Joshua Malbin307 12

St. Apt. 8Brooklyn NY 11215

1The September 12

MindsetIn the summer of 2002, Rudy returned to New York from his first year at SUNYBinghamton. Right away he went to work at his father’s souvenir storefront downtownnear the Fulton Mall, the same thing he done most holidays and weekends he couldremember since his teens. He had not worked Christmas or Spring Break that year—hisfather had said that business was so good, Rudy didn’t need to give up his vacations—sothis was his first time since the summer before.He hadn’t realized, therefore, that the brisk business was almost entirely thanks tothe new September 11 memorabilia: flags printed with the names of all four hundred andeleven firefighters, cops, and paramedics who’d died; FDNY hats, T-shirts, and key rings;and Twin Towers–emblazoned versions of every other product one could imagine, fromdecorative plates to mirrors, lighters to ashtrays (both in poor taste, Rudy thought),calendars to clocks to snow globes. Their storefront was only a few blocks from GroundZero, and that put them square in the path of Ground Zero tourists. These were just likeall the other goggle-eyed, faintly lost white people he’d served over the years, with twodifferences: First, they were all solemn, pretending deep emotional solidarity with NewYorkers. Second, and far more annoyingly, many now took their whiteness and Rudy’sbrownness to mean that they belonged and he didn’t. Before, Americans vacationed inNew York as a semiforeign place, taking an Indian boy like Rudy as part of the exoticappeal. Now they’d all discovered New York as part of America, and their image of America was white. They stopped under the awning and glared at Rudy, not even tryingto hide their mistrust. Not all of them, not even most of them. At least one a day, though,and that was more than enough to piss him off, especially given that he’d lived his entirelife in New York and certainly belonged more than they did.

Joshua Malbin307 12

St. Apt. 8Brooklyn NY 11215

2Two weeks of that and Rudy hated the stand like never before. He tried to ignore thecustomers most of the time, paying attention to their existence only when they asked tobuy something. Otherwise he turned off his brain as much as possible.One evening, shortly before 7 pm, he got out the gaff as usual and drew the metalshutter down far enough to pull it the rest of the way by hand, then went back inside toreturn the gaff and fetch the keys. A man ducked under the half-drawn shutter and took two steps past Rudy, putting him at the rear of the tiny shop. It was still daylight but thesun had fallen below the roofs of the skyscrapers hours before, leaving the streets in grayshadow, and the awning and shutter cut the light even more. All Rudy could tell at firstglance was that the man, dressed in a stockbroker’s dark suit and French cuffs, was notourist.“We’re closed,” Rudy said.“I know you are.” The man’s voice confirmed he was no tourist at all. He had half aQueens accent, once very heavy, probably, but effaced through years of effort so it onlynow fell on parts of certain phrases. “I waited for you to close. I wanted time to talk.”That sounded like the kind of thing a movie gangster would say before demandinghis protection money. “Let me finish up. I’m hungry, you can walk me to the BurgerKing.” There were still people on the street and would be many more at a fast food place,and while he wasn’t terribly afraid, since a man in French cuffs could only be sothreatening, he was a little unnerved.The man shrugged and ducked back outside. Rudy followed, rattled the shutter therest of the way down, and locked it.“I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along,” the man said. Rudy startedwalking and the man fell in beside him. “I’ve been watching and I can sense you’re notlike the others.”That was reassuring. It sounded less like a threat and more like a con man’s hustle,dingy and insistent. His guard stayed up, but he stopped being even a little scared. “Theother who?”“The other souvenir guys. They’re just out to make a buck but you’ve got a realmind. Am I right?”

Joshua Malbin307 12

St. Apt. 8Brooklyn NY 11215

3“I guess so.” Rudy did have an honors scholarship to Binghamton, but he doubtedthat’s what the guy meant.He turned north on Broadway. They were scarcely a block from Ground Zero hereand the street crawled with cops, which made him worry about the guy that much less.“What are you selling?”“Nothing,” said the man. “I want you to help me write my screenplay.”That halted Rudy dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He looked at it a few secondsbut couldn’t figure it out. “Why do you need a souvenir salesman for

that

?”“You guys are the only ones who can see me Probably because you’re such ghouls,you deserve to be haunted.”“You’re a ghost.”The man nodded. “I was in the North Tower.”Rudy extended a finger and prodded the man’s shoulder. He was perfectly solid.“Fuck off,” he said, and walked away fast, heading for the nearest subway entrance.After half a block he glanced back and saw the guy wasn’t following.At home he asked his dad if he’d gotten any visits from ghosts recently.“So you met Doyle Arvel,” his father said. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just somecrazy who’s been going around telling people he’s a nine-eleven ghost. If he’s reallybothering you or the customers, call the police and he’ll run away. But he’s harmless andhe doesn’t smell bad like the regular homeless. Did he ask you to help with hisscreenplay?”Doyle showed up again just before noon the following day. An older couple hadcome in a few moments before, fat Midwesterners stretching the seams on their YellowTaxi T-shirts. The woman wore an NYPD hat, the man belted khaki shorts, and theywere keeping a suspicious eye on Rudy as they browsed. He’d been fed up with themright from the start. So when he saw Doyle on the sidewalk outside he beckoned to him.“You folks want to meet someone who was actually in the World Trade Center?” heasked.