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The Mourning After

Drew Marshall

    The engines stopped suddenly as the lights went out. There were no announcements, only darkness and dead silence. Panic set in immediately. The subway is stuck in a tunnel, somewhere between the boroughs of Queens and the island of Manhattan.

    The Big Apple has the largest subway system in the world, with over eight hundred miles of tracks and more than a dozen tunnels under bodies of water. Normally, morning rush hour delays are no reason for veteran straphangers to worry, only a great excuse for cursing and complaining.

    Except that this Wednesday morning was not just another day. Everyone in the car was strangely silent. I was willing to bet we were all thinking the same thing at that moment. Had they struck again? Did they blow up the bridges this time? Was this the type of fear that the citizens of London lived with during the Blitz? I was one of the few in this crowd without a newspaper. I had no immediate need to be overwhelmed by bold headlines shouting at me.

    A few minutes passed before the lights came on, the roar of the engines broke the eerie quiet and brought us back to life. We sailed onward through this subterranean structure towards the urban jungle.

    The first stop in Manhattan was Lexington Avenue and East Fifty Third Street. I could sense there was a collective sigh of relief in this cattle car upon seeing people at the station. It appeared that the masses were going about their business, following daily routines, and getting themselves to work. Yet something was not quite right. The intense hustle and bustle of the indifferent crowds was missing. I caught glimpses of others staring at their fellow commuters, like lost, frightened children. I shared their anxiety.

    The train started to empty out as we proceeded downtown. With a craving to see daylight again, I left the station at West Fourth Street and Sixth Avenue, instead of waiting for the local. I walked over to First Avenue to meet with Ben, my best friend of twenty five years. He and his wife Sandra were moving to the Evergreen State at the end of the week. Ben had accepted a job as a Physician’s Assistant, at a small clinic north of Seattle.

    We met in front of his building and decided to walk up to Times Square. Sandy was out visiting her parents in Brooklyn. After some small talk, we tried to make sense of what happened yesterday. The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were no more. Completed in 1973, both stood one hundred and ten stories high. A symbol of America and New York City’s power, progress, and promise of a grand future. A triumph of will, determination and imagination.

    Two airliners were hijacked by terrorists and flown into the towers. Both towers soon fell and were totally destroyed. This history changing event was caught on video as it happened.
    America and the world would never be the same again.

    Ben was no stranger to horrific events. He served two tours of duty as a medic in the Viet Nam war. At fifty five, he had finally fulfilled his lifelong dream, earning his degree. Ben was ten years my senior.
    We reminisced about the times we were on the Rooftop Observation Deck at the 1 World Trade center building. An astounding, panoramic view of my hometown that defies description.

    As we headed uptown, we speculated on what the government’s response would be. Was this the start of World War III? The streets of Times Square were half empty, the equivalent of a ghost town. On the way back to Ben’s, there were lulls in the conversation.
    When two friends, closer than brothers are together, there is no need to fill the air with idle chit chat.

    We were both teary-eyed when we arrived at Ben’s building. He invited me up to his apartment but I wanted to get back to Queens. This had been my first trip into Manhattan since being laid off from my job, over a year ago. We hugged, shook hands and said our goodbyes without much fanfare.

    As the news unfolded we learned there were two other attacks that day. One hijacked plane crashed into the Pentagon in Arlington Virginia. The other plane crashed in Pennsylvania about twenty minutes from Washington D.C. Passengers and crew members foiled the terrorists attempt at reaching its D.C. destination. It was reported that approximately three thousand people were killed that day.

    I was back living with my mother since becoming unemployed. I was suffering from emotional exhaustion and in the throes of my midlife crisis. Jeanette, my mother’s home health aide had not shown up for two days and the agency was unaware of her whereabouts. Jeanette called on Friday morning and I answered the phone. She told me she would be out next week as well. Her sister, Jean, was entering the revolving doors as the first plane crashed into the building. She worked as a secretary for Baskin-Robbins, the ice-cream chain.

    Jean managed to escape the building but was hit by falling debris. An ambulance took her to the hospital. She was treated for minor bruises and contusions before being released. A terrified Jean locked herself in her apartment, refusing to leave and demanding Jeanette stay with her.

    The topic of conversation that afternoon at my therapist’s office didn’t stray too far from the well planned and executed terrorist attack. Mr. Levine’s brother Albert, worked at the WTC for a real estate broker. Albert had planned a vacation day in advance to take care of personal business. A stroke of luck or fate saved him from being in the building that day.

    Four weeks later, on October 12, I found myself at the scene of the crime. I was with my old friend Matt, who was in from Cleveland for a few days. He had been staying with his cousin in New Rochelle and wanted to hang out for a few hours, before catching a midnight flight back to Ohio. He insisted on meeting at the sight and seeing the wreckage for himself. Matt worked as a library administrator and was an accomplished artist as well.

    The entire area now had tall steel girders surrounding it. However, we saw a different, sickening sight, instead of the fallen towers. The streets were jammed with peddlers, hawking WTC memorabilia. Anything you could think of was being sold with the Towers images on them.
    Plates, posters, books, paperweights, and postcards were displayed on makeshift stands or placed on the ground. People of all types, were trying to cash in on this tragedy. Matt became incensed and I was surprised and disgusted at this tawdry display, so soon after the event.

    We walked up Church Street, past the sight where the entrance had once stood and headed to the Vesey Street intersection. I climbed up on the stump of a traffic light pole and was able to see over the steel beams. Devastation far and wide, similar to Europe after World War II, overwhelmed me. A cop stationed nearby told me to get off the pole in a polite manner, so I complied.

    Other nearby buildings, suffered massage damage and certain buildings also collapsed.

    Matt and I headed down Broadway and stopped at the St. Paul’s Chapel of Trinity Church. Built in the mid 1700’s, it’s the oldest Church building in Manhattan. This landmark was a block away from Ground Zero but remained intact. The wrought iron fences surrounding this place of worship had become a memorial for people to remember the dead. On display were banners, personalized t- shirts, letters, candles, American flags and religious items. Mementos that held personal meaning for the bearers were on display. We stopped for a moment to pay our respects, while others kneeled down on the concrete and preyed.

    Matt confided to me coming here wasn’t a good idea. I agreed as we walked a half mile to the South Street seaport to have a late lunch. We stopped at an upscale bistro, looked through the window, saw was the place was empty, and went inside. Matt and I sat down as a balding; middle-aged man peered through the curtains of the backroom. He quickly disappeared and then reappeared with two menus. He greeted us in a perfunctory, yet apprehensive manner. As we skimmed over the menu, he explained to us, that the attack blew out his windows and burned all the furniture. We were at least ten blocks away from the sight and both Matt and I were taken aback at his statement.

    The owner had the need to further elaborate that he borrowed money to reopen the restaurant and hoped that the insurance would cover his expenditures. Today was the first day back in business, and we were his only customers, thus far. Matt paid for the meal and I kicked in five dollars for the tip. We wished the owner luck, and were glad to get back into the open air. I walked Matt back to Grand Central Station. He apologized for dragging me around and promised me a good time when he returned to the Rotten Apple next summer. I told him that I would not have come within miles of this place alone, but it was good sharing the experience of this catastrophe with a cherished friend.

    Despite our desperate desire to the contrary, we could never see ourselves and America’s place in the world in the same way again. Whatever was left of our optimism and enthusiasm for the future lay shattered and buried under the rubble of the twin towers.

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