I was in my apartment getting ready for work, late as usual, and listening to Howard Stern. Gary, his producer, cuts in to mention he just saw a plane hit one of the World Trade Center towers on CNN, but no one took him seriously at first. Something in his voice told me it was real, so I shut off the radio and switched on CNN just in time to see the second plane hit live.
I remember almost hyperventilating as I watched in horror and, simultaneously, continued to get ready for work. I ran out my front door still not knowing what had really taken place, and jumped on the N-train bound for Manhattan from Queens, all the time staring out the windows towards the Manhattan skyline. A woman on the train had a walkman, and was conveying what she heard to the few informed passengers around her. Another plane had just hit the Pentagon. She was smiling when she said it, and I wanted to beat her with her walkman, but instead sprung up from my seat and stared at the smoking towers in horror as we approached the bridge. For some of my fellow passengers, this sight was their first knowledge of the tragedy, and they were gasping in shock.
As I got out of the subway station and headed down Madison Avenue, I could see the smoking towers downtown as frantic pedestrians clutched cell phones and tried to get in touch with loved ones. My own cell phone was not working. I ran into my building to find all my coworkers gathered together in someone's office watching television. Most of them were either crying or clutching their faces in horror. One tower had already collapsed before I got there. I watched the second one collapse live in this office, which sent several people charging from the room to make plans to get the hell out of dodge.
I didn't know if I should go home or not. I spoke to my brother, who works just a few blocks down Madison, and he wanted to know if I wanted to go home with him, but I declined because I had this insane need to be there witnessing it all. I also didn't want him risking any extra driving, as by now, news of bridge and tunnel closures was rampant. The subways would only be running for another few minutes, so everyone in NYC began a desperate progression uptown, away from the disaster site. I walked outside to get some provisions from a deli around the corner and to witness this mass exodus. I actually saw a pickup truck loaded up with men and women in business suits and skirts, creeping slowly up Madison towards the various bridges. In a sick way, it reminded me of the race fans I saw travelling in a similar fashion up the road towards Bristol Motor Speedway. But it was truly like nothing I had ever witnessed before in my life.
I stayed at work until 4 or 5 p.m. that day, went to a bar with a coworker, slammed a few drinks, then began my journey back to Queens, except, this time, it would be by foot. Cops were everywhere the eye could see, at the entrance to the bridge, on the bridge itself, and at the exit, eyeing me and everyone else who passed for signs of malice. Three miles or so later, I arrived at my neighborhood, exhausted, freaked out, and no longer inebriated. For some reason, there were cops on each corner in the area a block or two from my building. I later found out that they had a lead on a suspect who was apprehended in the vicinity. I never did find out what happened to that guy.
This is one of the photos I took from the Queensboro Bridge that day. I will never, ever forget.
I t was my day off and I had just gotton up. Sitting in recliner drinking coffee and saw the second plane hit the tower. I was shocked and angry all at her same time wanted to go bomb sombody.
