Hope and Other Punch Lines(42)

“Did he make it out?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. Most of them didn’t, which is what made those posters extra eerie. After a while, I think people were posting them not with hope, but almost to tell the world what they’d lost. As a testament or something,” Raj says.

I picture all of New York City papered in missing posters, like a freaky death collage. I wonder about that impulse to want to make other people stop and pay attention to your pain, and then wonder if that’s what my whole nailing-a-9/11-joke thing is about. If we are all like my campers, eager to pull up our pants legs to compare our scars.

“So you proposed! That’s impressive,” I say, because I don’t want to think about those posters anymore. About how, like Sheila said, the picture isn’t the same thing as the thing but there was nothing else left for people to show.

“She said no.”

“Crap. I was so hoping this story was going to have a happy ending.”

“Don’t worry. It does. She was like, ‘I know this horrible thing happened, but I’m not going to ruin the rest of my life just to make you feel better.’ Turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me, because a couple of years later I met my wife, and she’s amazing. We have identical-twin girls, and they’re beautiful, man. I’m so blessed. Everything happens for a reason.”

“You really believe that? Everything happens for a reason?” I ask, because I can think of no good reason for those towers to fall, or for a kid to shoot up a middle school. Any conception of God I have doesn’t allow for that sort of unimaginable horror.

“I have no idea. Maybe. Sometimes. Who knows? Maybe I got out of there to make those two perfect girls. Maybe they’ll be the ones to fix the world.”

“Tell me what it’s like to be a symbol. Do you ever get recognized?” I ask.

“You mean because I’m in the Baby Hope photo?”

“Yeah.”

“Never. I’m a guy in the background. No one ever notices me. I know this isn’t what you meant about being a symbol, but you know what? That day completely changed how I move through the world. I’m now a symbol, not a person, because people are freakin’ idiots,” Raj says, and laughs one of those sharp, bitter laughs that isn’t a laugh at all but its opposite. That always makes me sad—the idea of laughter, what I sometimes think of as the only good thing in the world, or at least the best thing, co-opted into a nervous tic.

“What do you mean?”

“I was born and raised in New York. After that day, for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel safe walking around in my own city because of my turban. People still don’t know the difference between Sikhs and Muslims. Not that it’s right to attack anybody, don’t get me wrong. One night I got chased by these big dudes with baseball bats. If I had a penny for every time I got called a terrorist or told to go back to my own country since nine-eleven, let’s just say I wouldn’t have to save for my kids’ college educations.” He pauses, and I hear some noise in the background. A woman, presumably Raj’s wife, telling his daughters to put away their phones and do their homework. “That day feels like a before-and-after for me in terms of opening my eyes to that shit. I mean, I got it on the playground as a kid, sure. But that morning changed everything.”

“That’s horrible. I’m sorry,” I say.

“Like I tell my girls, better to walk around with your eyes wide open than closed, right?”

“Do you keep in touch with any of the other survivors in that photo?” I keep my voice casual, like it’s any other question. Like I’m just moving our conversation along. Like I have nothing riding on it.

“Course not.” Bust.

“This is going to sound random, but did you happen to know the guy running behind you in the picture? The one in the University of Michigan hat?” I hold my breath and wait. I cross my fingers because I know no one can see me.

“Blue Hat Guy!”

“Yeah.”

“No, I didn’t talk to him. I didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t even notice him until later, when I saw the picture on the front page of the New York Times. I went to U of M, though, so when I saw it I was like Go Blue! I was really glad he made it out.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say.





Noah and I sit across from each other at the Burgerler, the only burger joint left in Oakdale now that our town has turned fancy and seems to prefer food trends served in bowls, like acai or poke. On Sunday nights when I was a little kid, my dad and I used to make a ritual of this place. We’d share onion rings from a red plastic basket and conquer the maze on the paper placemats with crayons. Last time we were here, maybe a year or two ago, he warned me that should anything happen to him, all his important documents are kept in the safe in his closet. I have no idea what spurred my dad’s sudden concern about his own mortality, but it dawns on me now that I won’t have much to leave.

Noah clears his throat and I shake away my morbid thoughts. Time for all that later. I’m determined to focus on the right now, on Noah with his hedgehog hair and glasses and mischievous grin, his spoon already in his hand, like he’s ready to do battle.

“Tell me three things I don’t know about you,” he says after we have a mock mini-fight over a particularly gooey bit of chocolate syrup that I bet comes from a metal can. We’ve ordered an ice cream sundae, the kind with three enormous scoops and whipped cream and a maraschino cherry on top. Chocolate. Vanilla. Strawberry wedged in between. Childhood in a glass bowl, down to the rainbow sprinkles.