The window in his third-floor office provided a clean, safe perch from which to eye the workers below. He ran the factory as he ran his life, with incredible precision and without waiver. People would always need shoes, and he made them. He made them well and beautiful and with that dinosaur of a machine that made the pundits cry "sweatshop" and the fashionistas cry with delight. And so he kept making shoes, because he knew nothing else, though they all thought he did. High in his impeccable red-lined box, he choked back his $200 cognac while the grimy masses below toiled endlessly for their daily bread.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
"And by the way, a plane hit the World Trade Center."
"Whatever, mom, call me back in ten minutes. I was at work too late last night."
Her head plopped back to her pillow. The last sentence sticking in her sleepy brain, she pictured a cartoonish plane flying into one of her beloved buildings, kind of bouncing off, and then falling straight to the ground. Really, now, what could her mother possibly be talking abo....
Holy shit, a plane hit the World Trade Center! She bolted upright and called her mother back.
"Turn on the TV. NBC. See that?"
"Must be one of those small planes, I don't see anything but some smoke. What is that? Holy shit, anothe...."
The phone went dead. She raced outside to see it with her own eyes. One flight for each building.
What is that?
Oh. My. God.