It took Fred Yokas more than twenty minutes to find a place to park downtown. The parking meter took his last coins so if there was a coffee machine at the hall he hoped it would take dollar bills. That was a moot point because since that episode in the elevator where he almost had a heart attack, Faith had made him swear off of caffeine, save for the occasional can of Pepsi he managed to sneak down at the job site. She worried too much. You would think that her being a police officer and all, she wouldn’t be so sacred of that little episode. There was much more danger for New York City cops, especially after September 11th.
Suddenly, the church loomed before him almost daring him to go inside and confront his demons. He followed the makeshift signs of computer paper boasting magic marker arrows down into the bowels of the church past painted cinder block walls and faux mahogany doors lit with intermittent fluorescent tubes every twenty feet. The large room at the end of the hallway was nondescript save for the ample circle of folding chairs that numbered in the high teens.
A few people were there, less than a dozen but more than a handful, dressed casually, speaking low in small groupings. Occasionally forced smiles were exchanged, but no loud voices.
“Hello, welcome, my name is Beverly. And you are?” said the woman before him wearing one of those all-purpose HELLO, MY NAME IS labels on her white blouse.
“Fred, Fred Yokas,” he said. His eyes scraped the floor, looking for a place to hide. Why had he decided to come here, why tonight? Was it too late to turn around and run out? Faith expected him to be bowling anyhow. He could make the second game if he hurried. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to be here.”
“I know what you mean. Three times I got right to that threshold before I had the nerve to walk through that door.” Beverly added a smile.
“Really?”
“Of course. Would you like some coffee? It’s over here.”
“My wife says I need to cut out the caffeine.”
A soft laugh of understanding floated across him from her side. “That sounds all too familiar to me,” said Beverly. “Every day before he left for work, my Jerry used to say that to me.”
“Used to? Are you divorced?” said Fred. When she looked up the moisture in her red rimmed eyes provided the answer. “I’m sorry.”
The woman, who was about five years younger than his wife, placed his name on a similar label and affixed it to his canvas work jacket.
“We’re all sorry. I guess that’s why we’re all here. Would you like some lemonade?” Fred agreed and took the Styrofoam cup and followed Beverly to a metal folding chair. Fred Yokas had been to meetings like this before. Those gatherings always started with the serenity prayer. This one started with the “Our Father”.
“Squad 55, 10-10 at the bowling alley.” The 911 dispatcher acknowledged their location then the two female paramedics went to work. Taking their equipment, including defibrillator, with them, they entered Moochie’s Bowl-R-Ama. It was ten-cents a frame night if you bowled six games or more with all female leagues to follow for twilight bowling.
Wading through the crowds of loud bowling shirts, cigar smoke and empty beer bottles and plates of chicken bones, Kim Zambrano and Alex Taylor found the reason for their summons to this bowling alley in the middle of the evening shift.
The gaggle of onlookers and gawkers in the blue haze of tobacco smoke parted slightly when the paramedics arrived.
“Hello sir. We’re paramedics. What seems to be the problem?” said Alex Taylor only a month removed from burying her father from the site of the Towers. It was a perfunctory question but one look at that foot swelling like a balloon attached to a helium tank told the EMTs everything they needed to know. A voice from the crowd stated the obvious.
“Mr. Smoothie here dropped his bowling ball on his foot.”
Kim had finished taking vitals. “BP, one thirty over ninety, pulse strong and 87. Pupils are equal and reactive. Let’s splint this puppy and transport.”
The man with the purple mush for an ankle spoke up. “Where are you taking me?”
“You need to go to the hospital, sir. Your ankle could very well be broken. You need x-rays,” said Alex in her matter of fact voice.
“And unless there’s an MRI machine over there behind Super Mario 3, you’ll need to go to the hospital,” added Kim.
“I can’t go. You don’t understand,” said the victim. “I am in the middle of the company tournament here. I’ve got to throw one last frame.”
The ex-Mrs. Jimmy Doherty paid little attention. “To do that you have to sign a paper releasing the city of responsibility for your ‘decision.’ But I’ve got to tell you sir,” said Kim, “Vic, that’s the name on your shirt? Vic, I’ve got to tell you that you can do serious damage to that ankle if you don’t get it x-rayed ASAP.”
“Can’t you give me some kind of painkiller?” The fact that they would aid and abet his stupidity seemed natural to him. Alex and Kim shook their heads.
That same voice from the back sang like a chicken.
“What’s it going to be, Vic?” said Alex.
“One more ball. I know I can throw a strike even with a bum ankle. All you have to do is stand me up. One ball and I swear I’ll let you take me to the hospital. C’mon, what do you say?”
Alexis looked at Kim who replied with a shrug of her shoulders.
The sweep second hand on the church wall clock seemed to slow more and more with each pass. This particular group had been meeting since January of 2002. It was one of two dozen like groups established throughout the city. The group amenities had been dealt with and now they were at the juncture where newcomers were introduced. Fred wanted to run.
Beverly was chairing the meeting. “We have three new people among us tonight. Please make them all welcome. Would you care to introduce yourselves to the group? First names will do.”
An elderly lady dressed in what appeared to be a handmade sweater with an American flag motif cleared her throat.
“My name is Martha. My husband was a Port Authority Sergeant. I lost him in the South Tower.” Her voice was so small the group had to strain to hear her. To Fred’s left was a young woman, barely into her twenties, if his guess was correct. The tissue on her hand was not long for this world the way she was working it over.
“I’m Vangie. My Tony worked at Station 23. We just had our first baby last week. He went to the towers.” The pause was inadvertent. You could see she was questioning the wisdom of speaking. “He never came home.”
The moderator turned to Fred to speak next but an outburst from Martha stunned the assembled people.
“I’m sorry you lost your husband but it’s about time this city and everyone across the country realized that more than just firefighters were killed on 9/11. All I see on TV are memorials for firefighters who raised the flag, chaplains for firefighters getting deified, and firefighters on with Jay Leno. Hundreds of police officers died like heroes too. Night after night on the news its firefighters and paramedics, and even accountants who stumbled down forty flights of stairs to get back to their trophy wives.
“Where are the tears for the police officers like my Leo who ran into the building before the firefighters got there? Just because you carry a gun, it doesn’t protect you if a building falls on you.”
Martha was just getting up a head of steam.
“Martha, I know that you’re just upset. No one has ever demeaned the sacrifice of any of the heroes who died on 9/11. There were heroes on those planes, heroes at the Pentagon and there continue to be heroes each day since searching through the rubble for loved ones like your Leo and Vangie’s Tony.”
Sobbing was Martha’s task at hand. Beverly and another woman from the group comforted her and steered her towards the ladies’ room.
“Let’s take a break. We’ll be right back.”
Fred Yokas sat stone still. His eyes were searching his empty lemonade cup for a place to hide.
“So help me God, Kim if this guy sues us,” said Alex.
“We can’t in good conscience leave him with that bad of an ankle,” said her partner. A half smile appeared on the slim blonde’s face. “Besides, there’s a trophy at stake.”
They had managed to immobilize Vic’s throbbing ankle in an air splint and propped him upright near the ball return. It was a sight to behold.
“Just one ball Vic, then you promised to go to the hospital,” said Alex. She got a half wave of acknowledgment in return. A beautiful bowling ball of pastel blue with flames on either side of it was placed into Vic’s hands.
“Okay baby, give papa all ten and we’ll get this hoof taken care of,” said Vic. Those in similar bowling shirts cheered Vic. Those of the opposition jeered him lustily. As if in slow motion with time running out, Vic leaned forward and let his inertia send him careening towards the foul line. The ball was released and he fell forward just missing the foul line by centimeters.
