LANDSCAPE OF 110 STORIES:
Fifteen Years After the Fall, Reflecting on the Days of
the Towers
By
John Pietaro
Well
beyond the lost icon, it’s the slow fade of the faces, the erosion of the names
and times that leaves us hollow. The persistence of memory contains a worthy
reward.
The
devastating events of September 11, 2001 remain surreal for those who knew the Twin
Towers’ place high above downtown. It’s been said that our collective trust,
perhaps always a false security, fragmented into the dust and debris that morning.
Fifteen years hence, New Yorkers still recall the gentle breeze and sweet,
warm scent in the air moments before the news reports flooded in. Before
everything changed.
Long
before the attack, most New Yorkers overlooked these buildings which had claimed
our horizon, reshaped our landscape in 1973. You couldn’t miss the Towers, a
pair of giant phallic sentinels at river’s edge, but other than the tourists,
few took notice. Now when walking up West Street or sitting on the Brooklyn
Promenade, trying to recall the exact spot where the original World Trade
Center stood can be rather arduous. Clouds of memory became confounded with
9/11’s clouds of dust. The former dissipated along with the latter. At present,
Vesey Street, once surging with traffic between WTC 5 and the Brooklyn Bridge, is
now open to only police surveillance. Along West Street are old parking lot
entrances long paved over, phantom doorways leading nowhere, barricades where
crowded pathways once thrived. The new building is up and running, the crowds have returned but the directions they
move in are vastly different.
Spectral
imagery is fleeting. But for the continued fervor over violent terrorist cells
and soulless drone strikes, visions of the place and its times would too fade
into the night sky. This, then, is an elegy for the people that were there as
well as the very days of the Towers.
*******
It was 1980 and I was a college freshman, struggling to
maintain grades and a part-time job. I tired of the painfully annoying supermarket
cashier role I lived several evenings per week, so when word got out that a
security firm had openings for guards at the World Trade Center, I jumped at
the chance. As a Brooklyn boy, the prospect of going to work in an important
place like that, filled with dignitaries and visitors from all over the globe,
in the City no less, seemed just so
relevant.
It was an overcast February afternoon as I descended
into the subway, heading toward Jamaica Queens, seeking out an application and
uniform. Within the security agency’s Hillside Avenue office, my eyes scanned
the worn paneled walls and aging desk. On the wall behind it was a crested
banner which featured the profiled picture of a steely-eyed Spartan warrior
brandishing a full head-dress and armor. The man behind the desk
looked no less static, far more terse than his warrior brother of another age. Short-cropped
hair and short in stature. Steely eyes, hardened jaw, brittle mouth. What had
been this man’s actual goal in law enforcement? Did he finally abandon his dreams
of becoming a Special Agent in federal service or perhaps an NYPD commander? It
must have been the height requirement that did him in, I thought, as I stood
uncomfortably in the close room. I had to try to keep from shifting my lean one
side to the other as I waited for his offer for the chair that never came. He
shuffled papers, ignoring me for as long as possible, as a drill sergeant might
do with a recruit. Here was the kind of guy who’d dare you to knock a battery off
his shoulder. Does he have a framed picture of John Wayne at home? Am I really
security officer material? How can I fit in with guys like this? Thoughts raced
and I became lost in the patterns on the edging of the warrior poster.
After reviewing my application, security guy took my
fingerprints and told me to report to the sixth floor security office of One
World Trade Center on Saturday. I’d be on the day shift, weekends and holidays.
The pay was damned good at the time: $50. per day, so no one could complain.
Least of all me; I was saving for a car. As I headed back out into the chilly
blue-grey afternoon I examined the uniform’s billowy shirt, clip-on tie (yes,
the sort they put on cadavers), cheap navy pants and polyester beige jacket with
its own miniature version of the warrior crest. Well, at least it was better than
the paper hat and smock back at the supermarket.
On Saturday, it was still rather dark when I left my
house and headed toward the subway. The ride took nearly an hour—all local
stops—and the car was largely empty, save for other weary early morning
travelers and the faceless people crumpled into corner seats. The train stopped
right in the Trade Center’s concourse amidst a small maze of shops, restaurants
and food stands which featured glitzy designer clothing, hurtfully expensive
dinners and glowing signs. How odd this bustling, crowded space looked when the
stores were still shuttered, the lights all dimmed and the only passersby were narcoleptic
night workers or the lost and lonely homeless population which filled the
crevices of each doorway and archway as the city slept. Warmed by discarded
newspaper and a hide thickened from scorn, the homeless were a significant
presence at the World Trade Center in those Reagan-era years, when housing and psychiatric
programs slammed shut around them and the rich-poor divide grew to previously
unheard of proportions. They were a significant presence, that is, until the
lights went on. Then they were ejected out of the sightline of the polite elite,
tourists and visitors.
The Trade Center was a world unto itself, but for my
first couple of years there, I had a limited view. I had a cream
assignment—guarding one of the stock market trading firms which inhabited a
couple of the upper floors of building one, the North Tower. This
company would be all over the press come 9/11, having lost so many of its staff
on that awful day, but twenty years earlier, it was just another
marble-bedecked office filled with buzzing offices and very expensive artwork. On
weekends the trading furor fell quiet and I took the time to do homework and
drink lots of coffee. The place was dead, with few occasions for
visitors, so I was pleased to discover a clock radio someone had conveniently
left nearby. My listening habits took me all over the FM dial, from WNEW (I
especially loved Pete Fornatale’s ‘Mixed Bag’ show on Saturdays) to the jazz
stations WKCR and WBGO to the progressive talk of WBAI. But when the atmosphere
fell silent, I started listening to the building itself.
By design, the towers swayed just enough to keep them
from becoming damaged under the harsh winds which savagely whipped through the
open terrain—this in a time when Battery Park City had not yet had a
cornerstone laid, the World Financial Center was still an empty muddy lot and
World Trade Seven was not even a concept. The wind was so severe around the
buildings that the doors on West Street were nearly impossible to pry open and an
attempted stroll across the Plaza could be physically harmful. So, yes, from
the upper floors, you could hear the buildings swaying. Sitting in my dim mausoleum
of a post, the creaking, cracking, throbbing sound of the structure bending against
the vicious jabs of icy blasts prayed on one’s imagination. What would happen
if the Tower snapped---or collapsed? But the once the music had been turned
back on I shook my head and chuckled about how far-fetched that all seemed.
From such a height, where the cars below looked
smaller than toys and none of the sounds of Manhattan were audible, one
longed for interactions with others. In this desolate spot, I came to know the
patrolling guards well---they looked for a place to have a rest and I needed
the company. Lew Horowitz was a retired Brooklyn pet store owner who began
working as a security guard on weekends to supplement his income. Just old
enough to collect Social Security benefits, he said he’d stay on in his
position as a Vertical Guard until he needed to retire from that job, too.
“Vertical” referred to the assignment: he patrolled the stairwells and floors
of the area known as Abel 3—floors 78-107 in Tower 1--and could get through his
run quick enough to stop in and kibitz with me, especially whenever I made a
pot of coffee. Lew enjoyed speaking about the neighborhood he grew up in, the
Lower East Side, and he would spin on endlessly with funny quips and bizarre
stories about the old days, which I loved listening to. I still retain many of
his tales of his childhood; I’m glad someone does. Lew waxed on about the
irascible Moishe Horowitz who tormented the Delancey Street shop owners, Eddie
Edelman who greeted everyone with “I’ll pay ya a nickel if ya let me piss in ya
pocket” and the toughs that hung out along the trail of Kosher milk bars and
Italian coffee shops. Lew also spoke of the Third Avenue El, the elevated train
that was torn down during World War Two, apparently so the track metal could be
used in the war effort. “Back in the ‘30s the El went all the way downtown and
hovered over the Bowery and then Chinatown. The streets were darkened all the
time and it felt like an old mystery picture under there”, he fondly
remembered, coloring his tale with appropriate hand motions and hushed voice
between sips of coffee.
In order to offer something in return for my time, he
would sometimes bring up snacks to share but we hit pay-dirt one December when
he found a closed suite down the hall being used as a storage area by one of the restaurants. Lew excitedly
ran into my area to tell me that there were about 300 boxes piled up in there,
each containing very expensive gingerbread houses. We assumed no one would notice
if one was missing, so we tore into it and it became the basis for a series of
coffee breaks. One box led to two, to three, five, seven, ten. Each weekend
we’d check to see if the house-cakes had been moved out yet, but they never
were, so we kept eating them. When the supply wasn’t moved out by Christmas, we
guessed that they were intended for a New Year’s party up on the Windows of the
World restaurant. Anxiously, Lew tried to smooth out the pile of boxes hoping
no one would realize the loss, but the New Year came and went and those boxes
remained. We kept eating them, looking over our shoulders. We never found out
who the owner was and the supply lasted us well into the spring and summer. You
can’t go wrong with a good gingerbread house.
Quite the working-class philosopher, Lew was a tall,
sweet, awkward man who most enjoyed making others laugh---so he habitually
hurled out one-liner after one-liner. Real borscht-belt stuff; he was of that
era and reveled in it. When not in mixed company, Lew also engaged in the art
of dirty joke telling and could be seen trying to memorize any new ones he may
hear in order to could fortify his already brimming repertoire. Lew was often
seen in the company of Si Feldman, a still older man who’d worked as a
municipal employee for decades but also needed to supplement his income via
weekend security work. Another purveyor of classic old New York humor, Si could
spit out jokes with all of the details of a master story teller. Unlike Lew,
whose face lit up each time he launched into a routine, Si spun on without ever
cracking a smile. The distance between his armor of defensive pessimism and the
flight of his comedic sarcasm was slim. A rotund, gentle sort when he wasn’t
telling raunchy jokes or barking at you, Si had a long association with the
Trade Center.
Between Lew and Si, the entire history of the complex
could be heard, peppered of course with a wild assortment of outlandish tales
about strange co-workers and oddball happenings. I was amazed to hear that
during the construction phase, security would have to man posts in upper floors
prior to the installation of the ceiling-to-floor window panels. Guards would
sit huddled in the center of an open, wind-blown floor avoiding at all costs
the areas which might be frighteningly close to the edge. Those were the Wild
West days.
They laughed about the real characters of WTC lore,
some of which still worked there when I came along. I can recall Haley, a
smallish, stocky man with slicked back grey hair and a bulbous, perennially red
nose. Stories abounded of his bizarre behavior, particularly on the night shift
when few might notice the flask in his back pocket. Haley had crashed the
security golf cart into a wall of the Plaza some years prior to my arrival,
thus guards were now forbidden to operate any kind of motorized vehicle on premises.
No one ever let him forget it, least of all Haley himself, but his was a
different take. “They all say I’m a drinkah cuz I got a red nose, but this here
nose ain’t caused by no drinkin’”, he implored, “I got a medical condition”.
Haley had also fallen several times on WTC property
and reportedly had sued the Port Authority but retained his job over the
decades. I imagined the Port bosses wishing he’d just go away. “They can never
get rid a me---I got dem by de short hairs”, he would proudly proclaim.
There was also a night shift supervisor named Coughlin
I am not soon to forget. A tall, dour man with a dry wit who one Saturday night
attempted to actually heist a safe out of the Observation Deck’s office. He’d
arranged for someone in maintenance to wait in a basement level as he and
another accomplice lowered the filled safe down the freight elevator shaft on a
chain. Someone apparently spilt the beans and Coughlin ended up lowering the safe
to the police waiting below and the three were immediately arrested. The next
morning as we entered command post expecting to see Coughlin finishing up his
tour, we instead found a substitute who didn’t need a lot of persuading to
relay the facts of the late-night escapade hours before. This could be an odd
place.
And there was Elliot Steinmann. Here was a wonderfully
social man who’d lived a fascinating life, filled with literature and music. In
addition to a unique kind of learned Brooklynese, he spoke French quite fluently
and shared his knowledge of disparate facts continuously in a mild, soft-spoken
manner. Elliot had lived in Greenwich Village much of his life, but had also
spent some years residing in Paris and Morocco where he managed jazz clubs,
thus his wealth of knowledge extended into brilliance when he discussed John
Coltrane, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, Red Norvo, Max Roach and other giants.
He’d seen them perform live, in many cases right in his clubs, so came to know
them as well. “Monk was a rare genius, John, but so introverted dat one could
barely touch him…like a rare flower, a gift to da world, dat came briefly and
den would be gone…” I was fascinated, but inwardly very suspect of the
authenticity of his stories. How did he end up here? But his accounts were
detailed enough to appear true and he proudly carried several aging photographs
of himself posed with some of these musical heroes in order to quell the doubt.
The one that stands out most is a slightly wrinkled back and white 5 x 7 of a
darkened nightclub with Elliot, arms outstretched, beaming, sitting at the bar
with four African American musicians all recognizable as Thelonious Monk’s
quartet of the early 1960s. The band was on break, relaxed, and laughing
together with the leader himself faintly chuckling over whatever was just
uttered, looking downward and disconnected from Elliot’s gregarious embrace.
The stories of these great artists extended into his
vast knowledge of film and poetry as well. Somehow his recitations of Keats,
Byron, Woolf and Cummings never translated well through his slow-churning version
of a New York working-class accent. Without warning, he would burst into French
language verse he’d memorized, reciting as he looked up at his chosen audience
through his dusty eyeglass lenses. Perhaps as a means toward balance, Elliot also
offered tidbits such as, “Do you know the technical difference between a hobo,
a bum and a tramp?” I feel the need to carry on the tradition and offer Elliot’s
explanation that a “hobo” travels seeking work, a “tramp” travels and sometimes
seeks work, and a “bum” stays local and never seeks it. For an avowed liberal,
Elliot’s take on the classes of homelessness was far from politically correct,
but he succeeded in illustrating the pecking order of any social strata.
Of course, spending some significant time in the Concourse
during early mornings, I did come to know some of the homeless, though usually
not many by name. There were lots of
travelers among them and always another to take the place left open by those
who took to the streets, either willingly or by the force of the police.
Harmonica Harry stayed for a couple of weeks, serenading visitors from his
corner with an open box and a sign out front which read ‘Music For Trade’. Harry, in a warm but somewhat anxious Midwestern tone,
explained that life had gotten in the way and he was unable to stop and settle
down. He regretfully added that he’d never been able to stay sober long enough
to finish school. But his music kept him going and often brought new people
into his life. He loved playing “Skip To My Lou” with a gentle, organ-like
full-mouthed accompaniment. His charming, folksy performances remain with me.
Indeed, parts of Harry did settle in somewhere.
But the elders that passed through were also matched
by the veteran staff who’d seen it all. A notable old-timer on our security
force was Declan Tenney, who’d survived his tenure as weekday supervisor for
years and years. A former Golden Glove boxer, he stood all of 5’ 5” tall but
had a shoulders span to match his height. By the time I’d come to know him,
Tenney was well into his 60s and his loss of teeth was apparent, but he
maintained a thick head of silvery hair combed heartily to one side. A voice
like a grinding wheel and a vocabulary which could only be described as classic
New York, Tenney spat out verbal barbs with the velocity of his right-hook; a cut-up
but a serious boss, too. Until he’d obviously crossed one of the brass who took
him down in a vicious manner: Tenney descended from the supervisor’s desk to a
lobby post which put him smack into the throngs of mid-week passersby; there
was no hiding. Tenney had no choice but to grin and bear it as his wife also
depended upon his salary. We saw him often on weekends after that, too, always
available for overtime, always hungry.
Though little spoken of, many were aware of the divide
which had existed between security officers who were white and those who were African-American.
It seems that when the complex was still under construction, the security
contractor hired two “classes” of guards—class A and class B, each who’d
received a pay scale appropriate to their designation. But in this case the B
really stood for “Black”. For some years in the 1970s, Lew, Si and the other whites
worked for a higher amount than did the guards of color, up until the union
came into the picture. Then, the tier system was done away with but some of the
older Black guards remained suspicious. They were a mixed group of
African-Americans and those originating in various parts of the Caribbean. Many
were from Guyana and, in British fashion, preferred to be known not by their
first names, but in the formal surname manner—Mr. Peabody, Mr. Palmer, Mr.
Heffington, and Mr. Robertson among them. These gentlemen were dignified in
their approach, with an appreciation for the arts, a genteel eye for the
ladies, and a keen awareness of their surroundings. Mr. Heffington, in his late
60s when I knew him, had been a police officer back in Guyana, and moved up the
ranks to Lieutenant before immigrating to New York. Once landing on these
shores he ended up in one of those initial B-guard positions, swallowing his
pride but quietly carrying his police identification with him as a reminder.
Years later, it was still a prideful thing. The words “Inspector – Lieutenant”
embossed on the small enfolded ID with a photo of a younger, more relaxed Mr.
Heffington on have not been forgotten. More so, the vision of him standing on
post in one of the complex’s lobbies. He always stood taller than most and wore
his uniform clean and starched.
When my regular post closed out, I moved to the
Vertical Patrol assignments, walking the halls and stairwells of the Towers,
examining the silent weekend world close-up. At the time Tower Two was largely
filled with New York State agencies and on Friday evenings at 5 when they
closed up, the floors went dark and vacuum-empty. Tower Two’s sectors known as
Baker Two (floors 44-77) and Baker 3 (78-106) were especially lonely places,
with floor after floor of utter darkness. The security company never had enough
working flashlights so you got used to bringing your own. Turning a corner down
a pitch-dark hallway was like entering the inner sanctum. We had radios but often
they were breaking down or subject to going out of range, so you felt alone. I
recall waving my flashlight back and forth, desperately trying to fill the
blackness with some semblance of light, but this only made you think you saw ominous
movement in the shadows. Reaching out for doorknobs in the blinding dark,
trying to make sure the offices were secured, one’s hand glided over the walls
and hoped to never find a crouching psychopath waiting to pounce. It all seems
bizarre with the passage of time, but there in the sealed-in blackness, listening
to the grinding sway of the building, it was much too real.
Weekend security officers had whole other lives Monday
through Friday, so come Saturday morning we could be cranky and short of
patience with each other, at times with the public too. Stuck with the economic
need to be there, many of us hadn’t had a weekend off in years. Shortly after I
began my job, I was able to bring in my girlfriend, Laurie---now my wife---into
the fold. If we could not have weekends free, at least we were both in it
together After braving a variety of posts, Laurie became our shift’s Security
Dispatcher—a “6-3” in WTC lingo-- which really made her second in command to
the shift Supervisor, the “6-2”. She was an excellent 6-3, handling in-coming
transmissions over the radio from security officers with problems and Port
Authority operations brass with issues. She made up the schedules, answered
phones, would trouble-shoot as needed and ran role call when the boss could not
be there. She needed to be in at the crack of dawn, so by this time I’d made
enough to get my first car---a rattly 1976 Chevy Chevette---so we drove in
together. Home is where the heart is.
Our boss, Ray, was a man who’d become a dear friend.
He’d worked there in security for a long time and would eventually work his way
up to a Port Authority operations supervisor job. He was a stern, dark-skinned
man with enough height and depth of voice that many on staff avoided his glare
at all costs, but we came to see Ray as a giving, caring guy with a wicked,
hysterical sense of humor. He had a deep appreciation for film and we visited
with him and his wife Angela to watch the latest video discs he’d purchased
(yes, video discs, then the latest in hip technology). We also came to know his
mother, finally retired after thirty years of working two full-time jobs.
Visits to Ray’s not only offered the viewing of great films and technology—he
also had an amazing sound system to play an array of greats CDs—but we learned
of serious Southern cooking. Ray’s Mom maintained the menu when she’d moved up
north as a young woman. The scents of corn bread, chicken, mac and cheese and
greens wafted through the apartment when she was cooking. And though Ray said
he hated to admit to cliché, the family loved watermelon so in summer there was
an abundance of it. She watched with a bemused grin as I dug into my slice of
the melon, juice running down my chin and back into the plate. “What’s wrong
with this boy?” she laughed toward Ray. “I have to teach him to eat a piece of watermelon”.
And she did. “Look, I gave you a knife---you are supposed to pick out the pits
and then slice off chunks, not dive right in”. And after considerable coaching
and a few run-throughs, I pretty much learned how to eat a piece of watermelon
like a Southern gentleman. “These white city boys, Ray, I’ll tell ye…..”
As often happens, after Laurie and I left the Trade
Center we had fewer contacts with Ray and Angela and the family, and then it
fell into the intermittent with occasional calls and Christmas cards as the
years rolled on. Trembling, I called Ray’s home on September 12, 2001 and was
deeply thankful to learn that he’d received a transfer out of the WTC almost
immediately before the 9/11 attacks. Physically
safe but the loss to him was nothing short of devastating.
But a few others we knew had not been so lucky. They
remain with us almost as myth, elevated through the waning years and tragedy. Among
them were Lee, a large Chinese-American mechanic with a huge smile, thick
accent and warm greeting. On weekends he could often be found hanging out with
freight elevator operator Fernandez (yes, Army-like, people were often known
only by last names). For unexplained reasons, every so often these two would
argue and become bitter foes. The freight elevator doors would open and the
sound of shouting could be heard echoing across the lobby as Lee would emerge
flailing and yelling back and Fernandez’ arms could be seen swinging wildly,
yelling back. The combination of accents and emotion made for an incoherent
shout-fest that always ended with one or the other steaming over how he’d never
talk to him again. By the following weekend, though, they were laughing
together again.
There were also maintenance men Sanchez and DeStefano,
who swept up in the lobbies even when no trash was visible. “Hey man, if the
boss thinks you got nothin’ doin’, then he gonna reassign you. Shit, I don’t
need no more to dooo”, Sanchez explained. “Yeah”, DeStefano echoed, “These bosses are just
waitin’ to trip you up. They sit on they fat asses all day and then come out to
look fuh us doin’ somethin’ wrong. So I make sure I’m seen. Then I find a
closet in ta take a nap in”. I learned of more than one broom closet which
contained some of the very comfortable office furniture that went missing upon
delivery. “Mine got a thick cushy chair and I use a box fuh a foot rest. Ha-ha,
alls I need is a refrigeratuh and I’m in heaven. I could live in dere!” Often
they were dodging the Port operations supervisor Russo, a harsh, abrupt man who
hunted out employees like a shark. He could be cruel and references of his
racism abounded through the complex. But I was told that when the building went
down he was last seen running back in to help with rescues. His remains were
never quite found.
During the majority of my run at the World Trade Center,
I held the assignment of “6-4”, Key-Run.
This
meant that I carried the majority of the keys to the complex on a series of
jailer-like key-rings weighing my belt down. I was quite skinny back then so
the pants always hung a bit and my belt was now working over-time. I opened locked
doors when they needed to be opened, activated elevators and escalators at the
start of my shift and did a patrol of the concourse’s stores. I opened up the
outside garage ramps, located out on West Street and Barkley Street, and also
took calls from the operations and security supervisors as needed. When a
problem with an elevator occurred, they called me to check it out and start
another if that one had gone out of service. The lobbies of both buildings were
lined with shining, silver elevators which briskly took passengers up to the
Sky Lobbies at floor 78. With a pop of the ears and a slight sickening of the
stomach, this was the quickest way up. On weekends we kept just a couple of
these elevators running, in eye-range of the guard assigned to the post nearby.
On several occasions, trying to hurriedly get a car down from 78 to an angry
group waiting in lobby, I found myself stuck in an elevator which crawled all
the way down in its “inspect” mode, moving in slow motion for what seemed like
an eternity. As I sat trapped, calls from annoyed Port bosses would be coming
in and the jobs left to do would pile up. “Where the hell is the 6-4?!”
Some of the operations brass could have a sense of
humor, like Barry Galbrath who used the radio airwaves as a portal for dry
humor. Calm in any situation, Barry knew his job well and relaxed everyone else
with a laugh. He was a very intelligent brand of cut-up and when out of the
company of the boys, could be engaged in compelling discussion about politics
and other issues. But he was another of these urban intellectuals who’d
seriously studied something or other in college and ended up in a job that was
so far removed that he couldn’t figure out how to get back.
Another urban intellectual I enjoyed to speak to was
operations supervisor, Mick Evigan. Mick was warm voiced detective-like
character who loved engaging in debates on music and drama, right up till he
was called back to reality by a radio call. Mick always lent a hand to the
staff beneath him and he never made anyone feel that their station was of less
importance than his own. When he found out that I was a writer and a musician,
he immediately sought out opportunities to discuss the arts. A purveyor of all
things cultural hidden beneath a classic “NYPD Blue” exterior, Mick liked
sharing tapes of albums he’d been moved by, everything from Miles Davis to Bob
Dylan. He had a wonderfully eclectic taste in music and film and developed a fascination
for David Lynch, then transforming from a cult figure to a celebrated filmmaker.
Mick had a videotape copy of Lynch’s ‘Blue Velvet’ before it was available for
purchase that he cautiously lent me :“You gotta be careful with this, John---my
friend sneaked it out for me. Be careful. And
you didn’t get it from me!” I never knew exactly who the mysterious friend
was or how he embarked on this dangerous mission, but I did enjoy ‘Blue Velvet’
before carefully rewinding and returned it to the hidden drop-off point.
These operations supervisors were a varied group and
one wondered how they all come into these positions. Few seemed particularly happy
in their lot and yet even a supervisor such as angry Lou Russo demonstrated a
softer side at points. On a warm day in May of ‘86 I can still recall him out
on West Street participating in ‘Hands Across America’, the national bonding moment
organized on most every land mass around the nation. 6.5 million people
participated and millions of dollars were raised to help feed the hungry--these
were the Reagan years, remember, and the shuttering of shelters, food pantries,
senior centers and drug and psychiatric programs had taken its toll on the most
vulnerable among us. The ‘Hands Across America’ human chain ran all along West
Street, crossing just in front of Tower 1. Laurie and I were both on duty and
unable to join the line, this historic notion of caring in a terribly
conflicted time when the AIDS crisis ran wild under a president who’d barely
uttered the name of the illness and who’d told the people that homelessness was
a choice. This as televised celebrations of privilege, “Lifestyles of the Rich
and Famous” and “Dallas”, scored huge ratings each week. Watching the line of
strangers gather and reach out to one another, I considered that maybe there
was a chance for real change in this country if the changes were people-driven.
It was powerful imagery. Suddenly there was Russo bolting across the Tower
lobby and out of the exit to be a part of the momentous occasion. Clutching the
hands of those at either side, with eyes shut during that fifteen minute
interlude, he appeared almost serene.
But then there was Rob DeForn, a short, paunchy,
easily agitated guy with untrusting eyes who was the textbook Napoleon complex
case study. DeForn could only be recalled as a despot and every employee knew
his wrath. You just couldn’t find a ray of sunshine within him. We would trade
DeForn war stories and several of the security and maintenance staff fully expected
him to get jumped in the parking garage some night on his way home, left broken
in a dumpster. A guy like DeForn, of course, was nowhere near the complex when
trouble ensued. While, he may have been the worst of the worst, he was not
unique in such a setting. More than a few of the characters one encountered in
our weekend world-within-the-world could be harsh, desperately snarling at all
who came near them. They were the ones who walked the sullen halls alone.
As Key-Run I came into intimate contact with all areas
of the complex, from its sub-basement bowels up through the veins and arteries
of its floors and stairwells. And one time in 1987 I made it to the roof of Tower
1. A verboten destination only visited by brave antenna technicians, Tower 1’s
roof had no fence, no enclosed deck as did the South Tower, which hosted bands
of visitors each day. The occasion for my appearance up top of Tower 1, forever
burnt into my memory, was in preparation for the unveiling of the Statue of
Liberty after several years of refurbishing. The scaffolding was now coming
down to present a polished, torch-bearing beauty to a waiting public. At the
same time, the nation was celebrating the bicentennial of the Constitution, so
a huge fete was planned. A phalanx of ships were to fill the harbor that July 4th,
a gigantic fireworks display was to illuminate the sky above the Trade Center
and New York was going to play host to an Independence Day like none before.
The week prior, the complex was already in high
security mode and the operations and security staff were working with police
and emergency services toward a safe, festive coming weekend. I was called up
to the roof of Tower 1 to open up a caged-in electronics closet for the Port
guys up there. Helicopters were scheduled to lower huge searchlights onto the
roof, to light the ships down in the harbor during the big celebration. For me,
getting up to that level was no easy feat; one had to have a special key from
the Police Desk and then call in to the operations office to be buzzed in while
turning the key. As the roof door opened up, a flood of sunlight momentarily
pushed me back: here was the very roof of the 110th floor on a
clear, bright summer afternoon. It took my breath away. I located the
supervisor and handed him the key he needed. “Mike, can I hang around a moment?
I have never been here before”. “Yeah, sure, go ahead. Everyone else is here”,
he shrugged, looking toward the throng of cops, firemen and EMTs who were
sitting along the edge of the roof, looking over in awe. I have always suffered
from a fear of heights, truth be told, but it only kicks in when I am insecure,
where I feel I may actually fall. So, here was a chance to look over the edge
of the World Trade Center, from a view free of any kind of guard-rail, window or
fencing. My worst nightmare, maybe, but one which was too tempting to pass up.
I moved over, precariously, to where the emergency
personnel were sitting. The edge of the building was equipped with a sort of
window seat feature—a platform area one could be caught in in the event of a
powerful wind; it was designed to prevent you from actually falling over the
edge of the building. But on that day, it served as a box seat for the first
responders who were mesmerized by the rare view. I came near the edge and then
crawled on my bottom to this balcony above the city. With my jailer’s keys
jangling and scraping the tar-covered roof, I gripped anxiously, inching my way
over. Holding my breath, I moved from the roof itself into this safety platform,
squeezing the railing around the lip as I painfully looked over. It was what
the view must have been like from Mt. Olympus. Here’s why these guys were
staring out with the calmest look on their faces I’d ever seen. It was
mesmerizing. We were out in the open, but well above the fray. The Good Year
blimp floated below us, as did a couple of prop planes. We were sitting above even the clouds. Here’s the
place where the sky met the steel girders and everything was right all around.
Laurie and I were married in June of 1988 and, moving
onto our careers, we said goodbye to the weekend jobs and with them, our many WTC
friends. Over the next few years, we spoke regularly of these folks, the good
and the bad, as they became a part of our historic fabric. We enjoyed our free weekends
and then I suddenly found myself unemployed in 1993, floundering as one does
when a job ends and Unemployment Benefits become a fact of life. The weekends
bled into the weekdays and I longed to get back to work. Driving into lower Manhattan
one February day that year, the traffic became ensnarled in an impenetrable mass
of honking car-horns. Every approach was blocked and it took just a while to
find out what happened to suddenly paralyze everything---the World Trade
Center had been bombed by a van filled with explosives. It had entered the
complex through the Barkley Street Ramp that afternoon. The reports came out
that the basement parking garage was destroyed and so was part of the lobby of
Building One. My heart grew cold—did everyone get out okay? Yes, but the place
was a mess. I was glad to learn that they were looking for experienced security
guards, especially those with a knowledge of the complex and I surely had this.
So I signed up.
My first day back was eye-opening, to be sure. The concourse
stank of burnt ash and soot coated the walls and the air in front of you. The complex,
now closed to the public, was one massive crime scene. I walked up to the
makeshift command post and showed them the new ID I had been issued, as well as
the security pass one needed to get anywhere. The regs now called for different
color passes for different zones, different sectors, and the halls were
crawling with ATF and FBI agents. Where a department store once thrived was now
the operations center and the guards had traded their jackets and ties for navy
blue jumpsuits with ‘Security’ splashed across the back.
The heat was mostly off, so I wore my coat beneath the
jumpsuit during the mandatory 12 hour shifts. We were asked to bring our own
flashlights and had to contend with a severe shortage of radios. Each guard was
now on continuous Vertical Patrol, securing the vulnerable stairwells mostly,
and a contingent of supervisors were flown in from around the country to lead
special clean-up crews. Burning embers reddened our eyes and irritated our
lungs and a gaping crater occupied much of what had been a gleaming lobby. It
extended down several basement levels, looking ominously like the gate of damnation,
smothered in brimstone. Like most, I was assigned to a special Vertical sector
each day, without a radio so largely out of contact from any other human. We
were watching for intruders and bomb-throwers, but God knows what we would do
if we encountered them, sans communication or weaponry. The shifts were long, lonesome
and cold and so I carried a couple of books with me to read during short
breaks. Sitting in dimly lit stairwells, I got through two novels I’d always
wanted to read, Frankenstein and 1984, both tales of
utter isolation. I guess I am a glutton for punishment, but the need for some
kind of culture had to be responded to under such harsh conditions.
I was able to get back to work in my own field within
three months and my recent experiences in the Trade Center began to meld with
those of the decade prior. These faces and stories added to the legend, the one
that lives apart from the everyday and is only called upon when old friends
have a chance meeting.
I gave little thought to my old haunt for some eight
years until that bright September morning with the memorable breeze. As I drove to my workplace,
a hospital in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I experienced an initial numbness at the
radio announcer’s insane report of a plane striking one of the Towers. God, I
thought, how in hell could they manage to hit that? Racing thoughts of old
friends suddenly came to surface when the DJ broke in again: “Uuhhh, we just
got another report…” And then nothing was the same.
One year later the awful stench of charred memories
had dissipated but the gaping hole remained. The space where the Towers once
stood was not the only emptiness we’d come to know. The loss of lives and
lifestyles met the encroachment of civil liberties and the rise of suspicion.
The war without end commenced and it was accompanied by fear-mongering and
flag-waving and freedom fries. And the crass nationalism which deemed dissent
“Un-American”.
On that first anniversary, Laurie and I walked the
Brooklyn Heights Promenade overlooking the East River and the pristine view of
lower Manhattan. That still September evening as hundreds of Brooklynites strolled
silently, facing a Manhattan island which would forever remain altered, two
glorious beams of light reached skyward, claiming and memorializing our
weekends from so long ago.
*******
AND NOW IN QUIETUDE, I recall the events of ’93 and the tragedy
of 2001 along with that first anniversary as parts of the whole, enmeshed, a
part of the history. A part of me. In
quietude, I can remember.
I can remember those lost weekends and whirring
elevators and strange stories and the sun’s reflection on the Towers’ metallic
faces.
And I can remember my conversations with friendly
tourists and interested visitors: the quaint German man who stared up at the
buildings from a bench on the outdoor Plaza on a cool fall afternoon. He said
NYC was a remarkable place. I told him I’d always been fascinated with Berlin,
his home, and how he probably overlooked its wonders as New Yorkers do of this
particular view. As we stared up together. And the elderly woman compelled to fix
all of thefloral fixtures in the lobby that others visitors had
lean ed on; she asked if I was the watchman. I told her I was as I loved to see
it all.
Now with eyes shut, I can see and feel the WTC Concourse
with its shops, bars and train stations, occupied in equal proportions by
expense-account brokers, zealous visitors, hardworking people trying to get by
and destitute homeless simply trying to live. And then I can remember.
Crowds of
families standing excitedly on long lines to marvel over the view from the
Observation Deck, while the privileged few sparkled at Windows on the World
restaurant, out of sight, far above, out of reach. Opposite poles of equal
height.
The weekend-quiet halls, vacuum-like empty corridors
after everyone went home. And the purple carpets and white marble and chrome of
the lobbies. The seemingly unbreakable windows and unceasing structure. And the
six sub-basements, the layers within. There too life thrived, but it did so in
shadows.
No act of violence or vengeance can disappear the times
our lives are built upon.
###
