story254.xml

story254.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-03-14

My father is still alive.

Until yesterday, his office was located on the north side of the 78th
floor of One World Trade Center, the first tower to be hit. Had it been
located any higher, he would be dead. I phoned him within the first
minute of my seeing the news break on CNN. It was fortuitous that I had
decided to switch the channel to watch the news. I had become
disinterested in the episode of a M.A.S.H. rerun that I was watching, for
I had already seen it a dozen times or so. My father had no idea what had
happened. He and his co-workers were not terribly alarmed before I called.
They knew something had happened, for they felt the building shake a bit.
At first, I figured the building had been hit by one of the many small
private planes that frequently fly up and down the Hudson River, usually
at altitudes substantially lower than the top of the building. My father
often remarked at how strange it was to be able to watch these planes fly
below eye level. I wasn't particularly alarmed either, especially in light
of how a similar event occurred at the 79th floor of the Empire State
Building years ago with very little sequelae.

No sooner had I hung up the phone, when one of the commentators reported
that it might have been a Boeing 737. I immediately called him back. By
that time, he and his co-workers had decided to leave the building. I
actually delayed their departure by thirty seconds or so because my father
had to return to his office to answer the phone. I went back to watching
CNN. As I was watching, the silhouette of an airplane caught my eye coming
into view from the right. I remember thinking that it was just someone in
another one of those small planes flying by, probably there to gawk at the
damaged building and the fire that was raging between the 80th and 85th
floors. Within seconds, a huge explosion occurred on the left side of the
screen. It was Two World Trade Center, the South Tower. I hadn't made the
connection, but I was worried that my father might just be reaching the
floor opposite this fireball. Still, I was not terribly worried. The World
Trade Center was invincible. February 26, 1993 proved it. Then, CNN said
something about two planes being involved. Why should I worry? It was
probably just some other fool in a Cessna.

I didn't know what to be more afraid of - the burning of the building or
my father having to climb down 78 flights of stairs. It had been only
three weeks since he underwent cardiac surgery to place a stent in a
previously grafted bypass. Somewhere in my mind, I hoped that he would die
quickly, and prayed that he shouldn't be burned alive. I figured it might
be too much to hope that the elevators would still be working. For some
reason, though, I began to think and act as if everything would be
alright, and that my father would call and come home that evening - just
like always. This was not some sort of justified optimism, though. I don't
think my mind would permit any other thoughts.

He had just stepped out the door, exiting the lobby, when he was literally
blown back through the door by what must have been a hurricane-force wind.
The South Tower had just at that moment collapsed. Lethal debris blew by
him harmlessly, as he watched from the other side of the glass. Had he
arrived at the door thirty seconds earlier - the thirty seconds I had
delayed him with my second phone call - he would be dead.

By this time, I was already with my mother at my parents' house. It was
difficult to know what to think, how to think, what to feel. I guess I am
by nature a positive person. I think this is somehow different from being
optimistic. I began to develop a timeline in my mind, looking at my
wrist-watch every few minutes as I monitored the events unfolding on the
television. I knew the building. I had been in it or under it almost every
day for several years. I had walked through the maze of unfinished
corridors, ever-changing and partitioned by walls of hastily-erected
green-painted plywood, as year by year they constructed the underground
shopping mall and beautified the new subway stations. I approached the
whole thing with a sort of logic based upon my knowledge of the building
and its surroundings. As each minute passed, I became more and more
optimistic that my father would make it. I prayed that he would think to
leave the area rather than remain near the building to watch what was
going on a thousand feet over his head.

There reached a point in time when I predicted he would just be reaching
the bottom of the building and on his way out. He was safe, as long as he
would retreat to a location sufficiently far from the building to avoid
the falling debris. I had in my mind an image of him standing across the
street in the park on Liberty Street, or perhaps on Church Street near the
coffee shop on the corner. This was far too close. However, I couldn't
imagine that he would do anything different than what New Yorkers always
do - watch.

Then something monstrous happened. A cloud of orange-brown smoke filled
the air with explosive force. A panoramic view of downtown Manhattan
showed it to be almost entirely lost in a cloud of what looked like dirt.
I couldn't figure out what had happened. I couldn't believe that any kind
of bomb could produce such an event. How can this be? I had to assume that
it was indeed a bomb, because no other idea came to mind. What I couldn't
figure out, though, was the color of the smoke. I couldn't account for it.
There were no buildings in the area built of red bricks - at least, not
for many years. I told my mother that I was now very much more worried
about this new explosion than the events occurring above in the towers. If
my father was indeed in the park or near the coffee shop, he would surely
be dead. Thirty seconds.

As the cloud began to dissipate, it became horrifically evident that the
South Tower was gone. It had imploded and collapsed to the ground. Now, I
hoped that I underestimated the time that it takes to climb down 78
flights of stairs. Logically, I knew that if everything had gone just
right, he could possibly still be alive. Logically, it WAS possible. I
explained to my mother how things might have happened, and that Dad was
still OK because he was probably still in the North Tower when the South
Tower collapsed. To have hope, and to relieve us of the hysteria that had
been building up to a crescendo, we were counting on my father still being
in the North Tower. We enjoyed several minutes of reprise. I remember my
lungs filling completely with air as I sighed with relief. Then, right
before our eyes, we watched in disbelief as the second tower, an icon of
the indestructible and a mammoth of invincibility, collapsed like a house
of cards into nothingness. In our minds and hearts, so went my father. My
mother began to cry. I hugged her in solace with the recognition of
defeat and irreconcilable loss.

Still, I hoped that somehow my father would emerge from this catastrophe
unscathed. He always seems to land on his feet and beat the odds. We
expect him to. He did. He called from a hotel located 5 blocks uptown. At
the time, my mother was in the kitchen while I remained in the den,
continuing to watch the television. People were calling the house every
few minutes - friends, family, co-workers. Suddenly, my mother began
screaming hysterically. Without a doubt, it sounded as if she had just
received confirmation that her husband - her lifemate - was dead and gone
forever. But I knew better. Logic dictated to me that it was my father on
the phone, for a confirmation of death so soon under the circumstances of
tumult and disorganization surrounding the events was unlikely. I smiled
with relief and my eyes filled with tears of joy, even before my mother
stopped screaming and gave hint that it was indeed my father on the phone.
It couldn't have been more than five minutes that passed before I fell
into a chair, completely exhausted and limp, as the adrenaline
quickly disappeared from my blood stream.

Thank God that today, my family and I are still living the lives that are
familiar to us. I guess I just wanted to relate what it was like to be so
close to such a disaster. We are so lucky. So, so lucky.

My heart aches for all of you who were not as lucky as we were. I don't
know what else I can say, except I'm sorry. I can grieve with you, because
for a short while, I did.


Sincerely,
Scott