Late one night, almost two weeks ago now, the air outside the Fun Apartment was thick with helicopters. Siren wails were trailing through the streets. Voices from the street carried up through the windows–not the usual Saturday night revelry.
“What’s going on out there?” I asked the Man of My Dreams. He shrugged and went back to needing glasses to read the laptop screen. It was after bedtime, so we were observing the radio silence protocol. The helicopters continued to flaunt our blackout curtains, however. Finally, my gossipy friend Facebook filled me in. “Explosion in Chelsea?!?! WE live in Chelsea!”
We began to scour the meager media reports. Apparently at 8:30, about the time, I was escorting one of the boys on an after hours bathroom trip to the back of the Fun Apartment, a dumpster exploded on 23rd street two avenues away. I hadn’t heard a thing, but the Mister, up front in the north wing did report having heard a loud noise.
We texted a few “We’re ok mom!” messages and then warily went to bed.
And morning came, a foggy quiet morning with very little new information, but several more inquiries about our wellbeing. Still, it was clear that, after the helicopter chaos of the night before, things seemed to be settling down. I slunk out, ostensibly for bagels, but really just for recon. Mostly, it seemed like a regular Sunday morning, only with 23rd street closed.
And we are a little ways from the scene. We were tempted to think of it as “far away” because it happened 6 blocks and two avenue away. Six blocks, after all, is a long way when you are walking with tired kids and heavy groceries. But six blocks seems a bit closer to home when one thinks in explosion terms. As my sister said, “Just how close does it need to get before you think it’s close?” Still, within the cozy bubble of the Fun Apartment, we felt safe. I guess we didn’t think there was another option.
Later, I brought the boys over to see the site, too. We couldn’t get very close, so they didn’t see much, but they got to ask all their questions and get it out of their systems before they headed for school the next day and heard all sorts of reports filtered through the brains of 7 year olds. And the boys did have a lot of questions, which I answered as patiently and calmly as I could (yes, there are a lot of police officers. No, they probably aren’t draining all the water from the water towers. No we can’t go any closer. Yes, they have handcuffs. No, Encyclopedia Brown probably isn’t here, he is busy in Idaville.) Finally, we got down to the nub of the situation: “If a police officer sees a chicken walking in the street, and he is really hungry, can he shoot the chicken?” That’s when I figured they were probably done processing and we could go to the playground.
I held a small balloon of hope in my heart–a hope that this was garden variety New York craziness, and not well, you know:
That balloon deflated rapidly, as the investigation came to a head very quickly. From three things seemed to happen very quickly. One mass text message later and by Tuesday night, the whole story seemed pretty thoroughly taped up.
It was so thoroughly taped up that I am left wondering if it actually happened. People don’t seem to be talking about it. The free newspaper went back to telling me about the best places to drink beer in the city (although they missed the best one: our window seat.) I walked by the site of the explosion site this weekend and I couldn’t tell with any certainty where exactly the bomb had gone off. And I walked the rest of the way home through a joyous street fair, thinking, “Nice try, hatred and fear. But you lose. Again.”