First of all, the deaths of almost 6000 people is a million times more important than anything I can say. Everyone's got personal stories about this, and I'm writing mine simply because I don't know what else to do.
I was dressed for mourning Tuesday, September 11: black jacket, black pants. My cousin had been in a fatal car accident over the weekend, and I was lending my brother a spare black jacket for the wake the next day. My car wasn't working, so I was wearing it on the bus today instead of carrying it on my lap tomorrow.
"Lincoln Tunnel closed ... terrorist attack ... plane crash." That's how I found out, overhearing the bus intercom. My transfer bus had the radio on, but it was a music station, so it was stunned DJs saying they didn't know what was going on, only something at one of the Twin Towers.
By the time I reached my office, the second plane had hit the second tower. My brother had left several messages with the receptionist, since I sometimes take the PATH train to work, and the PATH has (had) a stop at the World Trade Center. I called Jeff back and said I was fine.
There's no TV in the office, but we've got radios and a cable modem, so my news was from those sources. The devastation was coming in faster than we could process, so fast people were almost laughing. Both towers hit by planes, the Pentagon hit by a plane, one tower collapsed, the other tower collapsed, a fourth plane crash in Pennsylvania. Other reports of car bombs and several hijacked planes still in the air came in with this news. With the unbelievable and unthinkable occurring every five minutes, how could someone not believe every report? Having one or two be false didn't improve our situation any: four plane crashes weren't an improvement over five.
Our only picture for this, aside from a few web photos, was from an office window facing south. Dark plumes rose from the towers, like smoke stacks. When they collapsed, the smoke widened, turned gray from concrete dust, and seemed to fill the whole sky to its left.
I was pretty sure I didn't know anyone in the Towers. Same with the rest of the office. It was undeserved good luck, this group of 30 people who didn't know any of 50,000 who were possibly dead. I didn't do anything to earn this luck.
My office (and Jeff's) is in Fort Lee, right on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge. Bridges and tunnels are on the short list of bombing locations, so the GWB was closed. With the perpetual traffic, a car bomb like the one that hit the World Trade Center in 1993 could be idling a few feet away from us. The office was allowed to go home. These attacks seemed to have a desire to harm America rather than New York, so I thought the bridge should be safe. I left anyway.
Drew, our web editor, gave me a ride back to Jersey City. Traffic was light, with a Fort Lee to Jersey City commute usually running into traffic from the GWB, Lincoln and Holland Tunnels. We looked over at the skyline during the trip, and a monstrous cloud of smoke rose from the southern tip of Manhattan. The Twin Towers were gone. I looked at them yesterday coming back from the bus, lit up against the night, and thought for a second that I don't look at them that much. When I walked by them that morning, I didn't even bother to look.
Like most all of America, I wanted to help. There's survivors during building collapses, and the sooner someone could get to them, the better. Maybe a rescue team was leaving from the hospital near me, maybe I could get on it. I didn't have any medical knowledge, but I took a cave rescue course, which I could play up to get me on the team. There's a big difference between a stable cave and shifting burning rubble, but I'd be careful. If I couldn't get to ground zero, I could always just give blood, and hope for a "Hey, you with the pretzels" situation while donating. I changed out of my black pants (I remembered to leave the jacket in my office) and changed into jeans and a caving t-shirt.
The hospital had close to a hundred people standing by a doorway. Most of them were blood donors. This hospital wasn't prepared for blood donors, and it had bigger concerns, being close enough to the Holland Tunnel to get a pipeline of victims. It arranged a ride for us to go to a second hospital: a Hudson County prison bus. A police escort led us there, the bus charging through 90 degree turns like it was in Speed. "Thank you for riding Hudson County Lines," a cop said when we reached the hospital. We laughed. I felt bad laughing on a day like this.
I saw senior citizens lining up to donate, dreadlocked men, guys fresh from Metallica concerts, the human gamut from Albania to Zimbabwe. This second hospital was just as unprepared for us as the first hospital. It didn't have the staff or resources to collect several hundred pints of blood, especially with the entire place gearing up for mass casualties. We waited, in my case in a physical therapy room with a few dozen St. Peter's students, for the handful of staff to work through all of us. We weren't going to give pints, just samples for testing. It would be typed and scanned for problems. Donators they needed would be called.
I was now two miles from my first hospital, and no prison bus in sight. Theology professors from St. Peter's, Guy and Joyce, were nice enough to give me a lift back to Journal Square. "I wouldn't feel right unless I've bled," Guy said.
"I wish I could do more than just give a sample of blood," I mentioned.
"You just might. Have you filled out your draft card?" Joyce asked. They figured we'd be going to war with whoever did this, and there'd be a draft. I didn't think I'd ever see a draft in my lifetime, but this was a day no one expected.
I got back and turned on the TV. Just CBS; every other network broadcast off of the World Trade Center, and hadn't found alternate signal carriers. I watched 7 World Trade implode, just like the Twin Towers did. 7 World Trade was completely evacuated, so it was merely a few billion dollars of property damage, nothing worth thinking about on a day like this. I went next door and watched CNN with my landlord off his cable. We say hi to each other in passing, but never hang out. This day was bonding all of us, except for an unfortunate few thousand.
I went back to my place and opened the phone book. I had already left my name and number at the hospital if they needed volunteers. Time for some more. I called a cave rescue group and left my number. I called the Red Cross: busy, understandably. I called the fire department: they had forty ambulances empty, waiting for the call to bring them in. They had every right to be frustrated. There were over 300 firemen in the buildings when they went down. A week later, they're still missing.
I had my monthly caving meeting this night, and it was still on. I felt bad going to it, but the alternative would be to sit by myself and watch one channel. My ride was someone who had been in the Holland Tunnel when the first plane hit. He knew immediately that this was a terrorist act, he said.
Instead of the normal talk before the meeting, there was something I never would have guessed: volleyball. A full on volleyball game in the sand court by the meeting house, with George Thorogood blasting out of a car stereo. Most people at the meeting came from interior New Jersey; the Twin Towers are as far away from them as Oklahoma City. It was still tragic for them, but not directly. They were looking for fun after a difficult day, and the weather was pleasant.
Several of us wanted to do nothing but talk, and that's what we did. I heard talk of cavers being asked to not go into the city unless they're asked for, of racial profiling for Arabs, of CIA imcompetence, of what the second wave of attacks would be. For the first time in my life, I believed I could be victim of a nuclear bomb. Even during the Cold War, I couldn't buy that anyone would be brutal enough to use it.
I was very hopeful during the meeting, that when I got back home there'd be a message from rescuers. I wanted to help. When I got back, there were no messages. There was no shortage of trained volunteers for this, never mind the untrained ones. America was coming out in force.
I couldn't do any work Wednesday. I hit CNN.com, a couple message boards where I know people, called friends to make sure they were alive, then CNN again, then the message boards, then friends. I could barely concentrate enough to read the articles, much less close the Internet and do actual work.
After a fruitless day (but with friends alive and accounted for), Jeff and I went to Connecticut for our cousin's wake. We had to take the Tappan Zee Bridge; the George Washington was still closed. We left New York's death scene for a different yet all too similar death scene. It was as if the whole world was mourning for our cousin.
I got back Thursday night. I had messages on the answering machine, but from my family, not rescuers. Dammit, I wanted to help.
Friday morning was miserable, raining and dark and thirty degrees colder than the past three days. This is what it should feel like, instead of the perfect temperatures we had. I stared straight ahead on the bus ride. I had a book in my bag, a damn good one, and the best upside of taking the bus is 45 minutes of quality reading time. But I couldn't read at a time like this.
The radio (which I had had on continually since Tuesday) was mentioning donation centers needing supplies. Understandable items, like instant coffee, air filters and gloves, and odd things, like saline solution and pet food. I didn't have a car to transport them into the city (all but the Holland Tunnel were open now) but the donation stop was the Jacob Javits Center, close to a subway station.
Private Label had done stories on pet supplies and eye care products. We had dog food in the office, since no one in the office really has a dog. I had taken five or six containers of the saline home a while ago. I brought it all back Friday, in the canvas bag I take to work. I stuffed all the canned dog food in the bag as well, and used plastic bags for the dry dog food. Our coffee story wasn't until January, so I went to Food Emporium and bought six jars of it.
I dug the shoulder strap out of my bag, which I normally never use because it makes my bag look like a purse. With that across my chest, I could carry all this stuff. Hopefully the handles wouldn't break. I looked like a bag lady, but I sherpaed the goods to the bus that goes over the bridge. Going over it, every head on the bus turned to the right, at the smoke coming from where the tallest structures in New York once stood.
I took the A Train from 175th St. down to 33rd. It was selfish, but I wanted to give the supplies to the rescuers myself. I figured there'd be a huge command center inside the Javits, so I could walk past the donation bins and see which rescuer needed what. I was pretty sure someone from a coffee shop would have brought vats of coffee over, making mine useless, and the saline would probably only be useful at ground zero itself. The pet food, however, could get immediate use. Dogs were being used for the rescue effort, and they needed to eat just as much as humans. Giving the cans and bags to someone with a dog might brighten their day a bit, certainly the dog's. Maybe even get me an invitation to dig.
Lugging my stuff to the Javits, I saw three guys ahead with loaded Duane Reade bags. Tons of people walking with me with full hands, and coming back with empty hands. Lots of people couldn't get this out of their heads.
The sidewalk outside the Javits wasn't a command center, but a supply dump. The scope of it was immense. Hundreds of thousands of water bottles were stacked up, liters and gallons of it. The pile was bigger than my apartment. Next to it was a cafeteria truck with a huge extended tent. A long table was filled with steam trays, food for the rescuers. To its left were bags and piles of donations, food and clothing and equipment. The stuff weighing me down would only be a drop in the bucket.
A moving van was double-parked, with dozens of people handing garbage bags of supplies to workers on its lip. There was more than enough people to do the loading; in fact, a guy on the lip was shouting for people to go home because the sheer mass of people was unwieldy. No one wanted to leave.
A second van was being unloaded, from Philadelphia. A bucket brigade brought each heavy bag out, and I jumped in line. The two foot gap between the people I squeezed between wouldn't have delayed any goods, but I wanted to help.
The donations were being sorted into black garbage bags and being labeled. Food, water, medical supplies, clothing, safety equipment. This was how it was going on the trucks, so all donations had to be sorted as such. Arriving goods were being stuffed in thick garbage bags, so I grabbed one and started sorting food.
Food was separated into two categories: food and Power Bars. Granola bars and other high protein food were included in that. Cases of Power Bars fresh from Costco were showing up. One bag had close to a dozen boxes of private label granola bars from Western Family. There's not a Western Family for 2000 miles. These supplies were coming from all parts of the country.
An hour into sorting, the donations turned to all clothes. The radio must have said that there was enough food. People were listening carefully to these requests. That explained why there was so much saline solution, especially when the DJ should have said eye wash instead of saline. Saline only helps those with contacts. Gallons of saline came in, enough to make New York another Salt Lake City.
Clothing was being sorted to my left. Separate bags for socks, underwear, shirts, pants, jackets, sheets and bedding. Socks and underwear were showing up brand new, and for some reason had to be taken out of their plastic bags and thrown loose into other plastic bags. One of the sorters was seeing if any of the other sorters wanted some of the nicer clothes, some still with the tags on them. We all said no; it wasn't for us.
A bag had a dozen pairs of boots and shoes, ranging from 9 to 13. A box had three pairs of steel toe galoshes. A worker with a mask around his neck saw the shoes and asked if I had an 8. I looked around, trying to match it up, and a second masked worker asked for an 11. I ran a shoe store for two minutes.
Some weird stuff got donated. A pair of cowboy boots. A skinny black tie. Gourmet tea. Knowing it would probably go to the families of the victims or a Salvation Army store made sense, but at the time I was thinking this was all going to ground zero. How could a skinny black tie help a rescue effort? Then one of the cowboy boots disappeared for half an hour. What possible use would anyone have with ONE cowboy boot, especially with two available to them? The thief might have thought that, because the missing boot showed up half an hour later.
The stuff I most wanted to collect were air filters, work gloves and goggles. Those were needed, and were going directly to ground zero. Most of the other supplies were being shipped to Shea Stadium for storage. I felt great handing over any of these; this was what everyone in America wanted to be doing right now. I didn't do anything to earn this luck.
It was a beautiful warm evening, much warmer than the morning. It stayed that way all night. The donations tapered off at 9:30 (requests to stop, for the love of God, drowning us in supplies came in from radios), and we got most all of them bagged and in trucks by 10:15. Several of us sorters sat around, pondered what would be built in the World Trade Center's place, if anything. People were almost forcing food on us, so we took some. I felt guilty eating, since this was food meant for the rescuers, and I was by no means a rescuer.
If there was work to do, I'd do it, but I didn't know of any. Then I saw the water. A lot of the bottles were sitting on a huge mound of ice, which was melting and mushing up the cardboard cases for a lot of the water. A bagging effort was being started for that water, probably a quarter of all the water on the curb. It would be a huge effort. Good.
Water bagging went until midnight. A round of applause went out, and all work was apparently done. The water wouldn't be picked up until tomorrow morning. I stuck around for fifteen minutes, getting a bag of chips from a girl who was literally shoving them in people's faces.
I felt at peace, for the first time that week. I wasn't indispensable by any means, since whatever I did would have gladly been done by a hundred other people there. But I felt connected. I always wanted to be in the Midwest during a flood. The whole community would be there sandbagging, everyone with something to do, and if everyone works hard enough, they might just save the town. I certainly didn't save any towns on Friday, but I got myself out of my moment.
I was back to normal. I could read again. I did read again. The TV's mostly out, since all I get is CBS, but the PS2 worked fine, so I watched DVDs and played video games. I went hours without checking the news.
It's been a week since the Attack on America, as it's being called. It feels like it happened this morning, and it feels it happened years ago. CBS is calling this recovery period America Rising (I don't know if any of the other networks are doing this, because I still don't get them). Patriotism has grown like a pine tree, needing the fire to free the seeds. The radio's filled with inspiration music now, and it all gives me goosebumps. I never thought I'd enjoy hearing From a Distance, but I do now.
I hope everyone's gotten out of their moments. We can't stay there forever, no matter how bad the event that put us there. We're at war now, and people at war need to be tough. We've got just under 6000 reasons to snap out of it.
I'm truly sorry for anyone hurt last week.