Adam Levin - The Instructions

“But yet nonetheless—”

“But yet nonetheless nothing! Today of all days is no day to play the bureaucrat.”

Rabbi Salt went over and whispered to the teacher. The mom left the school with both girls.

The news, spreading fast, became rumors faster. A plane had hit the Sears Tower, it was said. Later that day, I’d wonder which schmuck had spread that, but it was probably no schmuck, just some kid who mis-heard the message he’d been passed. If between mouth and ear the World Trade Center could so quickly become the center of the world, it only followed that the tallest building in the country would get confused for the one that used to be.

A couple syllables into the Shemoneh Esreh, everyone but Solomon Schenk had stopped praying. Schenk’s bar-mitzvah had happened the previous Saturday. At Schechter that meant he’d lead prayers all week. Schenk was the boy whose mother was crying. His eyes were on scripture and he’d failed to see her. She was slouched on the opposite side of the multipurpose room, waiting politely for Solomon to finish. When finally he noticed that no one else was praying, he lifted his head, and there she was. Through the mike on the podium, he said, “Where’s Aba? What happened to Aba? Where is my aba?”

“Your aba is fine,” she yelled back to her son, then from the same kind concern for decorum that had caused her to wait in the corner, crying, she incited a panic she’d intended to cull. “Everyone’s parents are fine,” she said.

And we knew what that meant. We thought we did.

“Sears Tower’s destroyed!” “And the center of the world.” “Planes are missing.” “Planes are missiles.” “Where’s our parents?” “We want our parents.”

Rabbi Salt took the podium and told us what he knew. Two planes had hit a building in New York. The building was called the World Trade Center. Nothing bad had happened in Chicago. It was alright to weep, even he felt like weeping, weeping made sense, but we should know, he told us, what exactly it was that we wept for. It wasn’t our parents, it wasn’t our parents. “Please sit back down and we’ll continue to daven.”

“How do you know?” “How does he know what’s happening?”

“Keep down your voices,” we were told by Rabbi Unger. “Sit down in your seats and we’ll continue the service.”

No one sat down in his seat. Kids with cellies ********called home, checked in, then passed the cellies on to kids without them.

Rabbi Salt, wise, buzzed the media-tech. A few minutes later, CNN was on the wall-screen. We sat on the floor in front of it. Towers were burning, people were falling, no few planes were still in the sky. Most of us began to enjoy ourselves. That might sound cold, even arch, to a moron. Our parents were fine, though, and plus we had enemies.

Just minutes earlier, when the possibility that our parents were dead had seemed, for the first time ever, real, we’d discovered we were not as bad as we’d suspected. Who among us hadn’t, at one point or many, entertained reluctant fantasies of being orphaned — all those guys you’d know more than, all those girls who’d notice, all those good reasons to cry and lash out, the allowances granted you for all of it, the admiration you’d get for having overcome? And who of us hadn’t wondered what was wrong with himself for having entertained such fantasies? Who hadn’t worried that in his heart of hearts he was selfish and guilty, a wishful parricide? And now we knew we weren’t, that we hadn’t ever been. During those couple minutes in which we feared our parents’ deaths, we learned their deaths were the last things we wanted; that those fantasies, like nightmares, said nothing true about us. We were good after all, we’d been good all along, our dreams of orphanage the outcome of frustrated longings we hadn’t known we’d had, longings for actual, unadulterated enmity = It turned out we’d just always wanted enemies. Worthy enemies. Materially demonstrable injustice to (after some struggle) beat. Explicit threats to rise above. Good reasons to dominate, a righteous path of conquest, the chance to exhibit strength without being a show-off. Ways to do violence while remaining a mensch. The need to do violence to remain a mensch.

I’m not saying all of us. What I’m saying is most of us. (Emmanuel, for instance, showed no signs of power-surging. He just stood there, worried, quietly saying, “This is not good, people are dying,” while keeping his tears welled, not wanting attention.) And I’m not claiming all of us knew why we were thrilled. I’m not claiming any of us knew why we were relieved. I’m saying we were thrilled. I’m saying we were relieved. I’m saying that for the first time in most of our lives, these two previously contradictory feelings served to complement each other. We were good and we had enemies. We had enemies, were good. We had enemies because we were good. I’m attempting to account for the secret reasons why this all seemed true to us, why it all made sense to us. I’m attempting to explain that it wasn’t just the on-the-spot cancelation of classes, or the feeling of productivity you get watching news in a group, or even the oft-reported rush that comes of surviving intact a force others like you have not. We had this feeling of importance, of total purpose, that most of us had never experienced before.

We suspected we had become the underdog.

By the time the South Tower collapsed, we were sure. And then some new questions arose, or tried to. When, exactly, had we become the underdog? Was it possible we’d been the underdog all along? Without knowing? And was it right to speak of a group as an underdog; i.e. was an underdog group not comprised of many individual underdogs? And if comprised of many, was it not likely that some were more underdoggy than others? Which ones?

“I’ve been to Manhattan.” “I was born in Manhattan, so I know what you mean.” “You’re right, you’re right: my father was just there on business last week.” “I have cousins in Brooklyn, just over the bridge.” “Here, take my phone, Yoni. Call your cousins.”

“They might go for downtown.” “My dad works downtown.” “Mine’s in the Hancock.” “Mine’s at One Mag Mile.” “Board of Trade.” “Prudential.” “Lake Point Tower.” “Daley Center.” “Birthday Cake.”

“I’ve got cousins who live in actual Manhattan.” “You know what, Yoni? Give the phone to Shayna first.” “But it’s busy, Saul, I haven’t gotten through to—” “But her cousins live in actual Manhattan.”

“My dad’s in Sears Tower, and that’s the tallest so they’ll hit it.” “If they hit it, Ran.” “What’re you trying to say?” “Who cares what he’s trying, cause you’re all of you wrong. The Aon buiding’s what’s getting hit if something’s getting hit.” “I don’t even know what that is.” “You’d know it if you saw it, that’s why they’d hit it. Listen to Blitzer. It’s all about symbols.”

“Where in Manhattan?” “I don’t know exactly where.” “She says she doesn’t know where, but it’s actual Manhattan.” “But just cause mine are in Brooklyn doesn’t mean hers are closer.” “Brooklyn’s a totally different city, though.” “So what? Pizza is in Evanston. It’s in a totally different city from Chicago, but still Pizza’s closer to us than Comiskey Park, right? Or even Wrigley Field. Admit it, Shayna.” “No. It’s not like you’re saying. They’re islands.”

“Who’s that guy with the big brown eyes?”

“My father always said this would happen.”

“Sears Tower you’d know if you saw it, plus its name.” “Aon building’s white. Monolithic.” “Lake Point Towers is shaped almost like a clover. It’s right next to Navy Pier and it’s black. It’s where the real action happens, where my dad works.” “The real action happens in the Hancock, which you’d not only know if you saw it, and it’s name, but it’s way more important architecture. Sears Tower’s ugly.” “Aon’s not ugly.” “No one knows it’s name, though, the Aon.” “Lakepoint’s close to Navy Pier.” “The Empire State’s what they’d have hit if they cared about names.” “Statue of Liberty’s what they’d have hit if they cared about tourist attractions.” “The White House and the Pentagon is what I’d’ve tried to hit.” “Don’t act like a seer; they already announced the Pentagon was hit.” “They announced they heard something about the Pentagon. They didn’t announce if it was true yet.” “The point is anything is vulnerable.”