Time and Time Again

Chapter 1 I wake and find that I’m partially covered with concrete rubble and ceiling tiles. My legs and lower torso seem to be pinned to the floor. How did I get here? I remember sitting in a chair at the desk of my attorney’s office when all hell broke loose. Now the desk is part of the rubble on top of me. I can hear people yelling, screaming and crying all around me. I need to think and try to clear my head. How are my mental faculties? Okay, I think, my name is Thomas Katt and today is Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I remember I had a 9:00 AM appointment with my attorney at the World Trade Center. Just my luck—I was on time for my appointment on the 111th floor of the North Tower. I am in my lawyer’s office, or what had been his office a few minutes ago. I don’t see the woman I was talking with before whatever happened. I can hear voices screaming all around me, someone saying that an airplane had struck the building, several stories below us. Apparently I’m not the only one pinned or hurt. I can tell by the pain in my chest and legs that I won’t be around much longer. I can feel blood draining from somewhere in one of my extremities. I know I don’t really need to wait for rescue; they can’t help. I know what it feels like to die. I know because I’ve been through it before. They say that when you are dying, your life passes before you, and I’m here to tell you that this is true. The only difference with me is that I have had an extremely long life to remember. Let me go back to the beginning and tell you a little about it. I was born in the year of our Lord 1724 and was discovered lying on the steps of St. Audoen’s Church in Dublin, Ireland. I had been wrapped in a plain, filthy blanket with a note tucked inside that said, simply, “Please take my son. I can’t take care of him. His name is Thomas Hewett Edward Katt.” I was only a few days old and suffering from malnutrition. I was taken in by the nuns and nurtured by a midwife. A thorough search of all church and city records found no mention of a family with the surname of Katt. All attempts to locate a responsible relative were futile. The church had a small orphanage that I was placed in with a few other boys. There were generally about five other boys in the orphanage at any time. There were no girls. This is where I would remain for the next sixteen years. We were clothed, fed and housed within an attachment to the nun’s quarters. The rules were simple: lights out at 10:00 p.m. and be in class each morning. Clean your quarters and most important of all, never lie. We were not restricted to the church grounds. We were allowed to explore our neighborhood and wander throughout the city when not in class or doing some work detail. It was not a prison. It was made clear that we could leave at any time, if we desired. We would be allowed to stay at the orphanage until our sixteenth birthday. Since my exact date of birth wasn’t known, I was given the date of my arrival at the church as my birthday. I was found on September 11. As I grew, I became strong and savvy to the ways of my limited world. The head priest, Father John Patrick, was a good man who tried to guide me into the priesthood. There was only one problem; I was too interested in the girls in the parish than in being celibate. The good father stewarded me in my early life. The lessons he instilled within me were simple; be straightforward with others, help others when you can, and never lie. Discipline of the boys was left to the good hands of Father Patrick. He never raised a hand to any of us but meted out strict punishment in the form of work details. The nuns were more inclined toward corporal punishment, but the father would always step in. Almost any transgression was forgivable, except lying. No matter what you did, do not lie to him. I have to admit, I spent a lot of time in the confessional. When not on a work detail or in class, I traveled around the city. I loved to hear stories from travelers who had explored distant lands all around the world. A new land, known as America, intrigued me, and I could see myself as a frontiersman in this wild, untamed country. My training came not only from the classroom. I explored the streets of Dublin, from the affluent neighborhoods to the lowly slums. I became savvy to the fact that my street learning would serve me well in the future. I occasionally found myself in conflicts with gangs that preyed on lone travelers like me walking through their imagined territory. They would steal anything I had of value. My problem was, I never had anything they were interested in. This often angered them, and they would rough me up. I was given fair warnings that I had better have something of value for them the next time I came along. A few times, the confrontations became violent. I was cut on my left forearm and retained a long, jagged scar. I also had my right arm broken by a boy swinging a bat at my head. My right arm never healed right. I lost feeling in a couple of my fingers.