Having successfully said nothing, she pointed at me. “Rollie?” In unison the pack of reporters turned toward me. I wanted to ask which cabinet member was going to be resigning to spend more time with their family, meaning who was going to take the fall to insulate Wrightman. That subject, however, was not approved. I could have asked my snarky question and risked losing important national exposure for the Pro; or I could have tossed her a softball.

I already was a certified “hero.” My hard-hitting question was “Has the first lady decided which designer to wear when she goes with the president to visit a disaster site?” Okay, maybe not exactly that, but it was just as innocuous: What actions would the military take in the next few days?

When I strolled into the office later to write my follow-up piece, everybody pretty much ignored me. I expected that. After all, the nation was still in shock, we had suffered three successful, massive, simultaneous attacks and rescue and recovery operations were ongoing. The coverage on every one of the dozen monitors was different, although the floating bones of Pearl Harbor showed up regularly.

But sitting in the center of my desk was the infamous Golden Plunger. This spray-painted gold toilet plunger was awarded by the staff on precious few occasions to assist the recipient in retrieving his balls from up his ass. I did catch a few people snickering, then turning away. Actually, receiving it was the best thing that had happened on this dreadful day.

A few seconds after I got settled, Howie plopped down in my dining room chair. “Congratulations,” he said, nodding toward my prestigious trophy. He leaned forward, resting his right forearm on my desk, and said quietly, “Thanks. I know it wasn’t fun.” Then he pointed at the plunger with his thumb and added, “In case you’re wondering, no stipend comes with it.”

I placed the plunger on the floor, carefully avoiding the growing tower of cups. But deep down, deep inside my gut, that place where knowledge meets intuition, I knew somehow this was going to alter my life. “Cher,” I said, trying to dismiss that feeling, “buckle up.”

“Rollie,” she replied with sufficient huff, “I’m a disembodied voice. I don’t have a seat belt.”

3

I love the clacking of a typewriter. The sound stirs a vestigial emotion buried in my ancestral DNA, so long ago I had downloaded a program that synced the tick and bringg of an IBM Selectric to my computer keyboard. But those reassuring sounds were lost in the din of our newsroom. Making journalism is supposed to be loud and sweaty. My story began, “‘This was probably the worst day in the history of the United States,’ White House press secretary Eunice Kaufman admitted today. As individual acts of incredible heroism continued into the evening, and responders began the painful task of recovering the bodies of many more victims, the questions remain: Who is responsible for these attacks and why wasn’t this nation better prepared?”