Dressed for Disaster
Keywords: for, Disaster, Dressed,
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Joining the long line at the registers, he started to plan his next objective: finding a place where he could get out of his dress and heels, change into his new clothes, and re-emerge as Patrick Summers.
The teenage clerk at the register looked at his odd assortment of purchases, and saw right through him. Damn! He had always had the most trouble with teenage girls!
"Having fun today, sir?"
Pat smiled and put on his best face. "Ich spreche keine Englisch." Lame, but he has used it in the past in similar situations.
"Whatever," she said with a shrug as she rang up the sale. Pat fumbled in his purse for his wallet, and pulled out four twenty-dollar bills. As she counted out his change, she noticed his torn dress and stockings. "Hey, I'm sorry, mister. Here you go."
Pat took his change and gave her a forced smile. He did not look back to see whether any of the people waiting in line had witnessed his mortification. Taking his plastic shopping bag, he walked out of the drug store and back into the bedlam on the sidewalk.
The smoke, the sirens, and the utter pandemonium shocked him. Yet in the midst of this incredible catastrophe, he had somehow managed to concentrate on his immediate predicament. Although there was panic all around him, he had no concerns about his personal safety. All he could think about was protecting his secret and preserving his reputation.
He spotted a large hotel a few blocks from where he had been staying, and approached the front entrance. There were no doormen to be seen, and he went into a large glass and brass revolving door, emerging into a lobby which was eerily calm. Several fire department officials were setting up a makeshift command post in the lobby bar, and as he walked towards the restrooms, an assistant manager approached him with a look of concern.
"Are you all right, Miss?"
Pat realized that he must look a sight. "Yes, thanks, I'm fine." Pat did not want to get into a conversation about where he was staying, and he certainly did not want to alert the hotel staff that he was about the enter the ladies' room. The incident with the clerk at the drugstore was still fresh on his mind.
"Why don't you sit down for a few minutes, and I'll find you a doctor. Those cuts look pretty nasty."
"Really, I'm fine," Pat assured the young man. Moving away, he found his way to the ladies room and walked in without hesitating. His plan was simple: change in one of the stalls, and wait until there was nobody else in the restroom before leaving it as a man.
The restroom was unoccupied, and he went into the handicapped stall and started to work. First, he scrubbed the makeup off his face with several of the towelettes. Next, he unbuttoned his dress and stepped out of it. Using the dress as a rag, he doused a corner of it with nail polish remover, and began stripping off the coat of quick dry polish, which he had applied the night before. When he was through, he slid off his white slip, pulled off his bloody pantyhose, and unhooked his padded bra.
Dressed only in his satin panties, Pat rummaged through the sack from the drugstore and found the white cotton sox. Next, the tee shirt and sweatpants. As he bent down to put on his sneakers, for the first time in over an hour, Pat allowed himself to relax a bit. He fished through his purse, and salvaged the remaining bills and coins. Now all he had to do was wait until the coast was clear, have a quick look at himself in the mirror, and duck out of the ladies room. He heard someone moving about by one of the sinks, so he settled in to wait.
Suddenly, the lights went dark, and there was a terrible roar. The whole building seemed to rock, and the cacophony of noises was deafening. For a moment, it seemed like the end of the world. Pat fell to his knees and waited for the floor to stop quaking.
Finally, the noise stopped, replaced by a sensation that Pat had never experienced. He could feel the grit in the air as it went into his lungs, bringing about a drowning sensation that sent him gagging and choking to his feet. Pat staggered out of the restroom and into the wreckage of the hotel lobby. The sight before him was unbelievable.
Broken glass was all over the place, and the assistant manager he had spoken to a few minutes before lay unconscious on the floor, a deep gash in his forehead. Dust was everywhere, on everything, and the bright September sun had been replaced by deep gray gloom. Sirens, screams, and garbled transmissions from police and fire department radios filled the air.
Pat realized what had happened. One of the twin towers must have collapsed, covering an area several city blocks wide with debris. The other tower could still be seen through the awful haze, and next to it stood his hotel. Although his immediate problems were behind him, Pat was still deathly afraid that his secret would be discovered when the hotel staff or authorities opened his room. The thought of someone calling his office or his wife to ask them where to send his skirts and high heels tormented him.
Once again, ignoring the larger risk to his personal safety, Pat set out towards his hotel. Maybe now he could make it back inside, bundle up the rest of his incriminating wardrobe, and dump it outside of his room. If he were lucky, he would also be able to retrieve his laptop computer, with its hard drive full of transvestite literature.
He was halfway back to the hotel when someone screamed, "The other tower is starting to go!" Pat looked up in time to see the monumental television antennae on the roof pitch to one side, signaling the beginning of the end. He turned and joined the frantic crowd racing away from the World Trade Center. Someone ahead of him ducked into a doorway, and he followed an instant before a hurricane of debris swept through the concrete canyon, filling the air again with choking dust. Once more, the sky became dark, and time stood still as Pat huddled in the doorway, waiting for the tumult to subside.
Then it was quiet, and Pat stepped back into the deserted street. He knew that he had just witnessed the deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and suddenly his pathetic problems seemed insignificant. He was just thankful to be alive. Slowly, he joined the parade of refugees heading north, away from the disaster, some limping, others bleeding, many crying hysterically.
He had a special empathy for the women, professionals and secretaries, in their dusty suits and skirts, hobbling along in their high heels. Many abandoned their painful shoes, and trooped through the filthy streets in their stockings or bare feet. He couldn't help thinking how lucky he was to have gotten out of his woman's clothing. Looking at the misery around him, he felt ashamed to have given that a thought.
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?"
By the author of The Jessica Project.
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Keywords: for, Disaster, Dressed,