Top Of The Table

K-Lee

Sept. 16, 2001

While the phone sounded it's annoying ring at 7:30 Tuesday morning, I rolled away from it and stuffed a pillow into my ear. It continued to annoy me and I assumed there would be one very embarrassed telemarketer on the other end once I got through with them.

I was surprised to hear my neighbor's small, soft, voice say,
"K-Lee? I'm sorry to wake you but I'm very scared."

As my eyes unfolded and the room came into view, I gazed at my clock. It was early and Liz didn't usually call to chitchat nor was she normally up at this early time of day. I tried to sift through her ramblings about a crash and her girlfriend stuck in another city on the east coast and the Pentagon and the twin towers. Nothing made sense, due in part to her run-ons and also my grogginess. I pushed the on button to the television and let the horror seep into every nerve. It was an act, it was staged, and it was taking place somewhere else.

Alternating between applying mascara and crying it off, I opted to phone work as soon as I thought someone was there to answer. My Lebanese boss, one of three owners of the restaurant where I work, answered. I steadied my voice and asked if he had seen the news. He had, so then I inquired if I was expected at work. He replied,

"Of course" and "why not?"

and as I gently replaced the receiver, I contemplated the importance of having a job at all if we were going to war. I mused at his cool and almost carefree answer to my query. I strongly considered staying home and tying up the phone lines with frantic calls and emails to friends and relatives, then acknowledged the insanity that would fester in my head and opted to have as normal a day as possible.

The drive to work was excruciating as I listened to the radio between sobs and read the faces of drivers sharing the road with me. Traffic was slight and pedestrians were few. I entered work and tried to act normal. One by one, the Hispanic kitchen workers arrived and spent an extra instant on my expression as they quietly said hello. They were trying to interpret the meaning of what was taking place just as I was and they too shared my fear of what was to come. We pulled out the rickety, greasy radio and plugged it into the wall near the front counter. The kitchen workers turned on the old black and white television and tuned it to the local Hispanic channel.

Like numb zombies, we filled coffee, brewed tea and washed tables. No customers came, no phone orders came in, and the parking lot remained barren. It was a somber atmosphere and upon the arrival of the other owner, also Lebanese, I could see him trying to get into our minds and read our feelings as well.

With National Public Radio unraveling the morning's events, we all quietly realized it was getting worse and worse. The Pentagon, the twin towers, Pennsylvania, hostages, victims, suspects and terrorists crammed their way onto the airwaves for a slice of the action. A childlike fear crawled into our two Middle-Eastern restaurant owners as the radio announced the possibility of Bin Laden being the villain. Calmly, the bosses listened and met away from the rest of us to discuss their next move. I could tell they were worried about the implications. So was I.

We work in a Mediterranean restaurant owned by two men from Lebanon and a woman from France. Should we stay open and act as if business was usual? Should we close out of respect for the growing tragedy? Will our customers look at our restaurant differently or harbor resentment towards the owners if it is in fact Bin Laden who committed these atrocities? Will we lose business and respect? Will people understand that while the owners are of Lebanese decent, they are American citizens who greatly oppose these acts that took place? Would people blanketly accuse all people of Middle Eastern ethnicity as heathens and help build our reputation as a racist society?

More next week…
K-Lee