Religious pamphlet shamelessly exploiting 911 imagery; hopefully, I'm not doing the same by sharing the memory here

Some religion salesmen were handing these out at Lexington Market here in Baltimore a few months after the attacks.

 

The weird thing for me is that this was pretty much the view I had from my boss' office in NYC that day.

 

 

 

 

Seeing the Second Plane Hit:

 

I’d tried to vote in the primary election that morning. I can’t remember if it was mayoral or something else. They couldn’t find my name at the polling place even though I’d received the little yellow card in the mail with that address on it. I was steamed; I went straight to work and up to my cubicle and called the election board to complain, ending my cranky voice-mail message with, “What is this, Florida!?!”

 

It was probably around 7:30 now, and I went back downstairs and outside for my morning glazed donut, diet soda (never really been a hot caffeine person), and cigarette breakfast (ahh, how I miss them still) near the water at the South Street Seaport. In the three months since I’d started at Prudential, it was always calming for me to start the mornings this way, getting to see the sun's gleam on the water, the sightseeing boaters preparing for their day, and the seafood houses already in the middle of theirs.

 

At 8:00 I went up to officially start my work day, checking emails and voicemails, taking care of a few things that had come over the department fax late from the night before. It was a while later that a manager, John, another early starter, came out of his office and said, “Come see this. The World Trade Center is on fire.”

 

It’s hard to say how many city blocks we were from the Towers. The streets at the south end of Manhattan wind so much; my best guess is that our building, 1 NY Plaza was about a mile away. In that building, our department was on the 35th floor. So, when I walked into John’s office, facing the towers, what I saw was surreal; there were flames for sure (no sign of the plane), but what I remember most was the endless stream of paper raining down outside from the upper floors, not yet touching the streets which meant whatever had happened must have just.

 

Though John was the first to see the flames, he hadn't seen the cause, and, as other coworkers started arriving, we all started speculating, with one of those weather/traffic copters getting the most votes. Nobody mentioned terrorism.

 

I called my roommate who at this time was working as a receptionist at my old company (a job I’d had a few years back) and told him the news. "The World Trade Center is on fire," I said.

 

“What,” he said.

 

“The World Trade Center is on fire.”

 

“What?”

 

“The. World. Trade. Center. Is. On. Fire.”

 

“Stop saying that!”

 

“Well, stop saying ‘what,’ then,” I said.

 

When he was finally convinced that I was not joking we speculated more.

“Well, how many times have we seen those little planes coming down over the skyline, coming so close,” he said, “it was bound to happen eventually.”

 

“Oh, geez the subway’s gonna be a mess. Ya think they’ll let us out early?” Yes, friends, I actually said that, and, no, I am not in the least proud of it. My only defenses are that I certainly was not thinking about death and suffering at the time and that I’d lived through the other attack on the WTC, the one in 1993, which, in my world lacked catastrophic devastation. We had a cousin who broke a foot in that one, but that was it.

 

“Yeah, I think they’ll probably let you out early,” he said, and I hung up, promising to fill him in on any other news.

 

By the time I made a quick call to family in Baltimore to let them know that they might hear something about the Trade Center on the news but that I was safe, my boss had come in and she said that, sure, I could watch things from her office while she went to get coffee. She had a great office with a great view, window covering an entire wall, and I just watched. Watched a building burn in an otherwise picture perfect blue sky. Watched the endless confetti cascading down like what I’d pictured from the old ticker-tape parades. Watched a few white fluffy clouds, seemingly oblivious in the distance.

 

Watched as yet another plane came zooming across the skyline.

 

This is where it gets hard to keep writing. Seeing the second plane hit…Remembering seeing the second plane hit still gives me a jolt to the spine. Seeing the second plane hit admits there might just be “evil” in the world, because seeing the second plane hit meant the first could not have been an accident. Seeing the second plane hit meant, temporarily at least, knowing there was a before and an after to that moment. Example: "the last time I laughed so hard I cried before 9/11 was during an old SCTV rerun two nights earlier where Andrea Martin was sending up a vintage Connie Francis album commercial. She sang, ‘I’ve lost my hearing and sight in one eye’ and 'I'm so unhappy are you unhappy too' as an announcer boasted, 'She depressed an entire generation.' That there was some funny shit, and I could use that laughter now, after."

 

For days after, seeing the second plane hit replayed constantly in my mind, not even making it to my subconscious until months later, really, when I was miles away, back in Baltimore. It was then that I finally had a nightmare about it, stolen, ironically from the opening to that old “Airplane” movie comedy. Instead of the tail of the plane moving through the clouds, however, in my dream, it was an entire big shiny plane heading toward the second tower in the big blue sky, but still to the "Jaws" theme, of course. In the dream, and in my memories since, I’ve wanted to be able to just reach through my boss’ office window and pluck the plane from the air, as if it were a toy one. But, well….

 

So the second plane hits with an explosion that I see but don’t hear through the thick layers of skyscraper window glass; I’m hearing coworkers in other offices scream instead.

 

“Gotta go,” I say, as my boss comes back with her coffee, and I do, right past my cube, saying nothing to anyone else, not bothering to log off and turn off my computer, bee-lining straight to the elevator before someone has the chance to tell me I can’t use it. Not too proud of that instinct to flee, either, but there it is. I’m guessing that the two other elevator passengers must have also seen the plane hit. She was shaking and crying and every time the elevator stopped on a floor, he ran out quickly to see if someone was really waiting and hurriedly returned, pressing the “door close” button as fast as he could. Down and out we scurried where we would mill about while the rest of the people in the building filtered down, indeed by the stairs. Madeleine, who was no fan of aerobic excercise at the time, was not thrilled with the walk, and Pam, upon coming outside asked if it was o.k. to smoke.

 

I said, “They just blew up the World Trade Center, Pam. Of course you can smoke!” And she and I probably smoked five or six cigarettes in a row waiting for word that we could go home. What was concerning me, in my paranoid state, was that, with the second plane coming roughly twenty minutes after the first, we could be due for another soon, and I just wanted out of there. Finally, we were given the o.k. to leave, and by this time we knew we were walking.

 

On the way, I found out about the Pentagon being attacked too and freaked again, (in a slightly jaded way this time), because I had family working in that area. Phones, however, were not an option as cells couldn’t get a signal, and the few pay phones one could find had lines at least twenty people deep. So, I just walked, and again I have to say, “surreal.” Surreal to see so many pedestrians, even as crowded as New York usually was. Surreal to see so many cars just abandoned. Surreal to see armed military personnel on the streets of Manhattan. Surreal to see a basketball game and rope-skipping at a schoolyard as if nothing had just happened blocks away.

 

And jarring to hear but not see, what one hoped, were our fighter planes overhead.

 

Taking a meandering journey through Chinatown I finally made my way to my roommate’s workplace where all hell was breaking loose. One of his company’s clients was American Express which had its offices very close to the WTC. Once the towers had collapsed (luckily I didn’t have to see that), the structure of the AmEx office building was also in question, and my roommate was frantically trying to find out if any of his coworkers were there for meetings. Still in a daze I stayed and helped him a little; but then I just went home, or rather, to my little neighborhood dive bar where others were already sobbing. Just didn’t want to be alone at that point.

 

The next days and nights are blurs what with all of the self-medicating and constant news-watching - how truly awful it was to see those that chose to jump.

 

Our offices and so many others downtown had to remain closed while soot and debris were removed. The burnt rubber smell, however, traveled uptown and lingered for a week. Flowers were everywhere and the posters of the missing went up and multiplied. With Manhattan in virtual lockdown, and because we had a police precinct (potential terrorist target it seems) on our block, we had to show i.d. and proof that we lived on our street before being let on. The Friday after, my roommate and I went to 1984, a retro club, to try and dance some of the depression away, but, rightly so, out of respect, it did not open.

 

This story ends slightly comically with the HR-sponsored grief session our company held the next Tuesday, when we were first allowed back to work. The first thing the counselors asked was, “how many of you saw either plane hit or either building collapse?” Everyone raised his hand and the counselors looked at each other as if they were in trouble.

 

Later, they warned against self-medication, “You want to stay away from alcohol, caffeine, nicotine and any illicit substances.” This got the biggest laugh because with a week off, paid no less, and with what we had seen stuck in our minds, all quite a few of us had done was self-medicate, one way or another.

 

Finally, just as the counselors were about to offer helpful suggestions on how to deal with the stress of the events, someone knocked on the door. Unfortunately, the entire building had to be evacuated due to a fire in the cafeteria. And poor Madeleine had to walk down those flights of stairs again.

 

And the cold I had became the flu.

 

Though her office wasn’t near the site - I checked later - I still think about that election worker and the nasty voice-mail message I left for her comparing New York to Florida. How wrong I was about that and how not-so great to know that it was either one of the last things she heard before, or one of the first things she heard after, her 9/11.

 

 

 

Done