Twin Towers of World Trade Center

Day Three

Thursday, 13 September 2001

10:00 a.m. Not much to report personally today. Yet. And I hope.

Last night put all this up and the phone kept ringing and finally went to bed around 3:30 a.m. My head hit the pillow, and I started hearing planes. Loud planes. Close planes. The cat started freaking out. Since there is no air traffic, I haven’t heard any planes in days, and of course I thought of all the stories of hearing “the planes” and how loud they were, so maybe this was a full attack and the whole city was being bombed. I thought about it, but for some reason I decided they were military. I mean our military. At my old office I used to hear military planes over the Hudson all the time, and that’s what this sounded like. So I still didn’t know if it meant we were launching an airstrike and starting a war or if they were involved in the rescue efforts, but if they were why would they fly so many so low and so loud at that hour?

I looked out the windows, but I couldn’t see anything. They’d have to be really low over the Hudson for me not to be able to see them. The police downstairs didn’t look too concerned, so I resisted the impulse to turn on the television, and I went to bed. I considered whether I might not wake up, but I decided I’d rather die in my sleep than keep listening to this story. I still don’t know what they were.

J’s Hangout, the sex club across the street, was open. I wonder whether the police would let people in past the barricade or whether only men who live below 14th Street could get in. Some people had to eat. Some people had to drink. I guess some people had to have sex with strangers.

The mobile phone rang at 9:30 a.m. The caller ID said it was King Rob, but he hung up before I answered. Immediately I was wide awake and convinced something had happened. I couldn’t reach him back. He probably hit the wrong autodial, but how long are we going to stay terrified and jumpy?

Tons of my email is bouncing back, several from friends who work downtown. I hope it’s just clogged lines, but I don’t know which servers are where, or, of course what I don’t want to think about, which offices are where with their computers in them.

I haven’t left the house yet today. I keep pretending I’m going to get work done, but I keep getting emails asking me to find people or calls saying people are ok (mostly) and sometimes that they aren’t. Tim had a friend on the plane that crashed into the Pentagon. David says Henry worked on the 97th floor but was away on a business trip. Another woman he knows worked high in the second tower. After the first plane hit, co-workers and official notice told them to stay put. She decided to get out anyway. When she reached the ground, she found a payphone and left her husband a message that she was out of the building and okay. Meanwhile the husband and son were trapped in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike and watched the plane hit the building they knew she worked in. He pulled over and called his office, who mis-relayed her message as “I’m okay. I’m in the building.” He spent an hour and a half trying to find her. A man got out of his office in the tower only to find out his wife and son were on the plane that hit it. Too many stories.

Meanwhile, there are bomb threats throughout the city. Areas around Times Square, the Empire State Building, and Grand Central Terminal have all been evacuated. I’m getting emails from friends hoping they get out and asking me to tell their families they love them if they don’t. Life is not back to normal. Not even close. I worked near the Empire State Building when Oklahoma City got hit, and we got evacuated for bomb threats, but those were mostly scared people overreacted to abandoned packages. This time there were hundreds of threats phoned in.

7:00 p.m. Too much to report. I’m hating this. Now I half don’t want to keep writing and half can’t stop. It’s hard to keep looking at the monitor while I’m crying, but it’s sure better than looking at the television. And the emails are mostly reassuring although of course all the news is not good.

Tim’s friend who was on the plane that crashed into the pentagon was named Rich Gabriel. Today is the day of names. They worked together on and off for years and went out together a few weeks ago while Rich was in New York. He was a Vietnam vet, had had part of his leg blown off in hostile fire, graduated in the top of his class at West Point. Tim says that if it were possible for him to fight hijackers he would have. He’d already seen active combat twice. He had no fear of anything.

Sky used to work at the Rainbow Room. When it closed, a lot of the staff moved to Windows on the World. Thirty-five of them were on duty for a breakfast meeting. She knew at least ten people who were killed, one of whom was a close friend and fellow Trekkie.

I keep getting emails from people who say they can’t get through on either of my phones. Then I get an email via wireless web from Tim, who says none of his phones including his DSL are working. He shows up, and we cook an actual meal — my first since this happened — and watch television. He heard the planes last night too and confirms they sounded military because of an afterburner? Whatever. Boys know these things. We don’t know why the phones aren’t working, but we’re guessing it’s because they’re evacuating more and more buildings downtown including some service stations. Tim lives in Times Square, and all of midtown is undergoing huge security scares, bomb threats, and evacuations. I get an email from Liz who works two blocks from the Empire State Building saying they’re being evacuated and to tell her family she loves them if she doesn’t make it out. Grand Central Station keeps getting closed, so I couldn’t get a train out to Carita’s anyway. Several of my friends send me emails that the city says they are supposed to evacuate their offices but that their bosses say it’s just a panic and to keep working. One says she’s leaving anyway. She’d rather risk getting fired than dying at work. Tim says the streets uptown are mobbed with people evacuated from office buildings.

Tim was supposed to fly to Austria today, but his flight was cancelled. Since his visa expires soon, he called the airline and asked to be put on any flight out from Newark or JFK or Laguardia to Heathrow, Gatwick, or Stanstead. They didn’t have anything so he broadened the request. He told them he’d take the first flight out to Montreal, Paris, Reykjavik, Rome, Toronto, anywhere. The first seat they could offer him was Tuesday, which is his 91st of 90 permissible days here. There are no exemptions. He’s going to have to explain why he broke the law by overstaying his visa every time he enters the US from now on.

Enough television, and enough talk. We’re here, and we want to get back outside. It turns out either I misunderstood the barricades or they changed the policy, but you can get south of 14th Street with any ID — you don’t have to prove you live there. I’m not sure how this helps the city’s security, since they don’t record who goes in and out, but I guess it’s just to deter massive amounts of gawkers. The reports on the news say they’re turning away even some skilled volunteers because they’re just getting in each other’s way.

Or maybe it ranges from barricade to barricade. The police ask to see ID, and I show them my driver’s license. I could tell by the uniforms they were state troopers, but I realize what this means only when they ask, “Where are you going? Home?” Tim and I had planned to say who we were visiting but they clearly don’t know street locations since my home address, which is accurate on the license, would not require me to cross. I just say, “I’m taking him with me,” nodding to Tim, and the officer checks his ID and then tells me I’m responsible for him. I’m not sure if that was because he’s not American or because he didn’t live there. In either case I assume the responsibility, and we head down.

The air gets thicker almost immediately, and we’re both gagging a little bit. It stings my eyes too. On the news we hear contradictory reports. Some public health officials say it’s just dust. Elsewhere I heard the asbestos level in the air was four times average. We didn’t bring bandanas or masks, which almost everyone else is wearing. Even if it’s just dust, it’s unpleasant. It smells like burning plastic. It’s probably burning a lot of things.

The streets are fairly but not completely empty. It’s eerie to see it lower Manhattan as a giant pedestrian mall. Tim reminds me that even if I don’t need to stop for red lights I should at least slow down and look down the cross street. I’ve gotten used to the streets everywhere being empty. We’re both getting good on the skates. Some emergency vehicles pass us. It’s interesting to see all the different police cars — I see all kinds of unmarked cars with police blinkers including regular Chevys and Fords, lots of different 4x4s, a pick-up, and a nice Acura. We see a forklift driving down Seventh Avenue carrying several workers, cases of water, and tanks of gas — oxygen maybe? We pass lots of signs thanking the rescue workers and people carrying posters saying America will rebuild. Tons of people are wearing or carrying American flags, including some of the police. Some stores are open, but many are closed. Some have signs saying things like, “In support of normalcy and in defiance of terrorism, we will be open today.” Most are empty.

Tim takes some photos and some video. I’ll post a link as soon as he can upload them. For now his DSL is still not working, so he can’t post them. [UPDATE — They’ve been added to the bottom of the page with his other photos and video. They’re sorted by date and topic.]

We make it as far as Houston Street, where the second set of barricades is. The border there is packed with people. Lots of dusty workers are drinking beer or just resting. We stare down into the dust for a while and watch rescue and recovery workers. I see all kinds of uniforms I don’t recognize. These border patrol have blue bulletproof vests over their green uniforms, which turn out to be NYPD Medical Rescue patrol uniforms. Other green uniforms are Parks & Recreation workers. I also see INS police, Streets & Sanitation, and lots of other uniformed and plain-clothes workers. Tim has a moment of worry over the INS guy, but then we realize their offices are downtown so they just probably lent their officers to the cause.

We’re both surprised at how different it is downtown and how interesting. We weren’t expecting to see so much. Houston Street is still probably one and a half miles from the World Trade Center, and the police and rescue presence is massive. The air is also close and chokey. We turn east on Houston, which leads us along the barricades away from the site. There are dumptrucks and construction vehicles and trailers and lots of heavy machinery parked at least all the way to Broadway, waiting to be useful. Caravans of construction vehicles keep coming down the avenue or across from the east. Tim has traveled in Gaza and says this is what it looks like.

When we get to Broadway, we try to get past the barricade to go farther downtown, but they don’t let us. We give a name and address of the person we want to visit and show ID, but they say we need ID proving we need to be there or we need to be escorted by someone who has it. We try to call the friend, but the phones are all down. Payphones, contrary to rumor, are not free, but it doesn’t matter. We both have cells, but all the lines are down. We really are just tourists there, and we decide to get out of the way.

As far as I understand, there are at least four levels of security as you head downtown. 14th Street to Houston is the weakest. You can get in with an ID and a story. Houston to Canal you need ID proving you need to be in the area. I think today you can get in as an accompanied guest of someone with ID. Yesterday you couldn’t. At Canal there’s another block, and again you need to prove you live there. However the real-close area is forbidden even if you live there. Christopher lives in Battery Park City so close his apartment was destroyed. He got in on IDs even though if they’d realized where it was they’d know that area was sealed. That’s how he got those photos. Anyway, a lot of the cops aren’t local so you can show them any ID and get below at least 14th.

The most striking thing is the construction vehicles. I’ve never seen so many garbage and dump trucks. No, the most striking thing is that it’s all empty. Several of the restaurants sit empty but open with chairs still on top of the tables. A few have huge hot plates of food out on tables facing the street with signs thanking the rescue workers and offering them free food. These are small businesses that may well go under from having their clientele blocked out for a week, but they’re coming into work and cooking and giving it away. A lot of them are immigrant businesses too. I’m sad and scared about all the xenophobia and racism this will engender.

I want to check whether Carmine Street is open, so we skate there. It is, but the subway stop isn’t, and even I don’t think I’ll go tonight. The gym is offering showers to the rescue workers. While we’re chatting there with the staff, there is a bomb scare across the street. Someone threw away a suitcase, and police descend to tear it apart. I hope if it were a serious threat, they’d do something other than have police smash the suitcase to bits on the sidewalk. The officers’ faces were uncovered, and people were walking by. No bomb goes off.

We skate back north and west just heading home without considering our route until we run into massive crowds and camera crews at St. Vincent’s. There are walls everywhere with missing persons posters. The copy shops are all offering free photo scanning and copying. People are wearing photos around their necks and tags saying whom they’re looking for. Some of the posters have normal missing persons type descriptions: brown hair, blue eyes, 28 years old, worked at Cantor Fitzgerald on the 86th floor, father of Maggie, 8, and Joe, 10, last seen in khakis. Others give the kinds of identification that will probably prove more useful: titanium hip replacement, false front left tooth, home-made tribal tattoo on left forearm. They give all kinds of medical information knowing that their fathers, sisters, cousins may well only be able to be identified by a broken toe or a scar on one arm. I think about who would be able to give them that information if it were me or how they’d be able to identify my body: broken rib, broken left wrist, smashed left thumbnail, extensive small scarring. Even I don’t remember which teeth I had pulled or how many fillings I have. I guess they called their dentists.

All along I’ve been thinking of the missing as bankers, but the signs are for all kinds of people: waiters, security guards, bankers, secretaries, janitors, support staff. So many of the firms in that building used to buy private performances at the circus. I’ve booked performers to entertain them and their children. I look at all the pictures trying to remember seeing them under the tent with their families.

Tim and I start to talk about the desperation that would have you believing your brother might be missing for three days without contacting you and still alive, but we don’t want to talk about it in front of them. We all hope.

There is a donation center in front of the hospital frantically gathering items. Huge signs say they don’t need clothes anymore, but please give flashlights, blankets, and work boots. Later we see a motorcade of police in uniforms from the waist up and jeans below. Lots of the relief workers are far from home and covered in dirt and insulation materials. I hear that outside New York they’re saying just to send money, but here they need stuff immediately. Anyway, what’s money going to buy here? Nothing’s been delivered onto the island for days.

I’m shaking and Tim wants to go for a run while it’s still light, so we leave. On the way home, we hear a woman saying she just met Bill Clinton walking down the street. She says people are crying and grabbing him and saying how they wished he were still president. George W. still hasn’t made it to New York. Coward. We turn around to try to find Clinton and wind up skating to Washington Square Park. Again the strange thing is how quiet it is. No street performers. No one offers me “smoke, smoke.” Along a fence people have set up flowers and candles and lots of handwritten notes in different languages. This one isn’t about photos to try to find people. It’s a memorial. Most of the notes are addressed to the missing person about praying for them and missing them. Some are addressed to god. One says “Please use caution and do not leave flammable materials near untended candles.” It’s also handmade and mixed in with the others. On the ground near the fountain are big posters where people are writing their thoughts about peace. Well, most are about peace. Some say “Nuke the shit out of them.” Who? It reminds me of the CNN website that today had a poll: “How do you feel about the World Trade Center bombing?” Then you could pick one box to check: Sorry, Angry, or Upset. That’s helpful reporting.

We never find Clinton so we skate back to the patient information center, which is at the New School because it’s so crowded at St. Vincent’s. They asked us not to take pictures that might show into the hospital. There are more walls and walls of missing persons everywhere and crowds of people with the name tags saying who they’re waiting to hear about. Someone offers us some soda, which we decline. After she leaves I tell Tim I don’t deserve a soda. He says he really wants one too but didn’t feel right taking it. Later he suggests I take one if someone else offers. Everyone is trying to feel helpful when there is nothing to do so he thinks we should accept the drinks to make them feel better. I notice he doesn’t either though. There is free food everywhere. By another missing persons wall I see a box of sandwiches. The police under my window have huge stacks of food, and I see people bringing them plates. Lots of my friends kids are baking cupcakes or packing lunches for their local fire station staff.

Now it’s 2:00 a.m., and they’re still out there in their flat trooper hats and bright orange ponchos in the pouring rain. When I went out tonight I wore a tank top and shorts and rollerblades without even thinking of bringing a shirt or shoes. Everything’s different now. I realized the flaw in my rollergirl plan when I had to skate home freezing in pouring rain. It’s scary to skate in the rain. No traction. Also, since I lost a contact lens, I’m in glasses and couldn’t see anything when they got all wet. My skating has gotten a lot better in three days though. Good thing too since I’m hoping the city’s emergency rooms are all full and wouldn’t be able to see me if I broke something. Unfortunately I think they would. It still feels post-apocalyptic: skating through city streets. I realize I’m afraid to go down into the subway.

I’m thinking about speculating on what this will mean to air travel or whether the US shot down that plane in Pennsylvania and if so whether they did the right thing, but I’m tired and there are plenty of people less and more informed than me speculating on television. Today I can tell I’m not conveying the images as hard as I saw them, but I don’t know how to edit this. I’m too tired on four hours sleep. Or maybe there just is no way.

Continue to Day Four
Return to 9-11 Main Page

2 thoughts on “Day Three

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.