Honoring the Lost

When I first graduated from college I fell into a career in sales. My first sales job was in hotel sales and I worked for an insane midget that liked to screw the manager of the local Cracker Barrel restaurant. She also thought her pea-sized noggin could overcome the power of cocaine, but that has nothing to do with this post.

So, one of my hotel customers I called on was TSI, which is a government entity which controlled safety on our highways and byways. I think TSI stands for Transportation Safety Institute. A very nice man named John Youngblood was one of my main contacts at TSI because he coordinated many of the training sessions TSI ran yearly, which required many TSI employees to travel to OKC from throughout the nation and, in turn, necessitated a hotel for said employees. That's where I came in. I convinced John to have his weary trainees sleep at my hotel and in return we made a bunch of money.

I remember inviting him to lunch at my new hotel (when I jumped ship from my original place of employment, so I could escape the wrath of Jox The Raving Midget.) John was such a delightful man; very calm, kind and friendly. It was comfortable doing business with him and his fellow employees obviously liked him very much. His offices weren't far down the road from my office, so dropping by for lunch was an easy arrangement for us.

Then I moved to Dallas and on to a bigger and better career. I didn't think much about John, busy as I was in my life south of the Red River. One April day in 1995, my work friend, Stacey, hurried up to my desk with a worried look on her face.

"DG, you need to see something."

"Stace, I'm in the middle of this," I pointed to my computer screen. "Can it wait?"

"No. Seriously. You should really come with me now."

So I reluctantly let Stacey drag me from my project, down into the bowels of our Dallas hotel to the employee lunchroom, where a frightening scene played out on the television. A group of hotel employees stood motionless, mouths agape, staring in horror at a charred building that slightly resembled an animal that had been gutted in a rage. In between floating debris, the TV screen showed wires and crumbling concrete slithering like intestines out of a massive, violent hole in the structure.

"Whaaaaaa? What the hell is that?" I gasped.

That's when Stacey told me that someone had bombed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City.

"Holy shit. I used to call on people in there." And this was true. I tried to capture business in various federal offices in that building (and it was always difficult since they were so strict about taking gifts - they wouldn't even accept a logo'd coffee cup!) such as the military offices and the GSA - General Services Administration.

My knees felt weak and I dropped into a chair. Why would someone bomb an innocent building in the middle of Oklahoma City? It just didn't make sense to me. If you were completely ape-shit crazy, wouldn't you target a huge landmark, like the Statue of Liberty, or something in New York, or LA, or Chicago, or . . . what the fuck? My mind quickly cataloged all of the people I knew that had worked in the smoldering building on TV, and I came up with zeros. I bowed my head and said a quick prayer for those that were hurt, still lying under the rubble, and for the families of those that were already gone. Still (and I felt a bit guilty for this) relief washed over me. Thankfully, I didn't know anyone in that pile of debris. I could watch the drama unfold without any personal investment. I was sorrowful that someone could be so evil and enact such hatred; my heart ached to hear about the children in the daycare in that building. Still. I didn't know any of those people. I could mourn for them from afar.

I called my parents (who still lived about 30 miles from downtown OKC at that time) and mom told me she'd heard a faint boom earlier but just assumed a truck had backfired on the highway. I convinced her to put down her gardening tools and go inside and turn on the TV. We tracked down my father (a federal employee at Tinker AFB) and he said that the base was on lockdown, as were most federal buildings that day in every city across America.

That was a shitty, shitty day. Thus far, the only day that that has eclipsed the shittiness of that moment was September 11, 2001. And that day was far shittier than any of could have ever fathomed.

It wasn't until several weeks later, after all of the mounds of wreckage had been combed and the majority of the missing accounted for, that I saw a complete list of the victims of the bombing. The last name and photo to crawl across the screen made my eyes bulge out in shock. Sadly, "John A. Youngblood" rolled up my television screen along with a photo of his kind eyes and pleasant smile.

I think I choked on my dinner. It wasn't possible - John's office was 10 miles away from that building. Unless he was visiting someone that day? I made some phone calls and got my answer - no mistake. The TSI offices had moved into the Murrah building not long before Timothy Asshat McVeigh decided to drive an explosives-laden truck up to the entrance, light a fuse, run like a fucking coward, and blow it all to kingdom come.

Last Sunday morning on the last day of my trip home, I scheduled to meet Buwona at Cafe do Brasil for a 10AM brunch. Stupidly forgetting the fact that OKC just doesn't have that many inhabitants and therefore little traffic on a Sunday morning, I arrived at the restaurant about 20 minutes early. I sailed past my destination spot and meandered towards downtown. I casually made a left turn and suddenly found myself staring up at this.

Apparently, I had unwittingly discovered the OKC Murrah Building Memorial. Figuring it was a sign, I found an open parking space waiting for me, gently parked my vehicle, and tiptoed inside. The memorial is really lovely. The most impressive part of the site is a green expanse of grass with granite and copper (I think) chairs sitting on it. Each person who died in the explosion has a chair with his/her name etched on it. I searched for a bit and found John's chair. I didn't know him that well, it's not like he was family, but I did know him a little and I liked him a lot.

I walked around and snapped photos, enjoying the tranquility of the spot and the calm of the morning.

I realized I needed to rush back to the restaurant, so I turned to leave and noticed this:

9:03 AM is the exact time that the bomb went off. That time is engraved at the top of the opening in the wall in this picture. I figure quite a few parents had just dropped off their children at the Murrah building day care, blissfully unaware of what was in store for their babies. I usually drop Zakky off at his school around 9AM. I sat and chewed on that for a moment, then slipped through the entrance back to my car and on to some delicious food and the open embrace of friends.

You just never know what any day will hold. I find myself easily distracted with small problems and burdens, but thinking back on events like the bombing helps keep things in perspective. It keeps me thankful for the time that I have with people I love.

Wherever you are, John Youngblood, I hope you are happy. You were a very sweet man.