I was 55 years old on September 11, 2001.
I was living south of Seattle when the attacks happened. I was a paratransit lead supervisor for a large company. I had two supervisors and about 250 buses under me, all out doing their daily thing.
Then the world started falling apart.
I had no choice but to bring them all in.
A few drivers never went back to work after that day. Everything changed, including me. Living through something like that changes the way you look at life.
Life itself kept moving in directions I never could have predicted. I can’t even remember if I was banging the receptionist by then. She was married with a couple of kids, and somehow we ended up in a relationship that lasted a couple decades. She became one of the major women in my life.
Now it’s 25 years later.
I never expected to last this long.
I’m eighty years old, without a vehicle, and I have a doctor’s appointment Friday to talk about the ankle I broke. The only way I’m willing to get there is on my tricycle — the same vehicle I was riding when I broke the damn ankle.
There is one important difference.
At least I won’t be drunk this time.
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