouble is, he griped, they never go to them.

According to Cabbie Guy, all the people he chauffeured to these cultural meccas were from out of town. I got the idea that New York City would turn into Spangle were it not for heroes like me.

It was probably a total line of bull, but it worked. I tipped Cabbie Guy five bucks before heading to the 110-story twin towers.

I don't recall much about how many others were with me that day. I blocked them all out once I made it to the observation area.

And I took in a view that was just amazing to a Spokane kid who grew up thinking the Paulsen Building is a big deal.

It was a fairly clear day, but the afternoon sun was beginning to turn the city into a shadowy, brooding Gotham.

The experience overwhelmed me. I went away introspective with thoughts about the human effort it took to accomplish such a wonder.

Now, like every other American, I'm wrestling with the unthinkable.

The World Trade Center is no more, the Pentagon attacked. Thousands of our neighbors have been murdered before our eyes.

I saw it. Yet I can't believe it.

The image of those crumbling towers was too illogical, too movie- like to be true. The constant replays don't help. It will take days or weeks for this horror to sink in.

"It just seems unreal," my mother keeps repeating. "And imagine those poor people on those planes. It just makes you heartsick."

Everyone I know is sick at heart. And seething.

President Bush is right. This was not mere terrorism. This was an unprovoked act of war against all Americans - liberals, conservatives, blacks, whites and every other hue. The fiends who planned this, the nations who protect them, must pay in kind.

I'm in a New York state of mind, and it's called mourning. I mourn the dead and that lost afternoon in Manhattan, when I stood on top of the world. And marveled.

Copyright 2001 Cowles Publishing Company
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.