Dressed for Disaster

As they approached Washington Square Park, he saw several television crews with mini-cams interviewing passersby. One of the reporters waved at him and motioned him over. Pat stepped out of the crowd and approached her.

"How about a quick interview?"

Why not? Pat said to himself. He was totally in the clear. Maybe his wife, parents and co-workers would see him on TV. They had to be wondering about him. His cell phone was back in his hotel room, undoubtedly crushed under tons of steel and concrete, as unrecognizable as the clothing and computer that he had worried so much about.

"Okay," Pat said to the newswoman. She was cute, with short blonde hair, and she had an impish smile as she pointed him towards her cameraman. She was not accustomed to doing hard news, and she seemed desperate for something to break the tension of reporting the traumatic events of the past two hours.

"What is your name?" she asked him as he stared into the camera.

"Patrick Summers."

"Where are you from, Mr. Summers?"

"Chicago." His escape had been a catharsis, and he began to feel almost giddy.

"What were you doing when the towers were attacked?"

Pat hesitated momentarily, thinking about his response. "Parading around the streets of New York in a dress and high heels" would not be a good answer. Remembering that he was dressed in sweatpants and sneakers, he replied, "I was out for a jog before my business meeting."

"Did you see the impact?"

"I was getting a cigarette out of my purse" would be another bad answer. "No, but I heard the explosion," Pat said.

"And did you get away from the area before the buildings came down?" the reporter asked him.

Pat did not tell her that he was changing out of his lingerie and stockings at the moment the first tower collapsed. "No, I had ducked into a building."

"Well, you were very fortunate, Mr. Summers. I have only one more question. Why are you wearing a wig and earrings?"