Defining Days
My guess is that you’ve had good days and bad days in your life. If you’re lucky then the good days outnumber the bad. Sometimes these good or bad days may change your life. In rare circumstances, there are days that change the entire world. An attack on September 11, 2001 changed the world forever…and I was across the street.
Hindsight is not always 20/20. I thought that Tuesday, September 11th was going to be a fun day. I decided to wear my cowboy boots to work. I didn’t wear them often because a) they were uncomfortable and b) they distracted my co-workers. I couldn’t wear them without being peppered throughout the day with questions like “Where’s your hat? Did you leave it in the trailer park?” or “Please, Eric, say ‘ya’ll’ again.” Of course it was good-natured ribbing from Northerners dealing with, in most cases, their first Texan co-worker.
Now normally I’d be late for work, but I was eager to show off my boots again plus the city was having a primary election for Mayor. Bloomberg was intriguing, but today my vote wasn’t going to be for somebody it was going to be against the Democratic candidate. I’m a registered democrat but Green was an arrogant and pompous windbag who made a career out of politics, not a career of addressing city problems and fixing them. This was all a moot point because I was running behind and I had to choose between voting in the morning and being late or being on time to work and voting in the evening. I chose the latter. I figured if I got there early enough I could get some work done before being distracted by my coworkers.
I hopped on the N/R line that drops me off on Cortlandt Street and Church. It’s one of the busier stops especially between 8:30am and 9:00am. My office at the Bank of New York is just a hop, skip, and jump from the subway. (Though I never actually hopped or skipped there, I would occasionally “jump” out of a cars way.) It’s closer if I took the exit inside the World Trade Center, but during nice weather I always opted to walk outside and around the twin towers.
As was the norm, I would begin the day with a coffee but I realized I didn’t have any money, so I stopped by the ATM inside my building and went back to my coffee cart. I got my coffee for a $1.00 and some small talk and just as I got to the door of my building I heard a large metal crash. I didn’t know what it was. I knew there was a lot of construction in the area so I thought a crane had fallen over. In the lobby of my building several people were looking out the windows and pointing. I’m not a “rubber-necker” so I continued on to my office.
I got off on the 8th floor and made a beeline to my desk. My coworkers were at the window and staring out. I joined them. I saw what had captivated everyone – a huge, gaping fiery hole in the north face of the World Trade Center. I immediately thought a bomb went off, so I made a phone call.
Whenever anything bad “happened” in New York I would immediately call my mother. I learned through many rushed calls that she’d always think I was in the middle of whatever mugging, murder, or mayhem that was happening in Manhattan. I called her and spoke with her very briefly telling her that a bomb went off in the World Trade Center and that I was okay.
After hanging up I went back to the window. I had some friends who worked on the 44th and 47th floors and I wanted to make sure they were safe. While guesstimating the number of floors the “bomb” hit, my coworkers were telling me it wasn’t a bomb that it was a plane. “A plane?” I thought, “There’s no way.” What type of retard pilot do you have to be to not see one of the tallest buildings in the world? I was thinking that it was a Cessna or some small propeller plane. Some people were saying it was an airliner. Once again I thought “no way, the hole is too small and it certainly didn’t sound like an airliner when it hit.
I had just turned away from the window to check my computer when the second plane hit. This one I felt. I ran back to the window and there was a large ball of flame shooting out of the Tower 2.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK!!”
Everyone in the office immediately knew that the first plane wasn’t an accident. We knew that New York City was under attack, but none of us knew how to deal with it or what to do. Our buildings fire marshal spoke over the intercom saying to stay calm and to stay in the building. The streets were crazy and perhaps dangerous. He told us to wait until we heard further news. I went to call my parents again, but this time the phone was dead. All the phone lines were dead. I didn’t have a cell phone at the time, but even people who did couldn’t use theirs.
The Senior Vice President of my department passed the word that her employees could leave if they wanted to. Mike and Jeanne left, but I stayed behind to greet my coworkers who were still trickling in. I told them that they were allowed to go home and in fact they should go home, “and whatever you do, don’t loiter around in the area. Go straight home.” At this point with both buildings ablaze, I didn’t feel an urge to run home. I didn’t want to walk on the chaos-filled streets. I was content to hang out with my coworkers trying to figure out what was going home. Believe it or not, I wasn’t scared. I still felt safe.
The few of us still left on the 8th floor moved away from the south end of the floor to the north end just in case there was any debris that might fly through the windows. Someone had found a portable Bloomberg radio and we were listening to live updates. I think all of us were making the nervous chatter people make when they don’t want to address their fears. We were listening to the “live” reports on the radio. A female reporter was describing the scene on the streets when she let out a fear-filled scream as building two came tumbling down. My allegiance to the Bank of New York was over. It was time for me to go home. I didn’t go get my stuff at my desk. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I headed straight for the emergency door.
Walking down the eight floors in the emergency shaft was the worst part of the day for me. People were crying hysterically, sobbing, and screaming as they rushed to get out of the building. I’m not claustrophobic but I felt trapped and short of breath. I had to get out. I didn’t run, but I didn’t slow down to look for acquaintances or check to see if I could help anyone out. I…wanted…out!
The emergency stairwell opened out on the north side, which was convenient since the south side faces the World Trade Center. Some people stopped to look for friends and catch a breath from the walk down the stairs. Not me, I kept walking north. As I walked I was amazed that people were cemented in awe at the sight behind me. I wanted to scream, “What are you doing? Stop gawking and get out of here! Don’t stay here.” I didn’t talk to anyone though. I was headed to my friend’s shop in the Soho district. Hopefully, planes would stop crashing into buildings and nothing else would explode.
When I got to Canal Street I felt I was at a safe enough distance to turn around. Fiery smoke from building one was still filling the sky while the “white cloud” of building two and enveloped the neighborhood. I was still walking to my friend’s store when building one collapsed. All I could think of was my friend Patricia. “How long has it been? Surely she had enough time to walk down 44 flights. I know it’s a lot of stairs, but please Patricia, please god I hope you made it.”
When I got to my friend’s store I saw one of her coworkers sitting on the curb crying. The crying sobs that wrack the whole body when you take a moment to breath before continuing to cry uncontrollably. I didn’t know what to say or how to comfort her so I stayed away and waited until my friend got there. It was probably an hour before I learned that all the subways were shut down, and she probably wouldn’t show up.
Though I lived in Brooklyn for almost 3 years, I never walked or biked to Manhattan. Now that I was stuck on the island and wanted to get off, I didn’t know how too. The Brooklyn Bridge was right next to the WTC carnage so I wasn’t going anywhere near there. I followed the WTC refugees and every other person who was escaping. I found myself at the Williamsburg Bridge. Williamsburg was in Brooklyn. I’m sure I could get home from there somehow.
Walking across the Williamsburg Bridge was like being in a war movie when entire villages pack up and leave before the invading army arrives. We were all scared. We didn’t know what was going on. We didn’t know what would happen next. We all crossed the Bridge. Masses and masses of people full of fear, we walked to get away. I don’t remember if people were talking. The bridge walk was a huge haze in my memory. I just knew that once I got across things would be better. How much better I don’t know? And I’m not certain why I felt safer in Brooklyn. I just kept putting one boot in front of the other. Get home, get safe, get home, get safe – that was my mantra.
I made it to Brooklyn and after several hours I made it home to my apartment. It took me five hours to get home. The phones still weren’t working, but my email was, so I sent out an email to all the addresses I had letting them know that I was okay and to please let anyone else know. Later in the day, I finally spoke to my parents and my sister.
The next few days were going to be rough and awkward. I knew this. But ask me if September 11th was a bad day, and I’ll tell you “yes.” But it was also a good day. I got home and my friends got out of the World Trade Center. My life had been altered and the world changed, but I was alive and there was still tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment