In the early days of our marriage, my wife and I jealously guarded our time together, that luxurious pause before the mire of Adult Life. From our rental near Union Square, we trudged back and forth to our jobs during the week—I was a book editor, and Ellen worked for the mayor—but at night and on weekends, we strutted around the city like peacocks, confident and entitled. There were cocktail parties and drinks with friends. On summer afternoons we headed to the movies to escape the heat, or strolled down the West Side Highway, through the park strung along the river in green pearls, to the Borders at the World Trade Center, where we'd pick up new books by Toni Morrison and Ian McEwan. And in the spring of 2001, we bought our own place in downtown Brooklyn. That was freedom. Often we stayed in at night, ordering jerk chicken from the nearby Brawta Caribbean Café and watching The Sopranos, but if the mood struck, we would go out to dinner on Smith Street, then for nightcaps at Kili or Quench. Screwdrivers, vodka gimlets, Jack and Cokes. Later, we'd fall into bed, feeling lucky and pleased with ourselves.

We'd barely unpacked our moving boxes when 9/11 happened. The gloom that descended over the city hit Ellen and me in different ways. True to form, Ellen went into no-nonsense mode, volunteering for the Red Cross in her free time, driving a van around Manhattan, shuttling supplies and first responders. I, on the other hand, burrowed inward. In an effort to keep the noise out, I doubled down on my usual routine, keeping to my friends, my books and my barhopping with a vengeance, even as my 35-year-old wife grew increasingly impatient with me. The event that cratered lower Manhattan had blasted her into the next phase. She wanted a baby. She wanted me to grow up. She'd pace the apartment, tapping her foot in a kind of Morse code.

When will you change? When will you change?

But I was fond of my old self. He anchored me when I heard the distant keening of bagpipes, music from the funerals of fallen firemen and police officers. He stood next to me as I eyed the windows of markets and theaters, their panes shrouded with photos of the missing. Even though I hadn't personally known any of the victims, I was as numb as my eight million fellow New Yorkers.

At least once a week, my friend Dave, an aspiring writer, would call and plead with me to meet up near NYU. "Dude, hang with me in the city," he'd say. I'd barter with Ellen—a night out for laundry duty—and she'd relent, rolling her eyes. I'd hop on the F train, getting off at the West Fourth Street stop, just down the block from the nightclub. Dave would meet me inside and wave me over to the bar, where we'd swirl our tumblers of Scotch and chain-smoke Marlboro Reds. The conversation usually flowed in one direction—his—but I didn't mind. He reflected back something I needed to see: a boozy sense that I could live indefinitely in the moment. As the evening played out in a sodden haze, house music blaring from the club's stereo, I'd dance drunkenly by myself while he'd flirt with blonde undergraduates in leather jackets, their bangs spiked vertical. My cell phone was usually turned off so any spousal interference would bounce to voice mail. Later, after midnight, I'd slink back to our darkened apartment and sneak into bed, Ellen's irritation evident as she shrugged me away when I tried to spoon. She wouldn't say a word, but her body's message would radiate out like sonar.

When will you change? When will you change?

Next: The moment that transformed his life


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