(Editorial Note: This is the second chapter in a book about how the events of 9/11 changed the author's life.)
Chapter 2: The Towers Fall
The next morning is gorgeous. I want to keep the relaxing weekend getaway vibe with me as long as possible, so I go with a polished-yet-comfy jeans look on my hourglass frame. I carry my black blazer and new striped scarf from Nantucket in case I need them later. I walk along the promenade in Hoboken and revel in the view of the Manhattan skyline. Today its backdrop is a wow of a blue sky that makes me gawk with delight. I have lived here for three years and I still don’t take this view for granted. The towers stand proudly at the bottom of the island, as if they know they are the focal point of a particularly crisp panorama today.
It is going to be a good day. I have a show to edit, a lot to prove in this still very new television producing position at Oxygen Media, and it is going to be my best work yet.
I am immersed in learning, as this opportunity has come about because my executive producer, Lydia, doesn’t want to lose me to Web staff cuts. With her blessing and decree, I have gone from Web producer at Oxygen Sports to TV producer without an ounce of experience in the latter. I have been shadowing other producers and slowly weaning from their tutelage to produce my own shows.
I am well rested and have a spring in my step as I descend into the PATH station that will take me under the Hudson River into Manhattan. Oxygen is located in Chelsea Market at 15th Street and Ninth Avenue, so most days I choose to get off at the Christopher Street stop and walk the charming twelve or so blocks up Hudson Street to work.
As I come out of the PATH station onto the sidewalk in the West Village, I start my walk north on Hudson. The children going to school and the people walking their dogs make this a nice atmosphere to be in every day. I start to notice people gathering on the opposite side of the street and then clusters of folks looking and pointing south.
I turn and look downtown, but the tree-lined street has little visibility from that side. Curiosity gets the best of me and I cross to see what is happening. Smoke is pouring out of one of the World Trade Center towers. It looks serious and everyone is aghast. I continue walking north, but turn every block or so to look. I’m surprisingly not overly alarmed. This is New York. Smoke happens.
A cab is stopped by the curb and the driver has his doors open, his radio blaring as he watches the smoke. He tells the small crowd gathered around that a plane has flown into the building. I can’t imagine what this would be like for the people sitting there having their coffee and doing their work. A plane coming through the window? Before I can even process the vision, the other tower explodes in flame.
“Oh my God, oh my God!”
“Shit. Fuck.”
“Noooooo!”
I don’t even know which of those reactions is coming from me. I reach for my cell phone, frustrated when I can’t get a signal. Everyone around me is saying “terrorism.” I keep walking, trying my phone and manage to get through to my parents’ house in the Central Jersey suburbs, but there’s no answer. When I reach Oxygen I call my sister to let her know where I am. We talk about the fact that the Pentagon has been hit. Then as my co-workers and I frantically run around trying to figure out how to get home there is a collective gasp. One of the towers is collapsing right there on the television screen. The other quickly follows and the atmosphere in the office turns from frantic to fatally somber.
Oxygen management calls a meeting and I make a joke as we walk up the steps to the meeting place. One of my co-workers looks at me in disbelief. “Do you think this is funny?” I’m embarrassed because of course I don’t think it’s funny, but rambling and nervous smiles are my coping mechanisms. I shudder at what I’ve said in hospitals and at funerals. I manage to shut up and listen as we’re told we’re being assigned buddies so that everyone is accounted for. My employer has wisely determined that since air traffic and subway service are suspended, and because no one knows if another attack is imminent, this is the best choice of action.
What follows resembles a montage of slow motion figures. Those living in Manhattan and the other boroughs start walking the long treks home. Those of us in New Jersey must cross the river in boats, and by now even the sightseeing vessels have been pressed into service. I head over to Chelsea Piers, company-issued turkey sandwich, apple and bottled water in hand, with co-workers Eliza and Amy. As we’re standing in a long winding line before climbing aboard a three-decker cruise boat I see Jana, a former Fox Sports co-worker who seems relieved to see a familiar face. We are like creatures in a state of suspension that has no proper words.
Ironically, cruelly, everything aesthetic about this day is still gorgeous as we stand on the top deck of this boat on the Hudson River. I marvel that this would feel like heaven under almost any other circumstances. Lady Liberty is as always raising her hand, reassuringly lighting the way. But now there is smoke wafting from the bottom of the island. A fighter jet roars overhead and startles everyone on the boat, first frightened by what it might be, then terrified at what its presence means. Most of us have never experienced such a blatant display of military protection in the America we know. One man in a dark suit leans against the railing and stares south, his whole body covered in a dusty gray film.
We reach New Jersey – Weehawken, to be exact – and I head in the opposite direction of my co-workers. I finally reach my mother on the phone and I talk as I walk, hyper and numb at the same time. I notice a woman walking in the same direction who seems to need to talk, so I tell my mother I’ll call her later. I get in lockstep with the woman and engage her in conversation. We talk for nearly a mile, walking past good Samaritans giving out water on the side of the road, and I don’t even know what we say. I just know it seems to comfort her to ramble, too.
We part just a few blocks from my home and something steers me into a frame and print store. I search for a poster of the World Trade Center and find a stunning black-and-white shot of downtown Manhattan that appears to have been shot from Jersey City. I buy the rolled up print. It is nearly 3 o’clock when I walk in my apartment door.
I respond to a few messages of concern on my machine and then walk across the street to Filippo’s Pizza. I order an eggplant parmigiana sandwich, sit down at a sidewalk table, and attack the thing with a vengeance. A bit of olive oil drips down my chin and I don’t care. All that matters is the consumption of that sandwich. Nothing else. Not even the wigged out people staring at me from the bus stopped at the traffic light in front of where I’m sitting and stuffing my face. I gather that somehow, some way, they, too, have just escaped the hell that is Manhattan.