THE POOLS OF MEMORY

Hi.

I’m Tom.

After being referred to a therapist by my work, I was advised to write down my thoughts in a journal about who I am and what I do—supposedly to clear my head of too many thoughts. I didn’t realize there was a “quota” as such, but maybe she just meant my head was overheating with ideas. It’s true, though. Sometimes I run a fever from too much thinking and find myself completely overwhelmed. That’s when I start to scare the people around me a little bit. Quite a bit.

I work from midnight to eight, five nights a week, and lately, I’ve become convinced that my occupation is more than just a job—it’s my spiritual path. Others have told me I have delusions of grandeur for thinking like that. They call it a "manic episode," but I only told them how I felt.

Oh yeah, you’re probably wondering—what is it I do?

I inspect, maintain, and clean the 9/11 memorial pools—what I call the footprints of the towers. And they’re some giant-sized footprints, let me tell you. Each pool, nearly an acre in size, is supposedly the largest manmade waterfall in North America. But you know what’s strange? They remind me of those wading pools I used to splash around in when I was young. Back then, I never thought about death. That came later. Now it’s pretty much all I think about.

I told some of my colleagues that I’ve become more and more convinced I can hear the sounds of the dead—like watery whispers—when I’m clearing debris from the pools that members of the public have dropped, either on purpose or by accident. When I first started, I found it kind of spooky hearing voices. Now I’m okay with it—like they’re my friends from the other side, trying to talk to me, sometimes even sing to me. Would you believe that? In fact, I often find a strange kind of peace in being sunken down thirty feet below street level, surrounded by water, light, and the memory of those who lost their lives on that day in September, 23 years ago.

Sometimes I find the craziest stuff in the pools: coins, jewelry, phones, food. Last week, however, I found a laminated photograph of one of the victims, and it scared me. It really hit home the reality of what happened all over again. It’s not like I ever forget it, but when you see the faces of those people, it’s impossible not to remember.

I was 21 when the towers went down. The crazy thing is, I lost my virginity the night before with a girl I went to college with in Brooklyn. Talk about a headfuck. I went from Heaven to Hell in a matter of hours. Even now, to this day, I associate sex with death in a way that probably isn’t too healthy. Sometimes, after I make love with my wife, Louise, I find myself breaking down shortly after with a sense of impending doom, like something bad is coming down again. She’s very understanding, but it can’t be easy for her. It also might explain why she hasn’t wanted children with me, though I’ve tried to make a compelling case from my side. Each time I go a little weird though, it sets back any chance of us having a family and time just gets away from us.

You can be sure I didn’t tell my employers about this type of stuff when I first got the job—they might have been creeped out by what I could have told them. They wouldn’t have been too comfortable with my idea about confronting my fear by cleaning the pools. But now, shit’s caught up with me again, and I’ve scared some of my co-workers and management. Stupid.

Writing this all down helps, though. Somehow. It’s like I’m sharing something with someone out there. Maybe invisible. Maybe dead.

There I go again.

Management is talking about me taking a break for a bit. Probably a good idea. When I tried to hold my breath under the surface of the water one night a few weeks back, they thought I was making an attempt on my life. I wasn’t, but I can see why they’d think that. The truth is, I just wanted to hear those deathly whispers a little clearer. I thought if I could just get closer to the sounds, it would become easier to make them out.

Someone once said I’m like a caretaker of a sacred space, just like those in temples and monasteries. I can see that. And so I don’t see how you can avoid thinking the way I do, doing what I do. Like I said, it's spiritual.

Maybe they’ll have robots do this in the not-too-distant future, and they won’t have to worry about people like me.

But who would the dead talk to then?