Each New Yorker who lived through September 11th has his or her own story. Like many others, I needed to write it all down to fully process what had happened and where I'd been when it happened. I share the following document with my readers not because it's a remarkable tale (it's very unremarkable by the standards of the day), but mostly because it was written in the few days immediately following the 11th, while the events were relatively fresh and emotions were raw. I have no energy to continue my detailed accounting beyond the point that I stopped, but here are the details of my day up through the early afternoon.
On Tuesday, September 11, I left my apartment on Second Avenue and 12th Street in Manhattan at 9:05 AM, about twenty-five minutes earlier than usual. My intention was to vote in the primary elections and then get to work a few minutes early to prepare for a 10 AM conference call.
As I opened my door, all I saw was a crystal-blue sky, a marked contrast to the torrential rainstorm the night before. But as soon as I reached the sidewalk, I could see a huge plume of smoke rising from the south. "Wow, that's some fire," I thought to myself, wondering what building it was.
I crossed Second Avenue and went to Open Pantry, the gourmet deli where I buy my morning coffee. One of the regular customers, a fortyish man who walks his two small dogs in the neighborhood, was pointing at the smoke and I heard him say, "I saw the second plane hit it. It just wobbled into the tower." I hadn't processed what was going on, but then, that's the problem with being a caffeine addict still waiting for a fix.
The radio was on inside the deli, and the cashier was repeating the news, something about a plane hitting the World Trade Center and a fire. I blinked in disbelief and went outside to stare at the smoke again and listen to the man recount what he'd seen. "To hell with the primary," I decided, and returned to my apartment to catch a glimpse of the news.
For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of Manhattan, Second Avenue is a major southbound artery. As I waited to cross the street, fire trucks and ambulances came roaring down, sirens blaring. The first image in my mind that really registered was the sight of a middle-aged man driving an unmarked black SUV with a window siren. He was dressed in a short-sleeve white oxford shirt and his tie was flapping out the window as he sped down the street at what seemed like 100 miles an hour. I recalled the standard line an officer asks when pulling a driver over for speeding--"Where's the fire, buddy?" This guy knew, and he was on his way.
I returned to my apartment and turned on CNN. The sight of the twin towers smoldering was a shock. "HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT" I hollered, loud enough that my roommate coming out of the shower joined me in front of the TV. We watched together for about 15 minutes, almost speechless.
I still don't know why I then decided to go to work. I've reflected on this for the past four days and have yet to come back to a satisfactory answer. It was 9:30 and both buildings of the World Trade Center were on fire. Surely, I must have realized that this day could not proceed in a normal manner. Some part of me, beginning to absorb that this was a terrorist attack and not an accident, must have been wary of going underground to ride the subway to work. Hadn't there been tear gas in the subways when terrorists exploded a bomb in the WTC back in 1993?
But I left the apartment nonetheless and headed up Second Avenue. The ambulances continued to speed by. A thought ran through my mind in these exact words: "There is a massive amount of human suffering going on in this city." Yet I turned the corner at 14th Street and headed for the L train stop at Third Avenue. The westbound side of the station was eerily empty, except for the white-haired guy with the beard and earplugs who worked the token booth every morning. I must have just missed a train. I recall thinking of tumbleweeds blowing down the subway platform as I walked to the back end where I usually ride. After a couple of minutes an eastbound train came by and picked up the two or three passengers, and around that time I saw a woman enter at the other end of my platform. Finally a train arrived, much less full than usual. Riding in the second-to-last car, nobody seemed to be talking to anybody.
But when I transferred at the Eighth Avenue stop to the A-C-E line, the station was bustling with activity. I sprinted down the stairs to board a train waiting at the platform. Two men speaking in Spanish and occasional broken English were talking about the planes. One man slapped the palm of one hand against the back of his other hand, simulating an explosion. The train was packed, and anxiety and concern were in the air. I exchanged glances with a woman whose eyes were already red from crying, and it was then I started to wonder just what in the hell I was doing on the subway at a time like this.
I got off the C train at the Times Square stop and headed to my normal exit on Eighth Avenue and 42nd Street. I can't even remember if I could see the smoke from there--I just wanted to get to work and find out what was really going on. When I arrived at work (Bill Smith Studio, a graphic-design firm), a co-worker hollered to me from a small corner office with the only television. "Jay, get in here!"
It was about ten minutes before ten. About fifteen people were crowded into the small space, including my boss. Some of the women were teary-eyed. One of my co-workers was talking to his fiancee on a cel phone, describing what he was seeing on TV. Soon a report came in that the Pentagon had been hit. Somebody said that the National Mall was on fire.
At 10 AM, our horror turned to despair as we watched the South Tower collapse on live television. "My God, what is happening?" a woman asked as the building crumbled to the ground. Another woman covered her eyes and started sobbing uncontrollably as a co-worker consoled her.
The collapse of the tower snapped me into action. I ran to my desk and saw that a phone message awaited me. It was from Andra, my girlfriend, whose call I had just missed. Her close friend Brandi, who works across the street (this is on Broadway, just above Houston Street, approximately one mile from the WTC), had come by to tell her that her building had been evacuated. Andra told me that the two of them weren't sure what to do but that they might try to return to Brooklyn. Worriedly, I tried Andra's cel phone, and left a message directing them to head over to my place; I would soon be on my way. I called my apartment--my roommate, Issa, was still at home. "Do you believe this?" I asked him. "I know," he replied, "this is crazy."
I told him of my directions to Andra and Brandi, then hung up and dialed my mother in Salt Lake City. I could hear relief mixed with concern in her voice: "Hi Jay, hold on, I'm on the other line with Bryan." That's my brother, two years younger, who also lives in Manhattan and works in midtown for a mergers and acquisition firm.
I interupted her. "Good, he's okay--I didn't know if he had a meeting downtown. I just wanted to let you know that I'm okay. I'm at work right now, but I'm going home and I will call you when I get there. Tell Bryan I will call him as soon as I can."
"How are you getting home?" she asked.
"I'm walking!" I laughed nervously. "Fuck the subways. I am NOT going underground right now." I don't usually speak to my mother in such language, but this was clearly a special case.
As I hung up the phone, I rummaged through my bulky briefcase, taking out my cel phone, handheld organizer, and sunglasses. I slung my portable CD player over my shoulder. Walking home across town on foot, the less I carried the better--valuables only. As I walked back to the front of the office, I asked our receptionist if he had heard from Eric, my co-worker and close friend dating back to my college days. He lives in Park Slope (Brooklyn), where countless times I'd sat on his deck and admired his view of lower Manhattan. Apparently Eric had phoned and said he didn't think it was a good idea to come into work. I'd had visions of him stuck on a subway below lower Manhattan as all hell broke loose, so I breathed a sigh of relief at the news--each friend accounted for represented a small victory.
By the time I reached the front of the office, the TV had been moved to the conference table directly inside the front door. Onscreen was the single remaining tower, ablaze, and I wondered to myself if they would rebuild its twin. Suddenly, as I watched, the tower began to collapse. "Oh, shit!" I hollered, and watched the cloud of rubble which engulfed lower Manhattan, taller than several of the buildings down there. I had no idea how far north the clouds of rubble reached, so I frantically dialed Andra, but got a signal that the network was busy. I tried Brandi, with the same result. Where were they? I could feel my heart pounding, and I had broken into a sweat. Bill Smith made an announcement to our staff, telling us that our decisions about what to do were up to us individually. "This is unprecedented," he said. "If people want to stay here, they can, but if you feel like you need to go, go ahead."
"I am so fucking outta here, " I announced to no one in particular. Bill gave me a hug and asked if I was okay. "I'm more than a little freaked out," I told him, choking up tears for the first time. "I've heard that my brother is all right but I haven't been able to get ahold of my girlfriend." I said a blanket good-bye and good luck to the office and headed to the elevator. It was 10:40 AM.
My office is roughly a mile north and another mile west of my apartment. I'd never walked home from there before. Plotting a route on my way down the elevator, I debated grabbing a bottle of water at the deli downstairs. I decided to wait, feeling a need to hit the ground running, and not wanting to hold anything besides my phone. Heading south on Eighth Avenue, I initally crossed to the east side of the street. But as I eyed the Empire State Building on 34th, my instincts told me to cross back westward. The difference was only fifty feet or so, but I didn't want to be any closer to a seemingly obvious target than necessary.
The street was crowded, but I strode down Eighth purposefully, turning my shoulders sideways to squeeze between pedestrians traveling the other direction. When I reached Penn Station on 33rd, I crossed back over. People were crowded six deep around Madison Square Garden, many of them talking on cel phones--train service must have been shut down, I concluded. Cycling through Andra's, Brandi's and Bryan's numbers almost continuously as I walked, I got no connection. I cut over to Seventh Avenue around 30th Street. My goal was to pass by my brother's apartment at Sixth Ave. and 24th Street, in the event he was already home.
I kept cycling through my three phone numbers, but still couldn't get through. I decided not to call my apartment again--the anxiety of potentially finding out that Andra and Brandi hadn't arrived yet was too much to bear. Vans were pulled over, their doors open, their radios blaring news reports about what was going on as people huddled around them. Sweating profusely, I kept walking, my jaw starting to ache from clenching my teeth.
Unable to reach Bryan, I kept going, cutting over to Fifth Avenue at 20th Street, the former site of our studio. Having walked home from there countless times, I knew I had reached the home stretch. Turning to walking down Fifth, I could see the black smoke, an awesome and horrific sight. It was as if something had ripped a hole in the sky where the twin towers used to be. Staring at the smoking void, I tried, for the first time, to do a mental calculation of how many people could have been inside. "Five digits," I concluded out loud.
Following the lead of a young woman wearing a backpack, I steered myself off of the crowded sidewalk and headed into the street, deserted except for the occasional emergency vehicle speeding by. When I reached 14th Street, I breathed a sigh of relief. Good old 14th, the northern border of the East Village--I would be home soon. Finally, I reached my block. I debated going into the deli to grab a Gatorade, but I decided to check in first. I ran up the stairs and could hear voices inside the apartment. I opened the door and found a crowd of people inside. The first face I saw was that of our friend Elizabeth. Then Issa, and Brandi, and finally Andra. I hugged her and broke into sobs. We held each other for what seemed like an eternity. "I'm so glad you're all right," I told her tearfully. I calmed down a bit, changed my shirt, washed my face, and joined the crowd around the television. It was 11:20 AM.
Our apartment became a headquarters of sorts. With two phone lines and several cel phones at our disposal, we were Communications Central, everybody making phone calls when they weren't riveted to the TV. Eric phoned in--he had seen the second plane hit the tower from his deck--a virtual front-row seat. "It was awful, " he cried. "It was going so fast..."
Our friend Julie, a schoolteacher, phoned in. She pumped me for news, and related what was going on up at her school--parents could take their children out, but they wouldn't be let go on their own. An art teacher with no fixed class of her own, she spent the afternoon relieving other teachers.
Our friend Nick came over, carrying Chinese takeout. Apparently the restaurants in our neighborhood were still up and running. This reminded me I hadn't eaten yet, so I led a turkey sandwich expedition to the deli. I wasn't really hungry, but I knew I needed to eat. Elizabeth had left, saying she was going to donate blood. Issa and Nick planned to as well, but wanted to eat first.
After lunch we started to disperse. Nick and Issa headed over to Saint Vincent's, one of the two Manhattan locations for donating blood; they'd suggested Andra and I wait to do the same until they got back. But the lines were apparently so long that they returned untapped.
Once we got word that the bridges to Brooklyn and Queens had opened to pedestrians, Brandi left, having made arrangements with a friend to pick her up on the other side of the Manhattan Bridge. Brandi's mother was visiting from out of town, and they were understandably anxious to connect with each other.
As the apartment emptied, a feeling of exhaustion came over me--I felt like a wrung-out dishrag. lay down for about 15 or 20 minutes but found myself pulled back to the TV for more news.
We spent the rest of the afternoon alternately in front of the TV and the computer, filling up on the news coverage and emailing friends and family to tell them that we were safe. I was unable to get through to my mother except via email, but when I called Bryan--still at his office--around 4 PM, he patched her in on a conference call. She sounded remarkably upbeat, in contrast to both of her sons, who sounded somber and drained. Bryan and his coworkers had heard the first plane fly over, too low to midtown Manhattan to escape notice. He told us that the Wharton alumni database had over 100 people with addresses in the Wall Street area, but he had been able to account for most of his friends.
I headed out to our balcony to watch the near-continuous stream of emergency vehicles rushing by. i recognized a Beth Israel ambulance with a masking-tape "B" in the windshield from the morning's convoy. A soot-covered SUV headed south as well, back into the fray. I would see it--or another one just like it--the next morning.