Last month, I was writing in my favorite cafe when I noticed four men huddled around a corner table. They leaned in tight, their eyes fixed on the digital display of a crude metal device. Wires stuck out from the side, twisted in messy copper nests. The electrical cord still had the Warning: Risk of Electric Shock sticker near the plug. I assumed one of the men bought a new toy at Sharper Image and brought it along for morning coffee - the adult version of show & tell. I looked away.
But the machine display kept flashing and blinking, its red glow reflected in the window. I peeked over the huddle, and I could not believe what I saw: a clock ticking backwards, counting down. Counting down from what? To what?
I watched the numbers and thought of those cheesy millenium clocks everyone wanted in 1999 - back when we all believed civilization would collapse at the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve.
Suddenly, my toes and fingers felt clammy and cold. I packed my notebooks, called my husband, and glanced back over at the device. Ten minutes left. Ten minutes until what?
What if it was a bomb? It didn't seem like a bomb, but perhaps that was the idea?
I never thought that way before 9/11. But I do now. Even at the most illogical moments. It is not that I feel terror at every turn or panic over every abandoned backpack on the sidewalk or bus (though I notice them and report them to authorities/clerks/busdrivers, just in case.) It is not even that I spend my time worrying about an attack. It's more like a mood that passes over me.
I decided to wait it out and see what happened. My husband was meeting me soon, and we would leave together.
Time ticked down, and all I did was watch.