250 Million Reactions as News Skips Across Nation on TVs, Walkmans : Mood: For some, word of Mideast war hits like a punch in the gut. For others, it’s just more noise in the general din, too quicksilver to understand.

Suddenly, there it was, the terrible bang at the end of the spent fuse. America was at war, and Americans began the leaden search for consequences.

Sea to shining sea, they heard the news as it skipped its way through the office. Or at a bus stop from a guy with a Walkman. Or at home with their feet up on the living room sofa, the dinner dishes soaking in the sink.

“I just can’t believe I’m sitting here watching a war begin,” said Ed Paley, his eyes on a TV set as he waited for his scallops at a Detroit restaurant. “Here we are, in glorious color, this war. I really can’t describe how I feel.”

For some, word hit like a punch in the gut, seizing their air and starting a long meditation about what was being done in their name. For others, the war was just more noise in the general din, too quicksilver to understand.

America had attacked--and there were 250 million reactions.

John Burnham is a 30-year-old international trader with a New York-based global money management firm. He was drinking a beer at a Midtown Manhattan watering hole when he decided to catch the latest headlines on his pocket-size electronic “market minder.” It was 7:12 p.m.

The report was a shocker: Bombs had hit Baghdad. Chills ran up his back. He told himself, “It has finally happened.” And for a brief moment he pondered it, then reminded himself he was a professional man: War might have an impact on his positions in the global money markets.

“I’m long on yen ‘puts,’ which means I have a benefit if the yen weakens,” he said.

Joe Shaeffer, a dermatology associate in Honolulu, was about to give a patient an injection when the news burst over the radio. He paused and held the syringe in the air. His face froze up, and he bit his tongue between his lips. He thought he’d be ready for anything, but he was wrong.

“Just knowing the death that’s going to result makes you want to cry,” he said. “The unnecessariness of it all. . . . We’re talking about the possibility of tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands of people dying.”

The streets of Washington, D.C., were unusually empty of pedestrians. Leaning against the Iraqi Embassy was a crude sign made of cardboard. It read: “Hey Hey, Ho Ho, Saddam Hussein Has Got to Go.”

But the catchy lyric was not amusing to everyone. “Bombs have no eyes,” snapped Frances Boatswain, a 29-year-old immigrant from Trinidad. “Will there be anyone left in Iraq and Kuwait to liberate? It’s a waste of time. We’re all going to regret this.”

At the Shannon Alexander’s sports bar in southeast Phoenix, there were 12 television sets turned on during happy hour, but only two showed the news. The others carried skiing and basketball. Rock music was blaring.

Betty Lenhart, 38, asked one of the bartenders to turn up the volume on ABC News’ Peter Jennings: “I realize this isn’t happy hour kind of stuff, but can we hear this?”

Slowly, more and more people started to listen. Other TVs were switched to news. The rock music stopped. Some people grew transfixed as the events sunk in, though others were quickly blase. They turned their backs on the TVs and headed off for the chips and salsa at the free food buffet.

Lenhart’s friend Kerry Vian, 25, arrived. Her husband is in the Army, stationed in Colorado. She fears he might be sent abroad. As she strained to hear the TV, she looked nervous, moving her cigarettes about the table.

“I’m glad they finally took some sort of initiative and took some action,” she said. Her hands kept busy with those cigarettes. Then she clasped them together, as if to pray. She put them to her face. “Oh, this is scaring me,” she said.

At Basha’s supermarket in Phoenix, Ed Huntsman and his wife, Debbie, strolled down the aisles. He was holding a tiny TV in his hand as he pushed the shopping cart; he did not want to miss a thing. Debbie was picking bagels out of a bin.

“Having gone to ‘Nam and fought for a helluva lot less, I support this,” said Ed, 39, a manager for America West Airlines. “We’ve got to stop this guy (Saddam Hussein). I just wish that in this time and this age with all the development and technology . . . I hate to see us killing each other.”

In the Houston law offices of Irvin, Clark & Burnett, Cheryl Irvin and two colleagues quietly watched a small black-and-white television broadcasting a report from Baghdad. “It’s amazing, I can’t believe it’s happening,” Irvin said, shaking her head.

The other attorneys nodded absently, their eyes also glued to the TV. When the reports became repetitive, one of them, Mike Johnson, tore his eyes from the screen. His older brother is a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne, stationed in the Middle East.

“I’m not afraid for him,” Johnson said, trying to sort out his thoughts, obviously shaken. “My biggest concern is that if he dies, it will be for nothing.”

His two colleagues looked on in silence, at a loss for words.

At Glamour Shots, a Houston makeover and beauty shop, customer Anthea Mize was decked out in a green satin dress. She was waiting for a photographer to take what will be a Valentine’s Day photo for her fiance.

“They don’t have a TV or radio here,” she complained. “I want to know what’s going on with the war.”

Music pounded in the background. Makeup artist Mikael Thompson, 29, fluffed a little more blush on a woman’s cheeks. President Bush’s statement was only 10 minutes away, but Thompson was happy not to hear it.

“This war is all quite scary. . . . “ he said, fluttering his hands. “It’s good we don’t have TV in here or else we’d all be shaky, and this girl’s makeup would just be all over the place.”

Eight men bided their time in the customer’s waiting area at Downtown Toyota in Chicago. A television set hung down from the wall, just above the Coke machine. White House spokesman Marlin Fitzwater came on to announce that war had begun.

“I just hope it’s quick,” said Doug Snower, part owner of the place. “If this lingers on, it’ll change the face of the nation.”

Slowly, all the men started talking. Their words were aimed at no one in particular. They expected no response.

“Man,” said one.

“This is wild,” said another.

Doug Snower took a few minutes to digest the news. “I feel pale, faint, scared to death of what’s going to happen,” he said. “I’m afraid of what it’s going to change.”

His brother, Glenn, was not as concerned. “This is like a TV show,” he said. “At some point, Mr. T will come in and stop them. 007 will come in.”

In a Chicago parking lot, a scruffy man stood in a booth. From time to time, he ran between his job and the bar around the corner, where he could hear the latest. He had come from Iraq 15 years ago. He would not give his name. “It’s dangerous,” he explained.

He said he felt uncomfortable talking about his homeland. “My uncle is an American, a sargent in Saudi Arabia,” he said. “I got cousins in Iraq. How are they going to fight each other?”

His English was very good, but the words were slow to come out. “We don’t like Saddam Hussein,” he said. “We’re against him. We’re Christian.”

He hesitated. “I’m pissed,” he added. “(Bush) should talk to Saddam Hussein. He should make peace. There are kids there.”

At Kaufmann’s Streamborn bait and tackle shop in downtown Seattle, manager Bob Aid stood agape at the TV screen near the entrance of his shop. The news was just breaking. No one was sure yet if the attack had really begun.

Then finally it was a certainty. “I’ve never been at the start of a war before . . . and here I am 50 years old,” Aid said with amazement, as though this was something anyone his age should have experienced by now.

Three young employees were watching, too. They heard the rat-tat of guns on a CNN feed. “Ooh, play by play,” one of them remarked.

Another repeated a nugget of news. “Geez, they dropped five bombs in the middle of Baghdad,” he said, his tone somewhere between stunned disbelief and gee-whiz appreciation.

At the Greyhound Bus depot in Seattle, most people had heard what was up, but only one of the coin-operated TVs was in use. People were more intent on making their travel connections.

“I was on the bus coming in when I heard about it,” said Marc Nordlund, 19, an English major at Western Washington University. “The driver said, ‘We’re at war with Iraq.’ He’d been listening to the radio. When he said that there was cheering. Like it was some damn football game.”

In Berkeley, at the landmark Cody’s Bookstore, customers and employees expressed dismay and shock. Store manager Marilyn Ornallis grew horrified as she watched the news.

“I feel like crying and screaming and killing George Bush,” she said. “I’m astounded. I’m going to get involved in the ‘Impeach George Bush’ movement.”

In Miami, at a bookstore 3,000 miles away, Sylvia Geigel, 38, said much the opposite. She had been listening to oldies on the radio when the songs were interrupted by a bulletin. That’s OK, she thought.

“I grew up during the Vietnam era, and I was very opposed to that and marched against the war,” she said. “Nobody likes war, but I feel there’s no alternative here than to try and take care of this now.

“If we don’t stop (Saddam) now, he’d take over all the oil fields fast, develop new weapons so that maybe we couldn’t stand up to him. He’s a thug.”

At Bob’s Bar & Grill in central Kansas City, Wednesday was just a regular night. The hubbub about war died down quickly. The TV channel was turned to something else, a rerun of “Mr. Belvedere.”

In the Eskimo village of Kiana, a settlement of 400 people near the Bering Sea coast in northwest Alaska, people were riveted to satellite broadcasts from the moment they heard the news.

They gathered in the classroom at the roomy new school, at the village store, in cramped ramshackle houses.

Three villagers are serving in the Saudi desert. One of them is Nellie Schuerch’s son, Lorenze. “How do I feel?” she said. “I have . . . “

Then her voice broke off. She spoke carefully. “I have mixed feelings.”

Twenty-two Times staff members and correspondents contributed to this story.