
Smoking Pie
I wanted to write about pie today—the fact that my mother (now nearly 87) sprinkles sugar on top of the slice she will serve herself, while, if I eat a slice of pie at all, I spoon on plain, unsweetened yogurt; while my daughters will take the time to whip up heavy cream. All evening, I’ve been wondering, in snatches, whether this is the natural progression of life.
But I live in New York City, and even though I really would rather think about pie toppings, I find my mind taken up by the 53 hour saga that began with the smoking car in Times’ Square, and has led to the arrest of Faisal Shazad, the alleged car owner and bombsetter.
I have to start by saying (and I’m mainly addressing this to you, Mom, if you ever happen to read this blog) that the attempted car bomb has had virtually no effect on my particular New York life.
It seems actually not to have affected many New Yorkers very much. I noticed the absolute ordinariness of my evening rush hour train: in the bank of seats I leaned over, the three people front and center of me either had eyes shut below furrowed brows, or eyes shut below a hand shielding said eyes (from the delightful train lighting or, perhaps, my stare). The next guy was playing solitaire on a electronic game player; the next two were smiling and talking with great animation.
New Yorkers’ natural tendency to put their personal fatigue, or personal conversations, over hyper-vigilence has probably been accentuated by the fact that the Times’ Square bomb does not appear to have been a really well-constructed device. A sense of security has also been created by the fact that the authorities, amazingly, have already taken the guy into custody. (Even though it seems that they almost lost him as he boarded a plane to Dubai.)
I congratulate the New York City police force, the New York City bomb squad, the Times Square vendors (!), the FBI, the TSA, Homeland Security, all those authorities who coordinated efforts so quickly.
Still, one very frightening question comes to mind–what would have happened if the bomber had stayed inside the car? Had, in other words, been a suicide bomber? Committed enough to his mission (due to political or religious zealotry, bitterness, brainwashing, craziness, drugs, duress, whatever,) to physically see it through? Would a smoking car with a driver have seemed that extraordinary? Would vendors have been as likely to question it, even if it did seem strange?
Hollywood tends to depict New Yorkers as “in your face”, but, in fact, New Yorkers are pretty good are minding their own business, the art of non-confrontation rather important when you are all squished together.
So what would have happened? I, for one, would rather think about pie, but there’s smoke in the background.
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