Terror

My cell phone did not work in my apartment. In order to see the bars of service, I was forced to walk out of the building and across the street, where I stood in a small park with chesstables, benches, a fountain and a policeman statue near the crosswalk. There were small shurbs on all sides of the park.

I had to stand in the park to receive the voicemails of concern that were left for me from Massachusetts and Vermont. I had to stand in the park to relay to those concerned people that I was safe. I explained to them that I wasn't worried, but I was being smart.

The only problem was that the constant repetition of the message - yes, I am in Montgomery County; yes, I am taking precautions; no, I'm not scared - seemed to instill in me a sense that I should be scared.

Reassuring others left me feeling less than assured.
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It was around 10:30 one night when they broadcast the photograph on the TV. I'd set my television timer so it would turn off about a half hour after I fell asleep, and I opened my eyes upon hearing the special report music kick in. Jim, the anchor I'd come to identify by his Morgan-Freeman-reminiscent voice, sounded troubled.

I rolled over, put on my glasses and stared at the photograph on the screen. The sniper had a name. Names. Two of them. But the elder suspect's image was the one being shown. They were looking for him. They knew who he was and they believed they knew what he'd done. He wasn't going to be able to hide anymore.

I turned off the timer and focused on the coverage. By the time I'd learned of the way detectives had pieced together the scenarios, my eyes were drooping and I'd seen the photograph countless times. It was time to turn off the television and sleep. I'd know more tomorrow.

I looked over at my window, located on the ground floor. I suddenly imagined lying asleep until I was jolted awake by the sound of the suspect breaking through the window pane. He'd be desperate now. He'd do anything.

For some reason, keeping the television on - having that glow - made me feel better. Safer. But, at the same point, his image was staring back at me on the screen.

I rolled over again and looked at the faint blue glow on the wall facing me.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
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Code Orange sucked.

Security restrictions cut down on the number of tours available through my office. People riding the Metro seemed skittish underground, but even more wary when above ground within sight of tanks or anti-aircraft artillery. It felt like there were more fences, more searches, less time to just enjoy being among other people.

We received frequent updates that were intended to alert us to the latest status. Up and down, safer and more in danger, but it generally averaged out at orange.

They had to choose my favorite color for the scary threat level. Awesome.

I tried to poke fun at it - I entered a contest for Opening Day tickets at Camden Yards by making reference to Code Orange (oddly enough, I didn't win. No one has a sense of humor when it comes to national security, it seems) - but I admit I felt the occasional jitters myself. When you hear on the news that there's a significant threat of an attack on the subway system you use several times a day, you want to pause before descending down to the platform. Even if just for an instant.

But mostly? I was angry. The sniper had left everyone shellshocked during my first couple of months living in the area. That was cleared up shortly before Code Orange set in. I knew I didn't intend to spend more than a couple of years in this area, and terrorists and assholes were attempting to screw up a significant chunk of that time.

I made a point to stride confidently down the Metro stairs. I wasn't going to let them get me down.
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I just have to think of those in London today and wonder if they'd thought similar things before they descended into the Underground or stepped onto that bus.

Sending my thoughts across the Atlantic. Terrorists are fucking lame.