By: Ed Finegold
It’s been nearly ten years since I called my sister from the corner of 4th street and Broadway because the World Trade Center was on fire. I told her that I wasn’t going to work. I didn’t want her to worry in case she turned on the news and saw the same massive flames shooting out of the ironwork that I was witnessing first hand. I didn’t know what had happened. I heard mutterings around me; something about an airplane crashing into the building. I’d been on my way to the Subway; my office was at 90 West, directly across Liberty Street from the Twin Towers. Naively, I told my sister that I wouldn’t go to work until I knew the fire was out and instead would return to my apartment at 4th street and 1st avenue. I called my father as I walked home to tell him the same. That was the last mobile call I was able to make for the rest of the day. The only other phone call I was able to make at all was a page to a friend, now my wife, to let her know I was still alive. Years later, she still had not deleted the page.
As I walked east on 4th street from Broadway, the buildings obscured my view of downtown. They spared me the sight of the second jetliner colliding with the iconic buildings that dominated my view, and my lifelong memory, of lower Manhattan. I remember going home. I remember the news on the television. All too well I remember that I found my way to the roof and saw a pillar of smoke where Tower Two had stood just moments before. As I stared at Tower One, thinking it looked like a flaming cigar standing on end, a neighbor whispered to me, “that’s what the other one looked like before it collapsed… you might want to look away.”
I looked around instead. Every rooftop as far as I could see across town and uptown was covered with people. The silence in the city that is never silent was beyond eerie. Tower One slowly collapsed, its massive antenna shifting in slow motion as the colossal building fell in upon itself. The screams of millions of stunned New Yorkers filled my ears, delivering an unnerving soundtrack to a sight that I’m certain I will be able to recall with complete clarity for the rest of my life. Where the gleaming steel tower once stood was a pillar of smoke, as if it the structure had left its sprit floating in its wake. A charred beam, remains of one corner of the superstructure, fell to the west, slamming down onto West Street. To the east, smoking chunks of debris flew in multiple directions, powdery white contrails following them to the ground. And there we all stood, wondering what we had just witnessed, having no idea of the implications it would have for the next 10 years of our lives.
I can’t remember much about the rest of that day. Eventually I returned to my apartment and began to wonder about the fate of my colleagues who may have been in the office. In particular, I was filled with dread regarding a friend, James, who I was to have met in the lobby of World One for breakfast. I was late. I knew the chances were that he would not have been. I’m not sure why it occurred to me to login to instant messenger, other than the fact that phones weren’t working anymore. Everyone in the office had been using AOL instant messenger to stay in real-time contact at work. It was 2001; the days of the Star Tac flip phone, before text messaging was popular in the U.S., and long before anyone had heard of Facebook, LinkedIn, or Twitter. People from the office began checking in. Someone kept an unofficial count. Hours went by; no one had seen or heard from James.
