Dear Listers,
I am running on pure adrenaline now, up for almost 24 hours. Sounds like
JoniFest, but it's not fun. Since I am a lurker, the vast majority of you
don't know me at all, let alone know that I worked on the 103rd floor of 2
WTC until 2 weeks ago to the day. I worked at Aon Corporation for 4 years
and still don't know what's happened to all the coworkers I left behind. I
was in 7 Hanover Square (east side of Financial District, near South Ferry)
working away when the horrible events took place. I wasn't even aware of it
until coworkers started streaming in after 9 a.m., crying. I now work for
Willis, a competing firm, and there are many former Aon people there. We
were stuck without information, being told to stay in the building, and when
2 WTC collapsed, we had no idea what it was -- just that there was a huge
noise, our building shook, and all the windows of all the other buildings we
could see were shaking in their panes; and then the sky turned black. THe
sky cleared a bit after a while and I and two friends considered bolting for
the Brooklyn Bridge, hoping that it would be open for foot traffic. We
decided that we were prepared to swim to Brooklyn if necessary. It was so
terrifying b/c we had no idea what was actually happening. All we knew was
that both towers had been hit. And we had no reason to think that we were
safe staying where we were. After all, we were sitting smack dab in the
middle of the financial district. So we were going to bolt. Then 1 WTC
collapsed, and the sky turned even blacker. Naturally the "authorities"
told us to stay put, which we did until the sky turned an acceptable shade
of gray. I felt nothing, amazingly enough. Pure survival instinct kicked
in. I knew that everyone I knew at Aon, including one of my 2 housemates
(who worked on 104), could be dead. But I felt nothing. I took several
piles of paper towels and soaked them in water, stored them in plastic and
put them in a shoulder bag. Drank water. Visited the ladies room. (Very
practical.) Called parents at each juncture of decision making. "We're
going." Another call. "We're staying, the sky is black with ash." Another
call. "No, now we're REALLY going," in response to my mother's tears and
I-love-you's. So finally we went, at around 11:30. We walked onto Water
Street and then South Street, cutting north to get to the bridge. On the
street I found a tombstone: a piece of Aon stationery on the pavement, with
the lower left corner burned. Only charred pieces of paper left to mark the
existence of a huge corporation and more importantly, a community of people.
Talk about impermanence.
I got to the bridge and finally it started to sink in. I looked behind me
at the space where I used to proudly point for visiting family and friends,
"See, I work waaay up there..." ... and there was nothing but a huge plume
of smoke, ash and dust. Nothing was left. I feared the worst for my
friends. I just didn't see how anyone could have gotten out in time. And
finally the adrenaline stepped back enough to allow tears. And then
helicopters started flying very close to the bridge and I noticed
official-looking people far up ahead. And I realized with a sickening
feeling that we were still very much in danger. Somehow I managed to jog
over the walkway in dressy mules, thinking, "Gotta get off the bridge, get
me the FECK off this FECKING bridge!" (FECK and FECKING have loomed largely
in my vocabulary today.) Eventually I did get off the bridge, got into
downtown Brooklyn safely (Pearl, I thought of your daughter -- glad to know
she and husband are OK), saw a branch of my bank, and true to siege
mentality, withdrew large sums, destined for the mattress. I finally made
it home by 3:00 or so -- sunburnt, blistered, exhausted and stunned, but
safe. Came home to find out that my housemate, by a miracle of timing,
reached the 104th floor of 2 WTC seconds after 1 WTC was hit (flames from 1
WTC were already licking through a broken window), and immediately turned
around and managed to get on the elevator all the way back down to ground
level (miraculous in itself, as standard evacuation procedures at the WTC
are that elevator service stops and you have to use the stairs.) So, she
may very well have been on the last elevator ride down that didn't become a
roast. And she was already running on the street toward Battery Park when
the second plane hit 2 WTC. She made it to the Brooklyn Bridge before the
collapses (and resulting clouds of poison) occurred, so as irony would have
it, she actually made it home first. If she had been 5 minutes later, she
would not have made it out. Just 2 weeks ago I would have been in my
cubicle on 103, busy at work at 8:45. Who knows if I would have made it. I
feel extremely lucky, extremely blessed and extremely loved. I came home to
worried voice mails and emails, some from people in Sweden, Germany and
England who didn't realize that I had a new job -- so naturally they feared
the worst. And in my stunned daze, it took me a while to realize that, oh,
right, of course people are worried about me... it seemed strange to lack
emotion, and even now at 3:30 a.m. I vacillate between grief and utter
numbness.
I keep seeing the towers in my mind's eye. I used to go to my Park Slope
rooftop and gaze at the Manhattan skyline and admire the engineering that
Ayn Rand must surely have loved (the only thing I really have in common with
her.) Brilliantly reflecting sunlight on a beautiful day (as today was);
sparkling up the night with its lit windows and safety lights. I went to my
rooftop today and I swear I could see them behind the smoke if I tried hard
enough. But there's no denying the truth: there is a gaping, smoking hole
where the towers used to be. They, and god knows how many of the thousands
of people who worked there everyday, are gone. Gone. I keep seeing
pictures of all the people I worked with, scanning the floors in my mind,
placing everyone in the cubicles and offices, seeing their smiles, hearing
their laughter, hearing the familiar banter that seems to grow only in
workplaces, hearing the frequent sarcastic complaints that are common to the
Dilbert experience... seeing the view from my window on the north side of 2
WTC, looking up the island and seeing the beautiful Chrysler Building,
seeing Central Park on a clear day... and none of it exists any more. It
does not Exist. I cannot travel a quarter mile up in the sky in a silly box
on a metal string and visit my old friends in my old workplace. I will
never see that view again in the same way. Because the vantage point itself
does not exist, except as a theoretical point in space. All these things
live only in my memory now. How is that possible? Today I concentrated on
communicating with family and close friends. I have not yet dared to try
and find out what happened to my coworkers at Aon. One friend (in addition
to housemate) I know is OK... but I'm afraid to open the box. How many
people am I going to find are gone? How long will it take to find out? How
many funerals can I endure? Right now it seems easier just to remember
everyone as I left them 2 weeks ago...
Today I learned that, truly, all we have is Right Now. If I ever need
reminding, all I need to do is climb up onto the roof.
Thanks for listening.
Kay
