I don't know if it happens to every generation, but there are historical events that occur which make us sit up and take notice of our insignificance. I am in Houston waiting for the planes to start flying again and I am so ready to see Stephanie and the kids I am almost frantic. On the eleventh, I was making a presentation to the executive board on a project to build a new plant in the Houston area, a $150 million expenditure. Not small potatoes. We were in the boardroom of our satellite headquarters; I was reviewing the financial analysis on the return of invested capital when my secretary interrupted to tell us that a plane had flown into the WTC. There is a television in the boardroom, so I stopped my little dog and pony show and turned it on. The skyline of lower Manhattan looked like it was on fire. I looked at the men and women sitting at the conference table and the registered shock on their faces was terrifying in and of itself. We watched the unfolding horror without speaking and then the unthinkable happened. Another plane appeared out of the sky and flew into the other tower, the inferno blooming like some malign, baleful flower.

"What the fuck is going on?" Daniel Jenkins, the chairman of the board asked.

"Well, sir, it appears the WTC has been targeted by some hateful, murderous bastards," was all I could come with.

The reports coming in were like something from an insane alternate universe. The Pentagon was on fire, planes were being ordered from the sky, there were more flights that were being monitored as potential missiles, the president was out of the White House. The whole fucking world seemed to be ending. I wanted nothing more than to call Stephanie. I excused myself from the meeting. We have been living in Largo, Florida for about a year. Largo is across the bay from Tampa, home of MacDill AFB. MacDill was the central command in the Gulf War and I am afraid it could be a target for whatever the hell was going on.

After several tries on my mobile, I get through to Stephanie.

"Luke, what is happening? There are people being incinerated and others are leaping from the towers to escape the flames," she said.

"It's terrorists of some stripe. Are you okay, is anything on the news about MacDill? Are the kids at school?"

"There's nothing about MacDill, except they have gone on alert. There are fighters in the air, I've been outside and seen them. The kids are at school. I'm going to leave them there unless something else happens."

"Stephanie, I love you. I want you to know that. I don't know what's going to happen with my flight this afternoon, but I will get home as soon as I can."

"Luke, just calm down. We are all right here. You do what you can to get back, but let's sit tight and see how this all shakes out. I love you too."

We talk a few more minutes and then she rings off. I want to hold her right now.

I am reminded of what she told me in the wake of my accident in 1977, when she came back to me. She had said that we always think we'll have tomorrow to sort things out or to tell someone we love them or to make right a mistake, but the truth is, we may not even have today. Somehow I had lost sight of that very simple truth. I've gotten so wrapped in my own little life and success that I had forgotten about some priorities. Like being a feeling, caring human being. I mean, it's not like I stomp puppies or steal food from children, but I think my selfishness has reached epic proportions. And this occurs to me all at once, out of the blue.

There is a poem I discovered when I took my last literature class at Benedict. Professor Fischer had taught the class and she had assigned each student an author; some poets, some novelists and some essayists. We had to write a research paper about the person's life and analyze some of their work. Naomi had given me George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. I was not all that excited about researching an English poet who lived a scant 36 years in the late 18th, early 19th century, but the exploration into this life and his astounding poetry was eye opening. My favorite Byron poem is "She Walks in Beauty" and after I met Stephanie and fell in love with her I always associated that poem with her.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.


And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

I think the reason I associate certain works of breathtaking, heartfelt expression with people I love is that although I can tell them I love them, I know my words are so inadequate and fall so short of revealing what is in my heart and soul that the best I can do is substitute the words of others who have made the supreme and complete articulation of their adoration and ardor. Stephanie saved me from despair twice, once after I had betrayed her, and I owe her more than I can ever repay, but I don't think she looks for repayment just devotion. I think she may be getting shortchanged.

The only good thing about being stuck in Houston is I am staying at the L'hotel Sofitel, on of my favorite places to stay. However, this is a small comfort because I have no one to share the empty nights. I soon discover the first flight from Houston Intercontinental will probably be a redeye to Tampa Saturday night. I go ahead and tentatively book the flight, then I pray it will take me back to my family.

The extension of my trip by four days gives me plenty of time to assess what I've been doing with my life, especially in the wake of witnessing the wanton murder of thousands of innocent people who had left for work on a beautiful fall morning, kissing their loved ones goodbye with that implied promise of return at the end of the day and then catastrophe befell them, their lives, loves, dreams spilled from the sky, ashes falling like tears.

I had taken a job with Blaine Construction six years ago, in late 1995 coming on board in the mergers and acquisitions department. Blaine was the American face of an Australian company, the New South Wales Corporation. NSWC was a $5 billion dollar multinational building materials giant that had acquired Blaine in 1992. My last project had been the acquisition of a competitor headquartered in Tampa. I was offered the job of CFO of the Southern Region of Blaine and assigned the primary task of integrating this competitor into our existing business. I took the job and moved my family to Florida. We had moved into a home in Largo, about 10 minutes from Clearwater Beach.

I had been part of an integration team before. Part of my job involved analyzing the cost savings to be realized from centralizing administrative functions into Blaine's home headquarters in Ft. Lauderdale. This usually involved headcount reduction, an antiseptic way of saying 'we've got people that need to be fired'. I was good at my job. What I would do is outline to the people what we were going to off sight, jobwise, to Ft. Lauderdale in anticipation of total integration into the larger company. Those people who could take a hint sought other employment, those who couldn't I had to ax. Sometimes I wasn't a popular guy, but I could live with that.

The CFO's job gave me a lot more responsibility for the profitability of the whole region, plus the integration of the Tampa based company. There was also the Houston project, with plans for a superplant that I would make the financial case for.

How I ended up at Blaine is another story altogether. Before I had gone to Blaine, I worked with my old buddy Fred Hooper. Hoop's father owned a business that manufactured building components. It was not a particularly dynamic manufacturing firm, but steady nonetheless. When Hoop graduated in 1979, he went to work for his dad. I was in grad school until 1979 and as I prepared to greet the real world, Hoop and his dad interviewed me for their finance department. Hoop's father, Vince, had an old friend that had served as his VP of finance for a long time and he was nearing retirement. Vince wanted someone who could serve under this guy for a couple of years and then take over. He thought, because Hoop had been generous with the praise, that I might be that guy. I took the job. Hoop and I were still great friends and the prospect of getting to work with him, as well as the job itself, was an attractive offer.

We worked hard to make the company grow and met with some success. By 1987, when Vince retired and Hoop took over, the little company had quadrupled its revenues, largely because of our efforts. What led to the rift between Hoop and me was the fact that I wanted to be more aggressive in expanding our markets and I also wanted us to invest in a new, modern facility. I was sure that we could reduce our labor and material costs through use of some cutting edge technologies. This would mean the reduction of the work force but increased productivity and profit margins as a result. Hoop had this old fashioned notion of responsibility to his employees, but I pointed out in detail how the technology could do a more efficient job with fewer people. After all the wages are just the tip of the iceberg when controlling costs. It's the costs that are loaded on; taxes, insurance, etc. that are the real profit eaters. I explained to Hoop I didn't want to be hard hearted about putting people out of work, but if we wanted to be competitive we did need to be hard headed about costs. When I was unable to sell Hoop on my idea, we came to a parting of the ways. I told him I thought he was blowing a golden opportunity to take the next step to being a larger player in the market. He said he was willing to take that chance. I told him goodbye.

I was able to land the job with Blaine quickly. They offered the challenge of getting into mergers and acquisitions. The negotiating part of the process had instant appeal for me. I enjoyed getting people to compromise, or to be more accurate, bend to my will. More than once I've taken the money off the table and walked away, only to have the other party chase me down at the elevator and take the offer. People can be such suckers. Getting a reputation as a hard-nosed negotiator who got people to sell their assets cheap earned me some respect from the powers that be at NSWC.

As a result, I began doing more work in the integration phase of acquisitions. In other words, they needed a good hatchet man who could drive favorable returns without sacrificing too much morale. I have run off more than a few useless former owners and their favored employees. The sad thing about people who sell their businesses is that they think that after we take over it will be business as usual. It always falls to me to explain to them that they have sold their company and we at Blaine don't necessarily do business the way they do, in fact, I usually tell them we are much better at it than they are. The good thing about a company like Blaine is there is always a good pool of talent if too many people bolt in fear. Good bench strength is essential.

Another thing I loved about my job was that I had to travel a lot. If you were willing to travel and relocate, you could move up fast. It took a toll on Stephanie and the kids, but they are resilient. In the last five years we had relocated three times.

All of this is running through my head Thursday night, the 13th, as I lay in the huge bed in my hotel room. Have I always been such an asshole? At one time didn't I have a little compassion for other people? Do I have the same attitude with my wife and kids? Do I ever tell them, do I ever tell anyone, how much they mean to me? As I consider the answers, I get a little sad about the rigid, uncaring person I've become. Why have I done this to other people, why have I done it to me?

I make myself a promise. When I get back to Largo, I'm going to call Hoop and reconcile with him. God, what a jerk I was. I want to slow down the pace, enjoy my wife, watch my kids grow up. Why has success become my raison d'être. I'm still thinking I will have tomorrow and I'm pissing on today.

Saturday night arrives and I am at the airport. I get thoroughly screened, I end up going through the metal detector shoeless, beltless with my shirttail hanging out. I don't know how many blonde, blue eyed terrorists there are, but the airport employees have determined I'm not one.

I get to the gate and wait with the other 5 people waiting to board the flight to Tampa. I have never seen Houston Intercontinental so empty. It is like some terrible plague has befallen the human race and those that remain are walking around, hollow eyed, distraught at the devastation. Everyone is uncompromisingly polite and considerate to one another. We're all a little nervous to be boarding a plane so soon after what happened in New York City. I go to a Hudson News and buy a New York Times. The paper is full of the stories and pictures of the missing and those who are searching for the lost souls that must have fled to heaven when the towers buried themselves. It is unbearably sad. But I find myself reading again and again about the lost husband, wife, daughter, son, companion, father, mother, the heroic firefighter, policeman. God, how does this happen? We pass through this life unknowing of the tenuous grasp we have on our existence or that it can be blotted out in an instant. I think I've spent an awful lot of energy cultivating a callousness to the suffering of others but the enormity of this hideous act and it's effect on so many has stripped me of this protection. I am furious at the perpetrators and I am grief stricken for those who have lost their cherished ones. My self-inflicted blindness is banished in the garish light of this atrocity and I can hardly bear what I see.

Finally, after three delays we are allowed to board the plane. I am alone in first class except for another gentlemen across the aisle from me. As we prepare for takeoff I pull out my Discman and my CD's. Stephanie bought me a boxed collection of Pink Floyd albums, every single disc they ever released. My favorite, my 'the album I would want if I were marooned on a desert island' is "Wish You Were Here." I put the CD in my Discman in anticipation of our departure and place the earphones around my neck. The flight attendant stops at my chair and asks if I would like anything to drink. I ask him for Jack Daniels and ice, please. He brings me two of the little bottles and a cup of ice. I pour them in, swish the ice around to make the whiskey cold and gulp it down in a single swallow. Fortified I can look forward to the flight. The attendant does his spiel, the captain welcomes us aboard, gives us the flight time, we taxi to the runway and we are delivered into the awaiting sky.

I lean back in my chair, put on my earphones and start my Discman. The attendant comes back by and asks me if I need anything else. I tell him no, but thanks. I notice he doesn't look any more thrilled by the prospect of flying than the passengers. He has a grim, determined look on his face. I give him a little smile and a thumbs up. This seems to please him and he returns both.

When the plane breaks through the clouds I look out at the tops tinted chalky blue by the moon. It is an incredibly serene sight, the stars above, a carpet of vapor below. I turn on my CD and close my eyes.

I walk through the front door of the cabin and the music is playing. I'm not sure how I got here, but I come in alone. The light is fading from the day, dust motes playing in the streamers of sun slicing in through the windows. Then I am facing Phillip, I know I have been watching him sleep again but he is awake, propped up on his elbow, looking young, handsome, smiling that crooked smile that I had all but forgotten. He is saying the things I have been wanting to hear and I am glad, relieved. It is then I notice we are both naked and it arouses me. Prismed fragments of the day's events flash through my consciousness, we are both young and alive, unashamed of our spoken affection. I am going to tell him one more time and he will know. Instead what I say is " So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee."

I feel a hand on my shoulder, I look up and it is the flight attendant.

"Is there something you need, sir?" he asks.

"No, thank you."

I am glad I have the Times on my lap because I have an erection that would cut diamonds. I adjust the paper a little to make sure I have the proper coverage, so to speak.

"I heard you saying something and I thought you were talking to me" The attendant adds.

"I must have been dreaming. I'm sorry, but I talk in my sleep occasionally."

"No problem, sir. Sorry I woke you." And he walks away down the aisle.

It has been a long time since I've had any dream of Phillip. He only comes around when I'm stressed out. The dream makes me realize that, at one time, I was a different person. I used to be somewhat open hearted and idealistic, loving and hopeful. Now I think I am mostly cynical, suspicious of people's motivations.

The CD reaches the song "Wish You Were Here" and the lyrics fill me with a profound sense of grief I haven't felt in years. I immediately want it to go away.

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell
Blue skies from pain
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year
Running over the same old ground
What have we found?
The same old fears
Wish you were here

The old anger returns; what did I let them steal from me? Heroes and ghosts, hot ashes and trees, hot air and a cool breeze, cold comfort and change? What the fuck did they do to Phillip and to me and why?

My father passed away in 1995 and we never made our peace with one another about what had happened. Some of that is my fault. I never went to him, man to man, and told him what I wanted. I never let him know how badly it hurt that we had changed and our love had been twisted by what I had done. But I guess he never had it him to forgive me either. I saw him six weeks before he died, terribly sick and wasted from cancer. I embraced him and he was so thin that I feared I would injure him. My chest tightened and ached for him in his suffering. No one should ever be so ill. He was a trooper though, uncomplaining. I told him how much I loved him. He told me that he had always loved me too, but there was nothing else. Maybe I wanted too much. My brothers and I all gave a eulogy at his funeral, but I can't remember a word I said. That is the one time my memory deserts me. I was on the edge of despair but Stephanie was there and she kept her hand on me or I think I might have fled, trying to outrun the reality of his death.

I can't dwell on this or it will make me crazy. Right now all I want to do is get on the ground in Tampa, find my car, drive the Courtney Campbell Causeway across the bay, the lights from St. Petersburg glistening on the water in the dark illuminating my way, get home and hug my wife and kids and tell them I love them. The past cannot be changed but I can be a different man today and tomorrow, if I have one. I will be a better man.