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Quixotic
I'm still in shock. I wanted to post something as some small
way of communication - I tried to discuss this briefly with my mother on
the phone, but it was too hard. I'm not even amongst those hardest hit by
this tragedy, but having been through it, I'm trying to deal. So maybe some
sharing this way will help.
I work on the 40th floor of a building south of the towers
(close to the Staten Island ferry terminal); my department windows face north.
After the first plane hit, we had several visitors to the department looking
out the windows, and so had several witnesses to the second hit.
After we evacuated the building, we milled around uncertainly
on the plaza outside, trying to keep everyone from my company together, and
calm. Then the cloud of debris from the first collapse forced everyone to
move, fast. We started trekking north on the FDR to escape the fast-moving
cloud of soot, smoke, and falling debris. It was impossible to keep everyone
together. I wound up with a group of nine people, including a couple of people
from my own department, one other manager and her secretary, and a few others
from different departments. We all knew each other pretty well (one of the
guys is one of my drinking buddies), so we at least had some good camaraderie.
We quickly fell behind the others from my company though,
as one of the women travelling with us has pretty bad arthritis, which makes
walking painful enough under ordinary circumstances. Just as we reached a
point where we needed to decide to continue north or turn west toward downtown
proper (just north of the towers), the second collapse occurred. We continued
north. And continued.
Cell phones were working sporadically, if at all. Constant
use when able to connect drained batteries quickly. We stopped frequently
to rest and discuss strategies for getting home (two Staten Islanders, three
Brooklynites, three Jerseyans, one Long Islander). We figured we'd look for
a bar or restaurant, someplace we could stop and have a drink, something
to eat, catch some news, and decide what to do next. We walked.
Eventually, the throng of people headed up the FDR and
continuing northward passed us by, and we became characters in a badly-written
melodrama, out of place and seemingly lost. Irreverent jokes began to break
up the tension ("Well, we need to go this way if we want to cross to Brooklyn,
but we'd have to go that way to find someplace where we might get some news,
and that way over there doesn't look too friendly . . . " "All right Cleveland!
Rock and Roll"). Passers-by, noticing the veneer of soot, would ask, "You
just came from there?" We stopped at a firehouse, and chatted with some guys
filling in from a different battalion on different shifts just to keep the
firehouse staffed. They hadn't heard any news about transit, and didn't know
of any local bars.
On Houston St., we found a place to stop, rest, and eat,
as well as watch the news. Everybody finally managed to get through to loved
ones with reassurances, and find out that their own loved ones in the area
had escaped. The limited contact we were able to establish with other firm
managers via cell phones revealed they were in no better position, and no
better coordinated.
Outside once again, we solidified our travel plans. Our
Staten Islanders were heading back south, as we'd heard the ferry was running
from Pier 11. We bid them Godspeed. Two of our Brooklynites (including the
poor woman with arthritis) could get home on the F train; the other got in
touch with a relative in north Manhattan with whom he would stay. Our little
group now numbered four, three of us from Jersey and the other from Long
Island.
We pressed on toward the PATH train, hoping to catch one
northbound to Penn Station to check on the LIRR status for our Islander before
going back into Jersey. No dice, but we were told the PATH was running from
34th St. Luckily, we were able to catch a bus carrying any and all north
free of charge. Once at Penn, we found the right train was indeed running,
and we bid farewell to our Islander. Now, it was just Jersey.
The PATH train was not running from 34th St., but NJ Transit
was running trains to Newark out of Penn Station. We boarded there and rode
to Newark. One of us needed to get to his car in Harrison, and was able to
do so from there. Which left two of us who needed to get back on another
train to go back to Hoboken. One lives there, and was finally home. I had
to board the familiar old PATH (service had just been reestablished) to get
home to Jersey City.
And I was finally home. And alone for the first time that
day. It hadn't hit me, the enormity of it. My buddy had even said to me during
the whole mess that I was one of the few people who didn't panic. I hadn't
cried. I called my mom and my family to let them know I was all right. My
sister has a friend who worked in one of the towers. Nobody has heard from
her, and my sister is distraught.
I'm home today because the city is closed downtown, but
I'm wishing I had something to do. I can't get through to my friends and
co-workers in Brooklyn to see if they got home okay, and just keep uselessly
redialing. Watching and reading the news today, it finally did hit me, the
enormity of it, the absolute horror, and I'm still crying.
Now, Guiliani is saying they're going to try to reopen
tomorrow, and the stock exchange will reopen. I know I'm going to be expected
in; and I'll have to tell others they're expected in. I have no idea
what to say to them. I have no idea how to reestablish any kind of normal
workplace atmosphere. I have no idea.
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