email301.xml

email301.xml

born-digital

email

unknown

yes

2002-08-19

A Few Thoughts That Grew

Morning of September 17, 2001

I went back to work today. The Monday after. A new week, a new New York, a new national proprioception, a new planet. A new day.

The thoughts you are about to read are not unique. Everyone similarly situated to me has had their analogs throughout the day, I am sure.

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The drive to the ferry is perfectly normal. A bright, beautiful day; no excess traffic; the electrical-fire smell that had wafted mid-week at least as far as we were in Syosset, 30-ish miles away from The Site, is no longer detectable. Walking up to the ferry check-in counter, I immediately notice two things: (i) the ferry is running late (as it is not yet docked five minutes prior to the scheduled departure time of 7:55, and some of the now-familiar on-boat crew are on land, in their jackets) and (ii) there are many more people waiting to board than is usual. I suspect many have decided not to drive in or take the train today. "No lines of cars stuck in traffic, no packed rail cars squeezing through tunnels into Manhattan Island (as all public transit must do), no overflowing throngs of people fighting their way in opposite directions across the subway platforms. No. Not today. Instead, a boat humming, skimming across the open water of Long Island Sound, then kissing the edge of Manhattan Island so I can step gingerly, tentatively into The Mess, big toe first. I'll do that. A good day to try out this new ferry service." That's what they must be thinking. That's what I'd be thinking.

I check in. No one asks me for ID. They never did that before either, and they certainly recognize me after these past few months. But would I rather they did check? I study the faces waiting in the lobby -- who's ID would I check? The boarding card hits my fingers. As I am walking away, the check-in agent (or whatever they are called) tells me, pointing, that someone has donated lunches -- sandwiches and drinks. What a kind gesture -- one of the many I've witnessed over the past week from New Yorkers who had always seemed so hard, so self-focused, so competitive. I walk over to the labeled boxes. "Turkey." "Ham and Swiss." "Water." "Apples." I remember that our Department Head told us, on one of our many conference calls during the displacement from our building last week, that our basement cafeteria would be unavailable today since it has been feeding the rescue workers, so we should bring our own food. I forgot. So I stuff a sandwich and water bottle into my briefcase. Then I walk back to the check-in agent to ask who donated the lunches. "Some of our Annual Riders." That's a euphemism for the guys who pay-up for the Admiral Class seats on the upper deck of the ferry. That entitles them to a free Journal, free parking, etc. "Do you know who, specifically?" "Oh, I don't know . . . Mr. So-And-So was one of them." She said it like he was someone important, someone I would have heard of. I look over at the labeled boxes again, and a woman has already eaten half of a ham and swiss sandwich. Shana tova. She seems fine. OK. A reasonable risk. At least, I'll keep the food in my briefcase. Maybe I won't need it. Maybe the cafeteria will be open. Maybe some of the neighborhood lunch places will have food. We'll see. Risk. Suspicion.

I sit and wait for the boat to arrive. I check voicemail, email. More messages from the firm's and my division's leadership about luck, aid, heroism, progress, transportation, structural integrity, air quality, etc. I leave messages for my teams about meetings scheduled for today that may or may not happen. The boat arrives.

I walk down the dock, toward the boat. Two uniformed police officers stand by, saying "good morning" and "how you doing" along the way. That was new. I smile a "thank you" as I make eye contact with both of them. Here comes the first real change in myself I noticed, somewhat ashamedly: As I enter the boat, there is a uniformed ferry porter escorting people over the gangplank. One hand on the rail, one hand in his pocket, one foot on the side of the gangplank, the other with its heel down, toes pointing up. He is relaxed, smiling, enjoying the sunny morning. He is doing his job. And he appears to be of Middle Eastern descent. I recognize other uniformed ferry workers, but I haven't noticed this guy during my previous commutes. I watch him for a moment as I walk by, to see if he makes eye contact. He doesn't. I wonder what kinds of screening procedures the ferry service has in place as part of its hiring protocol. I look around at the other commuters. Who will try to overpower him with me, if it comes to that? Hints of law school conversations shoot through my head -- about racial profiling, type-casting, overt and subtle forms of prejudice. I sit down and call my wife, lamenting about how my worldview is slowly changing. I am suspicious. I am wondering what level of fear is appropriate.

The boat ride is not unlike the dozens of others I have taken since we've been living on Long Island over the past 3 months. When the safety video comes on, I decide to pay closer attention than usual to the instructions on "the donning of life vests." But I forget to listen. My thoughts go elsewhere. I try to predict all the other ways I will look at the world differently from now on, all the events I will ponder that seemed insignificant just last week, but which now seem to rouse what-ifs, suspicion; which now seem to demand conjecture, judgment. When the safety video ends, the TVs on the boat go back to broadcasting the morning's news. No story is unconnected with The Attack.

Manhattan Island pinches at its southern tip, forming a small triangle about 1/2 of a mile wide at the latitude of the World Trade Center, which sits near the western edge of the triangle. My office sits near the eastern edge, a bit closer to the southern tip, just over 1/4 mile away from 2 WTC, Tower 2, the South Tower. My ferry docks at Pier 11, where Wall Street meets the East River. The entire financial district is relatively small in area: The Statue of Liberty, which is due south of the Island, is in plain view from both WTC and my office building. As my ferry approaches Pier 11, I crane around to watch the Statue of Liberty come into view. My eyes water up. The image is powerful, given the backdrop of thoughts and emotions swirling in my head.

Many people don't realize, as I did not realize, that lower Manhattan's docks are bustling with commuters, not to mention tourists, in the mornings. There is a continuous flow of ferries in and out of the numerous slips lining the southern tip. When we dock, people waddle off my boat as usual, with their wide stances moving in the kind of slow motion you would expect from a line of people filing off of a swaying pier, then converging with similar lines coming from the other ferries docking at Pier 11. I look up at the ironically-clear blue sky. I notice a police boat patrolling the coastline. And there are uniformed police everywhere. And the smell is back -- toasted rubber and wires. I have a pretty keen sense of olfaction. I sniff the air deeply. I feel a slight rasp in my throat, but write it off as my sinuses over-dramatizing for the benefit of my imagination. As I move through the financial district walking toward my building, and the ambient air-flow changes direction, the smell diminishes -- even goes away completely at times.

I wind my way through the maze I have been improving upon as my commute has progressed over recent weeks, turning many corners in approximation of the hypotenuse, through alcoves and corridors created by the very tall buildings. I look at my watch, and subtract the 5 minutes that never fool me into being early. 9:20. There is a line of people outside of 32 Old Slip, waiting for the building to open. 15% of them are wearing or holding masks. Not just surgical masks, but also Brundle-fly, stereo-cylinder, metal-filtered, over-the-head, black floppy rubber gas masks. I try to calculate the volume of biological or chemical irritants that would have to be amassed in one container to do any real damage upon release. I reassure myself -- surely more than could be collected without raising suspicion. There was that word again -- "suspicion". I think about how forceful a rush of dust and soot would be created by a descending skyscraper, shooting debris down the narrow passages formed by these steel canyons. Each street can become a powerful wind tunnel -- another thing most non-New Yorkers probably do not realize. Dust and soot -- the biological-weapon-consequence of collapsing skyscrapers. I wonder how clever, how vicious these terrorists are -- how much was intended, how much incidental.

I see two uniformed military men on a corner, dressed in fatigues. I see their berets, combat boots, belt packs, flashlights, batons; I assume they are carrying guns. I wonder, "why there, on that corner?" As I walk past them, I look back at the sign of the store closest to them. "Eastern News." A news stand catering to nationals from a certain part of the world? Likely. I wonder why they positioned themselves so far from the news stand, if, in fact, that was why they were there -- out on the very far corner of the sidewalk, lots of people passing between them and their charge. Maybe I am over-thinking it, proving too much.

A blur of people walking to work, not talking to each other. Why not? Are they too focused on studying their surroundings? Wondering just how afraid they should be? Formulating imaginary disasters in their minds? Being suspicious? How long will we feel this way? Or is it just me?

My maze brings me to the back of my building, which is closer to the elevator bank servicing my floor than the front entrance. I usually enter here, but not today. I keep walking, around to the front of the building. Broad Street winds in a northwesterly direction from the water. A few buildings up is the NYSE; there Broad Street intersects with several corridors cutting due west to the WTC complex and surrounding buildings -- 1 Liberty Plaza, the Commodities Exchange, Bankers Trust Plaza, the American Stock Exchange, 7 WTC, the American Express building, the Merrill Lynch building, the Dow Jones building, and, of course, those humongous Twin Towers, each a full New York City block wide in both directions and 100-plus stories high. If you have not stood beneath them, you cannot appreciate how truly massive they are, or were. The special effects guy in my head cues up the footage of the first tower's collapse, footage I keep seeing again and again. I shutter and keep walking, realizing that I somehow have advanced many steps without paying attention -- something you can only do when you are not trying to. I see the NYSE come into view, along the curve of Broad Street. Teary again as I try to focus on the huge American flag fluttering across the facade. They are checking IDs of people going further, entering the Exchange. I turn back toward my building, ready, maybe, to begin my work day. I enter; I see the reception desks, the usual guards watching people scan their IDs across the turnstiles' laser-readers, the people sifting into their respective elevator banks. I see a German shepherd lying on the ground, leashed to a burly security guard. Security. Dogs. The world is different.

I get out on my floor. Everyone in my group is in the large, central conference room; they are all looking in the same direction. The TV. I stop myself from wondering about what fresh hell has just been unleashed. They are watching live coverage of the opening of the NYSE. 9:32. The Exchange is opening late today. I enter the silence. Grasso is on the podium with "our heroes" -- some of those steel individuals who have not stopped digging, carrying, clearing, saving, encouraging, persevering, hoping, helping for a week straight. They make me feel so proud -- of them, of us, of New York, of America. Strange how I always scoffed at nationalism as small-minded, as just another "ism". I suppose you live through a war, and you just feel differently about it. Patriots. Huh. I listen to a woman in uniform sing "God Bless America" -- a song I always cited as one example of the hypocritical flouting of the alleged separation of church and state. I try to make it sound different this time. Listening, teary again, I wonder if I care that the people I work with may see my eyes well up. The heroes ring the bell, the market opens, applause. Those of us in the conference room greet each other for the first time, shake a frown around the room, disband. No one has to say anything. We are all thinking it to each other.

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The day went forward. I wrote this in between sporadic meetings and conference calls. I have been in sort of a fog all morning. All I want to do is kiss my wife and hug my children again and again.

I am so lucky. I get to do that tonight.

I could go on about the rest of my day so far (1:05pm as of this writing) -- all of the unbelievable stories I have heard, all of the tales of grief, of fear, of fortune, of heroism. The stories are truly incredible. But there will be other things -- perhaps more important, hopefully more positive -- to write about soon.

September 17, 2001

Returning to Work