9/11 TUESDAY: MAKING MY WAY DOWNTOWN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s just a few minutes past 9 a.m. on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Today is primary day for New York City and I vote as soon as the polls open and then head uptown to my office. I climb up from the subway at 49th Street and Eighth Avenue and walk my usual route to Worldwide Plaza, where I work at an ad agency. As I near the electronics store on the mezzanine level, a small crowd hovers around the entrance, collectively staring up at the wall of televisions. Jeffrey, a co-worker, rushes up to me and I ask him what’s up.

 

“They bombed the World Trade Center,” he says quietly, urgently.

 

It barely registers, so unreal a thought this is. Then I, too, look up at the TV screen. It doesn’t even occur to me to turn south, where the Twin Towers stand. Besides, they’re obscured by nearby buildings.

 

On the elevator to the fifth floor, I anxiously glance up at the “Captivate” news screen just above the row of floor numbers, hoping for any updates. The news is spreading. There’s an uneasy vibe and no one speaks while they wait for their floor.

 

As I exit the elevator, I make a beeline to the nearest conference room where a huge media console sits, but the TV control panel isn’t working.

 

Others have already crowded into the sixth-floor conference room as I arrive from downstairs. It’s practically standing room only; it’s so packed. People are hovering outside the doors as well. I slip past them, spy my friend Oksana, and slide into a chair next to her. There are about 30-40 people in the room; all eyes trained on the screen as we watch the scene play out. They’re replaying the footage of planes crashing into the Twin Towers.

 

The first tower was hit at 8:46 a.m., the second at 9:03 a.m. — just as I was coming up from the subway. There’s a collective gasp. “Holy shit!” “Fuck!” Some have tears in their eyes; others are clutching their cell phones. One man makes a nervous but hate-filled comment about the “goddamned Muslims” that most of us ignore, which flusters him even more. Then the news presenters announce a plane crash in D.C. at 9:37 a.m. Another gasp. Just a few excruciating minutes later, it’s confirmed. The Pentagon has been hit. And at 10:03 a.m., yet another plane has gone down near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. I slip out of the conference room, realizing that family and out-of-town friends will start calling.

 

Two relatives have already left messages, anxious for news. “Are you okay?” “Where ARE you?” When I finally get a line out, I reassure them that I’m okay. Then I call Dad, tell him I’m safe. “This is World War III,” he says. Dad is a former New York State Trooper, a former Marine and pretty conservative in his politics.

 

Then I send a quick email to Barry in Louisiana. My ex. We haven’t spoken in 4 years, but he’s all I can think of — and I know he’ll be thinking of me. Worrying. “I’m okay,” I write. That’s it. Two words.

 

Within seconds, I hear back from him. “Thank God! I was so worried. I couldn’t get a flight up there and was about to drive up in my Jeep. Call me when you can.” He left his number.

 

People at work are wandering around, not sure what to do. There are at least a few thousand employees at our New York headquarters, yet no announcements blare over our public address system. No words of support or instruction on next steps. I call my account executive to see if our 10 a.m. conference call with a client in London could possibly still be happening. The first things I hear after the she picks up are gasps of air, her voice breaking.

 

“Do you need help, Jackie? Shall I come up?” I ask, but she demurs. Our meeting is forgotten and I go back to the fifth-floor conference room, where the TV is now working.

 

After 15 tense minutes, I mention that it won’t be long before CNN crafts a special logo for the crisis. I know it’s cynical and tacky to mention it, but can’t hold my tongue. Not even 15 minutes later, though, my theory is proved when I check back into the conference room for yet another news update. In a red, white and blue graphic box, the stylized title appears: AMERICA UNDER ATTACK.

 

“The fuckers,” I said. And I didn’t mean the bombers.

 

The first tower collapsed at 10:28 a.m. By 10:30 a.m., there’s an exodus from Worldwide Plaza; people are heading home to regroup. Many are stuck at work —especially those living downtown and outside of Manhattan — and are trying to figure out where to go next. What to do next.

 

I decide to stick around. Who knows what’s in the air at this point? Rumors abound; they’re evacuating the city from midtown and farther south. Why head south to Gramercy Park, then, where I live? I venture outside to buy a drink at the deli. Over on Broadway and 49th, standing in the middle of the street (there is NO traffic), I look downtown and see the dark smoke billowing into the sky. Times Square is already barricaded off, I’m told by passersby. Otherwise, people are calmly walking around. Not hurriedly like commuters, but like people who don’t have a destination in mind. People who feel a bit lost. Unmoored.

 

Back at the office, I find that the CNN website has crashed, so I can’t even get updates. An official from my company finally comes around and tells us that they’re moving everybody to the fourth-floor cafeteria.

 

“No one, absolutely no one, should be on any floors above that,” he said. This building has nearly 50 floors; our department is on the fifth floor. They’ll keep the fourth floor open all night, we’re told; the cafeteria will remain open for people who can’t leave.

 

Finally, at 2 p.m., I decide to leave work and walk out with Tim, a co-worker. He’s headed off to Brooklyn on foot (it’s the only way he can get there at this point because subway service is iffy). His boyfriend works downtown, just a stone’s throw from the World Trade Center. (Luckily, after a few white-knuckle hours of working the phones, Tim found out that he was safe.)

 

We walk across town on 49th Street. I’m hoping to avoid most landmarks: Times Square, Grand Central Terminal, the New York Public Library, all of which are on my way home. Tim and I separate at Park Ave and I continue on south at Lexington Avenue. I could avoid Grand Central by walking further east, but don’t, since I live on Lex. Why backtrack? Grand Central is locked up, though it looks like they’re selectively letting people in — probably Metro-North customers who are heading out of the city. All subways are now shut down, according to reports flying around.

 

I find organized chaos on the corner of 42nd and Lex: Traffic jams, ambulances, and undercover police sedans with sirens and red lights blaring from their front grill. Suddenly, we all hear a loud boom and look skyward toward the Chrysler Building, where the noise seems to be emanating. Another possible — and obvious — target? All airplanes have been grounded in the tri-state area — and apparently across the country. It’s a relief to see an F-16 flying overhead, breaking the sound barrier. One of ours. Phew!

 

On 26th Street and Lex, the 69th Regiment Armory is encircled by a row of blue wooden police barricades. The Armory, an imposing brick fortress with copper green turrets on the top floor, takes up the full length of the block. It’s an historic building, often used for galas and society fundraisers. Now National Guard soldiers holding machine guns stand at attention outside. Humvees are parked in front at the ready. A fleet of camouflaged military vehicles is lined up on both sides of the street.

 

I finally arrive home. Lexington Avenue and 24th Street. Exhausted. Not from walking, but from the obvious collective stress everyone in the city is experiencing. More friends from across the country and around the world have called in or e-mailed me. It’s hard to actually place any phone calls, though I keep trying, despite feeling guilty for tying up the lines.

 

I grab my digital camera and take the elevator to the 27th floor. Other residents clearly have the same thing in mind. On the roof, we have a 360-degree view of the city. Instinctively, I face south and take in the billowing cloud of black smoke. But no Twin Towers, of course. Both have now collapsed. Amazing how we took that vista for granted. Other rooftop spectators are scattered across the surrounding buildings. An American flag flaps in the wind on the rooftop five blocks to the south. A man on a nearby high-rise is poised on the steps of a water tower. His footing seems precarious to me, but he doesn’t move an inch for at least ten minutes. Nor do I.

 

After a few hours of listening to the radio (I don’t own a television), I walk east to some friends’ apartment a few blocks away. I pass a computer store owned by a friendly Middle Eastern family who have been here for years. Like other nearby stores, it’s already locked up and the metal gates are pulled down. Posted in the window is a flyer:

 

DUE TO THE WTC TRAGEDY

WE NEED BLOOD

GO TO THE NYC HOSPITALS

GIVE BLOOD

 

Surely it’s too soon to see these flyers posted all over the city? On light posts. In deli windows. On telephone kiosks. But it wasn’t, of course.

 

My friends’ place is just down the...