Rescorla Reconsidered

On September 11, 2001, Rick Rescorla, the head of security for Morgan Stanley, helped evacuate 2,700 employees from the south tower at the World Trade Center. He died when the building collapsed after he reentered it to make sure no one else needed help.

At the time of the attacks, James B. Stewart covered Wall Street for The New Yorker.  The editor of the magazine asked him to concentrate on stories related to 9/11 and the financial district.  During his research, Stewart discovered that many people who worked on floors both above and below those occupied by Morgan Stanley failed to survive the attacks.  Many told Stewart that Rescorla was responsible for the superior performance of Morgan Stanley during the evacuation.

In 1993, after a car bomb was detonated in the garage of the World Trade Center, Rescorla emphasized the virtues of the military adage: “Proper prior planning and preparation prevents piss-poor performance.” Before the attacks, he drilled employees on proper evacuation techniques and when the need arose in the fall of 2001 they were ready.  While singing Cornish fight songs to calm nerves and create a sense of solidarity, he descended down the stairs of the south tower with the employees and brought them to safety.

A public relations representative gave Stewart the unlisted number of Rescorla’s wife, Susan Collins.  Stewart visited Collins and started his article, “The Real Heroes Are Dead,”with the story of the middle-aged love affair that blossomed between Rescorla and Collins.

In a nod to Hollywood, they “met cute” when Rescorla was jogging bare foot as part of his research for a play that he was writing and Collins was walking Buddy, her charmingly named dog.  Both had endured failed marriages along with the other trials and tribulations that middle age is heir to including Rescorla’s battle with prostate cancer.  They persevered, took dancing lessons, brought a house in the country, and married.

Rescorla was born and raised in Cornwall, England.  He fought in Cyprus and Rhodesia in the 1950s where he became an ardent foe of communism.  Figuring that the next big battle against communism would be staged in Vietnam, Rescorla emigrated to the United States where he enlisted in the Army and fought with distinction in Vietnam before obtaining creative writing and law degrees from the University of Oklahoma.  Collins was raised in a cocoon of upper middle class privilege only to fall from grace after two marriages ended in divorce.

During the immediate aftermath of the attack on 9/11, Rescorla and Collins talked by cell phone.  Naturally, she was concerned for his safety.  “Stop crying,” he told her. “I have to get these people out safely. If something should happen to me, I want you to know I’ve never been happier. You made my life.”

In remembrance of 9/11, I reread the article every year as the anniversary approaches and it always brings tears to my eyes.  It is irresistible, timeless: two people find true love late in life only to have the happy ending spoiled by cruel, senseless death.  Life has a way of taking tragic turns.

When conceiving this essay to commemorate 9/11, I had vague plans to place Rescorla’s story in the context of the three types of souls that Plato addressed in The Republic: gold for philosopher-kings, silver for soldiers, and bronze or iron for everyone else – like me.  Soldiers – like Rescorla – and the martial ethos they embody constitute a continuing threat to civilian rule, but they are invaluable in times of existential danger.

It is easy for physical cowards like me to criticize or fear soldiers and their codes, but when the going gets tough I am the first to look to them for leadership and bravery.  On my best day, I imagine following Rescorla back into the south tower.  However, alone I would probably take the path of least resistance and run like hell.

Wanting to see a photo of Recorla, I Googled his name and, in addition to finding a website devoted to his memory, I stumbled onto a story on NPR’s Weekend Edition Saturday that ran on the before the anniversary this year.  It told of an opera based on a book that Stewart wrote about Rescorla called, Heart of a Soldier, which was debuting that night in San Francisco.

On some level and with absolutely no justification, I had asserted a kind of proprietary interest in the Rescorla-Collins story thinking that I would be one of the few people who would remember it after all of these years.  I did not know that Stewart wrote a book about Rescorla or that an opera was in the works.  To my chagrin, I was not the only person who was deeply affected by the story.  Nevertheless, I somehow felt scooped.  Life has a way of exposing and questioning preconceived notions. 

After making these discoveries, I went home and picked up my mail, which included the latest edition of The New Yorker.  Predictably, the issue was devoted to 9/11 and contained articles by Adam Gopnik and George Packer that strike opposing notes.  Packer’s article (appropriately entitled, “Coming Apart”) rehearses the failures and disappointments that we have experienced since 9/11 and laments the continued decline of America’s standing and fortunes.

Packer was one of the prominent so-called “liberal hawks” who supported the invasion of Iraq in the wake of 9/11.   Although I do not consider myself to be a liberal, I – like Packer – now regret my naïve support for the war.  The justification bandied about at the time – that Saddam Hussein had or was trying to obtain weapons of mass destruction – seems hollow, unsatisfying now.  The fallback position – that the war was justified as a humanitarian effort to rid Iraq of a dictator – also seems hallow and unsatisfying.  Although I stand in awe of the American military in its efforts to deal with the tough – if not impossible – hand that it was dealt, the war and its elusive end seem hollow and unconvincing despite my best efforts to find justification, redemption.

With broader strokes and with a more even handed approach, Gopnik explores the history of what he calls “declinism” as pioneered in 1918 by Oswald Spengler in The Decline of the West and rehearsed recently by others including Tom Freidman and Michael Mandelbaum in That Used to Be Us.

Gopnik approaches the aftermath of 9/11 from an angle more oblique than Packer by surveying the historical development “declinism” along with its shortcomings and inconsistencies.  Ultimately, he concludes that the concept founders on the metaphysical fallacy that we have the ability to predict and control the future.

Personally, the past fifteen years have been a roller coaster ride.  More than I care to admit, I bought into the dot.com/new economy happy talk with the gullibility of a convert.  When old economic verities reasserted themselves and that bubble exploded, I watched the insanity of the real estate boom with a dash more skepticism, but still was surprised by the depth of the Great Recession.  In the face of my failures to foresee the consequences of the invasion of Iraq and the nauseating twists and turns of the economy, I find myself humbled in the face of current events and astounded at the confidence of politicians and the gullibility of citizens.

As Gopnik points out, many – if not most – of us – including Friedman and Mandelbaum – subscribe to the belief that everyone is inherently rational and that rational discourse will ultimately carry the day.  Yet, we are confronted – and as I realize now have always been confronted – by the stark reality that most of us make up our minds based on emotions that we dress up with reasons later.  Irrational and magical thinking along with paranoia and inappropriate heuristics and biases seem to be built in features of the human brain.

Errors in these processes are amenable to correction by later rational reflection.  However, ideologues and their followers short circuit the process by their inability to change their minds when facts collide with their ideologies – they are inoculated against rational discourse and argument only drives them deeper into their rigid thought processes.  For instance, Gopnik maintains that a surprising number of Americans do not want improved health care or cleaner air or better infrastructure because they view these goals as “luxurious symbols of an earthly power they despise.”

However, Gopnik points out that adopting an attitude of declinism in the face of such obstacles – as I along with Packer, Friedman, and Mandelbaum have done – is “a bad idea, because no one can have any notion of what will happen next.”  Prediction and control hinge on the delusion that we know what we don’t know when, in fact, the threats – and opportunities – are caused by unknown unknowns.

In accordance with our lack of foresight, we are hampered despite our best efforts to foresee or mitigate the risks associated with ideologies, for instance, converting airplanes full of passengers into weapons that cause tall buildings to collapse, nations to betray their ideals, and middle-aged love affairs to end in tragedy.

However, all is not lost. Gopnik asserts that the same lack of foresight allowed Renaissance thinkers to nurture a humanistic point of view that fosters the revolutionary idea:

that while our lives should be devoted to happiness, they’re impoverished without an idea of happiness deeper than mere property-bound prosperity.  The special virtue of freedom is … that it gives you more time to understand what it means to be alive.

Voltaire’s admonition to “cultivate your garden” may make more sense than obsessing about the declining fortunes of the United States for the simple reason that obsessing about something may have the effect of causing it.  We can only control what we believe, what we do, what we stand for.

Rescorla “cultivated his garden” as well as looking out for the common good. He wrote plays, took dancing lessons, fell in love late in life, and sang songs while he guided 2,700 people to safety.  Life has a way of taking unpredictable turns.

Moonlight and Atonement

The movie Atonement (2007) pivots on a long tracking shot of the hero, Robbie, walking through the nightmare scene at Dunkirk as the British Expeditionary Force flees France on the eve of World War II.  On the testimony of Briony, a young girl and a future novelist, Robbie was convicted of a crime that he did not commit and was separated from his lover, Cecilia – only hours after they consummated their long-simmering relationship.

Robbie was released from prison when he volunteered for military service.  While fighting in France, Robbie was wounded at the level of the heart chakra.  After a long trek across the countryside, the hopes of Robbie and his companions soar when they discover the beach at Dunkirk bustling with soldiers returning to England.  Those hopes were cruelly dashed when they encountered the chaos of the disorganized retreat.

After Robbie starts his Via Dolorosa, the achingly beautiful and wistful strains of Clair de lune by Claude Debussy sound in the background.  The music reflects the melancholy of resisting necessity.  Later, we learn that both Robbie and Cecilia die before they can resume their relationship.

At the end of the movie an elderly Briony seeks to “atone” for betraying Robbie and her sister, Cecilia, by reuniting them within the fictional context of a novel.   Is the gesture valid?  Does it promote healing?  Or is it a blatant attempt to relieve the conscience of someone consumed by guilt?

***

In 2003, I met Vern Hunter at a discussion group called the Socrates Café, which met weekly at a Coco’s restaurant in Tucson.  We established an immediate rapport and sealed our friendship at one meeting when we both sat on the same side of a long table.  One of us made a comment that the other found worthy and afterward we leaned forward at the same time, caught each other eyes, and smiled.

Vern was exceptional.  Twenty years younger than his nearest sibling, Mother Helen launched him on his upward trajectory by sending him to an exclusive prep school without any assurance that he would accepted.  He was and rose with seeming ease from the projects of Dayton, Ohio to the precincts of Harvard College from which he graduated with a master’s degree in 1978.  Subsequently, he provided understanding and comfort to friends and patients in his practice as a psychologist as he simultaneously dealt with his own pain.

Vern was about six feet tall and carried himself with assurance and grace.  With rare exceptions, he dressed in black and exhibited a sense of style that is rarely found with today’s emphasis on casual dress.  Many times, I witnessed women – and men – complimenting him on his clothes, especially the fedoras he wore with an anachronistic elegance.

Today, wearing a fedora is often an affectation that is meant to signal irony – think of pop stars who wear fedoras with faded or torn thrift shop clothes.  Vern’s sense of style precluded such displays.  He wore fedoras to signal his sophistication.  At more leisurely functions, he donned baseball caps and for a short period of time he wore the caps backward, but soon reverted to his time-honored practices.  Regardless of the type of hat, Vern carefully combed his hair after removing them to eliminate any tell-tale evidence of poor grooming.

His manners were courtly and reflected his upbringing in the Seventh Day Adventist tradition.  Over time, he jettisoned his religious beliefs, but kept the courtesy he learned as a child.  When appropriate, he delivered well-formed, impromptu disquisitions on literature, philosophy, psychology, movies – particularly those of Hitchcock – as well as stories from his fascinating life.

With an incandescent smile, Vern put people at ease.  In a low, measured, raspy voice – partially the result of asthma – Vern spoke with deliberation and intention.  He was instinctively drawn to people in pain and would provide a shoulder to lean on as he asked gentle questions, dispensed sensible advice, and provided comfort.

Patient with everyone he met, Vern collected friends of all classes, races, nationalities, religions, and political parties effortlessly.  When we went to restaurants he habitually asked the waiters, “What is your name?” and engaged them in short conversations that signaled his sincere interest.  Invariably, he would greet the waiters by name the next time.

***

At a meeting of the Socrates Café near the end of October or early November, 2003, Vern seemed solemn as he slumped uncharacteristically at a side table. He pulled a printed email from a folder.  Before reading it aloud, he quietly explained that the anniversary of the death of his oldest son, Jon, was approaching.

Jon had been murdered a few years earlier and Vern moved to Arizona partly in an effort to mitigate the grief.  The email consisted of exchanges between Vern and one of Jon’s girlfriends as she attempted to deal with nightmares occasioned by the approaching anniversary.  Tears came to my eyes as Vern read the emails with control, even detachment.  Later, Vern told me that he appeared on a radio talk show after Jon’s death and asserted that he did not want the state to execute his son’s murderer if found and convicted.

***

In due course, Vern and I agreed to meet at 4:00 p.m. on Saturday afternoons at the Arizona Inn in Tucson where we indulged our mutual interests in literature, philosophy, and movies along with addressing personal issues that inevitably arose.  To a degree that I found amazing, Vern told me everything about his life.  Being considerably more reticent, I was much less forthcoming, but leaned heavily upon his steady hand when tragedy entered my life.  He provided solace when my mother died.

After eating and discussing the events of the past week, we would retire to the library where we read articles from The New Yorker or books like The Pilgrim Hawk aloud to each other with frequent interruptions to discuss thoughts raised by the texts.  Later, we formed the Philosophy Study Group at which we listened to 30-minute tapes describing the thoughts of the greatest minds of the western intellectual tradition and discussed the modern implications with a group recruited by our friend, Renee McGuire.  Over the course of two years we listened to 84 lectures.  Vern was the star attraction and, after completion of the philosophy curriculum, the group morphed into The Literati Club, which Vern led.

Vern and I shared a love of movies.  He had an encyclopedic knowledge of all things cinematic that I could not match.  We often attended one (or more) movies before and after our Saturday meetings.  His memory of scenes was uncanny and he was able to quote dialogue with stunning accuracy as he used these talents to enhance conversational points.

When discussing my romantic entanglements, he often leaned over conspiratorially and quoted in his hoarse voice a monologue delivered by Ronny (Nicholas Cage) to Loretta (Cher) in Moonstruck:

Come upstairs. I don't care why you come. No, that's not what I mean. Loretta, I love you. Not like they told you love is and I didn't know this either. But love don't make things nice, it ruins everything, it breaks your heart, it makes things a mess. We're not here to make things perfect. Snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. We are here to ruin ourselves and break our hearts and love the wrong people and die!  

He would lean back and chuckle, with a twinkle in his eye.  Vern loved, absolutely loved, the messiness of the human condition – the condition that I with increasing futility continue to fight and hope to reform.

We were opposites in many ways.  He was a black man who ascended from poverty to attend the most prestigious university in the world.  I am a white man descended from a racist grandfather who was raised in middle class comfort and barely graduated from a public university.  He was open and forthcoming.  I am reticent and introspective.  He was liberal.  I am a moderate conservative.  In spite of our different backgrounds and opinions, we developed a deep, mutual respect.  I loved the man like an older brother.

***

On the afternoon July 20, 2011, Vern bought a ticket to see a movie at a Tucson theater, entered the lobby, and suffered a heart attack.  An ambulance took him to a nearby hospital, but efforts to revive him failed.  He was 60 years old.  He would be disappointed that he did not get to see the movie.

I last saw Vern about three weeks before his death on June 28, 2011.  On that day, I travelled to Tucson on business and met him at the Arizona Inn for dinner where we brought each other up to date on our lives before driving to his house in Benson.  After moving to Tempe, I stayed several times with Vern when traveling through southern Arizona and slept on the Murphy bed in his guest bedroom.

After I went to bed, Vern, a night owl, would retire to his study located in an addition built onto the back of the house and connected to the guest bedroom by a window.  Normally, I sleep in two or three hour shifts and on several visits I recall looking through the window in the early morning hours to discover Vern sitting at his desk, reading.  Often he would go to bed at 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. or about the time I was rising to take a bicycle ride before returning to Tempe.

On June 28^th, contrary to his normal practice, Vern did not retire to his study after I went to bed – he stayed up watching TV in the living room.  Once during the night, I rose and noticed that he was staring into the distance – sort of like Robbie on his fateful journey on the beach at Dunkirk.  He had been unemployed for several years and I attributed his depressed demeanor to frustration regarding his job search.  After listening to stories from others, I wonder now if Vern had a premonition of his fate.

Vern was particularly attracted to the tenets of existentialism and the philosophy of Nietzsche.  He accordingly took full responsibility for his life and acknowledged the pain that he caused others – especially those he loved. My heart goes out to his wife, Cindy, and his son, Jason.  He told me often that he loved them.

He was understandably haunted by thoughts of death.  His son was murdered, his older brother was murdered, his parents and two of his sisters were dead.  In addition, he witnessed at first hand the damage and destructive impulses exhibited by patients and friends.  He often quoted the following from A Farewell to Arms as a distillation of his overall philosophy:

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

After his death, I was surprised to discover the amount of space that Vern occupied in my mental filing cabinet.  I continue to file things away in anticipation of telling Vern – ideas prompted by articles, books, movies, events, people.  Neither of us believed in an afterlife and slowly I am coming to terms with the fact that I will not be able to share those thoughts with my best friend.

As a fatalist, I am always a little surprised upon waking up in the morning.  Although I was not shocked or consumed by guilt or remorse after Vern’s death, I feel implicated.  I could have done more to help him as he helped others.  Vern and I often discussed the betrayal that is at the heart of the human condition.  We inevitably fail each other.  The question is how do we redeem betrayal – in short, can we atone?

On some level, Vern and I aspired to be writers – like Briony in Atonement – and his death fills me with disappointment at promise unfulfilled.  His talent deserved more exposure.  He had been working on a scholarly article involving the theories of Freud and the types of people who colonized the western United States.  It saddens me that it will not be published.  However, Vern had a valid reason for not publishing more:  he was busy helping others.  On the other hand, I have simply failed my talent.  And for a solitary, introverted man there is no greater pain.

Inspired by his mother, Vern had a broad knowledge of classical music and we discussed the feelings aroused by Clair de lune in Atonement: the haunting beauty as it plays softly, plaintively, insistently during Robbie’s final walk echoes my sense of loss at Vern’s passing as it also gestures toward redemption.  I cannot face the reality of a world that “breaks everyone” without the possibility of atonement (at-one-ment) – however fleeting or unearned.

Clair de lune means “moonlight.”  Debussy took the title from a poem by Verlaine with the same name:

Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,

Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,

That play on lutes and dance and have an air

Of being sad in their fantastic trim.

The while they celebrate in minor strain

Triumphant love, effective enterprise,

They have an air of knowing all is vain,—

And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,

The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,

That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,

And in their polished basins of white stone

The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.

Vern would not have wanted his death to cause undue grief.  Appropriately, his constantly ringing cell phone – his electronic link to friends in need – identified him as Bodhisattva (“one whose being is light”).  Taking responsibility for his life in the face of necessity – the iron rule of Ananke to which he deferred – and “knowing all is vain,” Vern strove to promote atonement and understand the human condition as dimly illuminated by moonlight – Clair de lune.  I will miss you, my friend.