Disorder Creates Stability

Late. Late. Late. Late. Late. Late. I. Hate. Joe. Late. Late. Late. Late. Late. Late.

That was all that ran through my head as I cruised to work, trying not to break the speed limit in my haste.

“He knew I was busy today,” I thought bitterly.

A very elated Joe greeted me on my way out the door.

“Dude, you’ve got to come check this out!” he bubbled, happiness and glee just radiating out of his expression.

I pointed to the clock on the wall behind me, “Work Joe. Whatever you’ve got can wait; I’m cutting it close enough as it is.”

“Nonononono. Dude, it can’t wait,” he gushed, “it won’t take long, I promise.”

‘Won’t take long’ my ass. First thing I’m doing when I get off of work is pounding Joe to a microscopic pulp.

A quick glance as my dashboard revealed to me that my car was running on no gas. Of course. In my hectic scramble I totally spaced on filling up on fuel. I would have to walk the rest of the way to work.

This day just couldn’t get worse.

Lost in my thoughts, I was oblivious to the growing disarray around me. It wasn’t until a fleeing bystander ran headlong into me was I violently shaken out of my reverie and sensitized to what was going on.

Smoke.
Panic.
Chaos.

“What’s going on?” I said, the panic all around me slowly diffusing into my own emotions.

“Two planes, without warning, just smashed into the Twin Towers,” the man that ran into me replied, helping me up onto my feet.

Heart pounding in my chest and more so in my ears, I pushed past the guy, ignoring his shouts and protests, and ran. The crowd proved difficult to weave through as if they were daring me not to reach my destination, but I neither complied nor cared. Rational had abandoned me as soon as I had started running.

Lungs and legs burning, I continued to run against the crowd. I weaved past numerous people and buildings until I passed by the last building that was obstructing my way. The sight I took in stopped me in my tracks.

Thick smoke poured out of fiery wounds and rose like twin smoke dragons, curling into the air and collecting as if it was not able to permeate into the atmosphere.

I want (need) to get closer, I thought. As I moved, I felt something (someone) grab my wrist, holding me back. I swung around and came face to face with another man. He was about a head shorter then me and his blonde hair was weighted down with sweat. A hat was parked firmly on his head and a pair of glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

“Didn’t anyone tell you that you are supposed to run away from danger not to it?” he asked a hint of a smile, a smirk if you will, playing on full lips.

My head swam with confusion and exhaustion. “I have-…” I stuttered breathlessly, “ I need to-…” Whether my inability to form a coherent sentence was from all the running I did or just from the sight of the man before me I could not comprehend.

“What you need to do is find somewhere safe,” he responded, “ you could get hurt or worse in all this panic.”

“But-” I tried to think of a counter but my head was swimming too fast for me to be able to proper catch a thought.

“Look at yourself. If you don’t find a proper shelter now it’s guaranteed that you won’t make it through the day in one piece.” I said nothing and silently admitted defeat. He started leading me away from the confusion that was the New York streets and it was only until he softly tugged at my arm did I become aware that his hand had remained encircled around my wrist during our conversation. He had never removed it.

An almost deafening rumble ceased our actions and caused us both to spin around quickly. The world seemed to have stopped as we both witnessed a horrifying sight: one of the towers, previously burning, now was collapsing into a pile of rubble. We both stood rooted to the ground too terror struck to react. A large cloud of dust and debris started enveloping everything in its path. The blonde stranger, who stood next to me, started pulling me somewhere, anywhere, to try and escape the debris but we could not react fast enough to avoid it. We were soon inside the cloud of dust. The air turned thick and breathing without inhaling dust was near impossible. Though it was hard to see, the stranger continued to tug at my arm, searching for any possible shelter. I then heard a door creaking open and a pair of hand pushing into the small of my back. Unable to see with dust in my eyes, I felt no choice but to comply with the hands. The door that was pushed open was now closed. I searched out blindly and found a wall. I slumped down against it and started coughing violently to dislodge the dust I had inhaled out side. While I was sitting on the floor, a damp rag was pressed against my cheek. The cool cloth felt soothing against my hot, sweaty skin and I found myself tilting my head towards the wet fabric before it moved across my face and neck to clean up my now dirty skin. I tried to open my eyes to look at the face of the person cleaning me up but found I could now because of the dust in my eyes. I tried to make a noise to express my frustration but it came out more as a strangled cough then I had originally planned.

“Only a bit of blood.” A small voice murmured absently. “nothing too serious.” I recognized the voice as the stranger I had just met.

Hand gently laid me down onto the cold, tile floor, a dry towel placed under my head. Gentle fingertips lightly pried open my eyelids and cool water was poured onto them to flush any dirt that had gotten into them.

“You’re doing all this; helping me, saving me and I don’t even know your name,” I mumbled, trying to repress any urge to cough.

His hands faltered for a second before resuming to clean my other eye. “How rude of me,” he replied, “my name is Patrick. Patrick Stump. I own a shop a few streets over. In fact I remember seeing you come in quite often.”

I cautiously cracked open an eye, blinking furiously at the streaming light and looked up at Patrick, “Peter. Pete. Pete Wentz. I work… or used to work…” I trailed.

Patrick gave a small smile to show his understanding. “nice to meet you Pete.”

“Likewise.”

Patrick then proceeded to lift me into a sitting position after he finished cleaning me off. I rubbed my eyes and opened them, finally being able to see. I looked around to see that we had found shelter in a café. Nobody seemed to be here except for us. I supposed they made the wise decision and fled when the whole trouble started.

Patrick continued to wipe as my face and skin with an almost maternal air about him. I grabbed his hand and removed the rag. I kept hold of his hand in my own and placed them both in my lap, while using my free hand to start cleaning off the dirt and blood from his own face. He blushed slightly as I dabbed lightly at a wound on his cheek that seem to refuse to stop bleeding. He reached with his free hand to try and reclaim possession of the rag but I swatted away his hand.

“I think I’m clean enough,” I said, “you need to start caring for yourself.”

But you-“

“I’m fine. My cuts have closed, but you’re still bleeding.”

Patrick made no reply but adverted his eyes to his lap. I made to get up, dropping my grip on Patrick’s hand, and walking to the back of the café in search of clean rags and a first aid kit.

After a bit of searching I found the supplies I was looking for. While I was walking back, a muffled conversation caught my attention. I turned my head to the sound only to be met with a small radio. I reached over and turned up the volume to hear a reporter, his voice a mix of reassurance and fortitude as he relayed the new; even by event, detail by detail. All the world shut out as I just stare at the miniscule radio. A hand tentatively weaves into mine. A head rests in my shoulder. I look over at Patrick and sigh. I wordlessly drop his hand and delicately lift his head and resume cleaning the cuts and scrapes on his face which had ceases bleeding. Patrick brushes my hand away, removes the rag and sets it on the marble counter, and once again weaves his hand into mine.

“It’s okay. Things will be okay. They just have to be,” he squeezes my hand as if the very action will emphasize his very words. His words mean one thing but in his eyes, past the carefully constructed strength, lies the unspoken confession that he truly wishes, just as much as I do, that what he just said was the truth. I said nothing, all the words meant to be spoken not finding a clear passage out of my throat, and just squeeze back an understanding.

This is how we spent the better portion of the day; hand in hand, heart in stomach , listening and clinging to every word as it oozed from the radio in hopes of catching even the slightest glimmer of optimism.