Sixth anniversaries don’t typically stand out. However, today’s sixth anniversary of the terrorist attacks brings an eerily familiar feeling. Today is the first time since 2001 that Sept. 11 falls on a Tuesday.
Certainly, many people associate the attacks with what they were doing on what started out as a typical Tuesday.
My autumn Tuesday routine actually starts the night before, with “Monday Night Football.” In New York, the games usually run past midnight, making for groggy Tuesday mornings. Sept. 10, 2001, meant the Broncos and the New York Giants. To my brother Nick and me, it was well worth the lack of sleep to watch the Broncos roll over the Giants.
The next morning was clear and sunny, with a hint of autumn chill in the air. I caught the crowded subway from the Upper West Side to the World Trade Center and arrived at my desk on the 33rd floor of the North Tower around 8:15. About 15 minutes later, I poured a cup of coffee, put it on my desk, then went across the hall to retrieve some files. Soon after, at 8:46 a.m., everything changed forever.
KABOOM. My first thought was that a large piece of construction equipment from the floor above had been dropped. Then I looked out the window and saw a shower of twisted metal, paper and, oddly, a green hat fluttering down.
The building swayed. Yet the towers always swayed, more so on windy days. But this time it was so dramatic that I thought the building was going over on its side. Eventually, it righted itself. Debris continued to fall; an eerie silence fell, too.
Was it an earthquake? Was the pilot of a small plane blinded by the sun and hit the tower? I called my father, who routinely followed the news at that time of day.
“What the hell happened to the Trade Center?,” I asked him. “Let me check the TV,” he replied. “I don’t see anything. Wait, wait CNN is reporting that a plane hit it.”
“Wow OK I’ve got to go, I’ll call you in a little bit.”
Looking back, the naïveté of our departure from the tower was remarkable. Those of us in the office discussed whether we should leave or not, since no alarms were going off. We decided that the walk down the stairs only to return wouldn’t be worth the hassle.
That plan was scrapped when the smell of jet fuel became overwhelming. Even then, we took the time to pack briefcases and nonchalantly return for forgotten items. But faced with the crowd moving down the stairwell at a snail’s pace, we again retreated. Finally, the effects of the jet fuel became too much. (I still think back and ask myself, “What was I thinking?”)
The pace was brutally slow. Three people across. Down one step. Stop. Wait. Down another. Wait. It took 10 minutes to descend just 10 floors.
I was on the stairs when I got my second news report of the morning. People had been frantically dialing cellphones, to no avail.
A man in front said he was getting something on his Blackberry. I looked over his shoulder as it came to life with: “Second tower hit; apparent terrorist attack; stock market will not open.”
People started asking what it said; he simply replied, “I lost it.” Then he and I gave each other an approving nod.
Voices from above were clearing a path by asking us to step aside. The reason quickly became apparent: Survivors from the impact floors were being led down the stairs. The sight was horrific: skin and hair burned off, blank stares of shock.
After a few more floors, we were again asked to make room. Firefighters came up the stairs, carrying equipment. I don’t think any of them came down alive.
By the time we got to the lobby, we were wet with water and jet fuel. I entered a place I could not recognize. After sorting through the blownout door jambs and drywall, I got my bearings and followed the directions of firefighters. Remember when you were taught to walk quickly, but not to run, in an emergency? We tried that. And then the firefighters began yelling, “Run, run, ruuuuuuuuuuuun!”
When I got outside and looked up, the sight was beyond what I could’ve imagined. It grew worse as the crowd spotted people leaning out of the building and eventually letting go. How horrible to leap to a certain death in order to escape the pain.
About 10 minutes after I escaped the building, the South Tower collapsed; half an hour later, my office building came down.
My routine changed that Tuesday. Everyone’s routine changed that Tuesday. We now pack gel and liquids in tiny bottles; we look at unattended bags with suspicion; we take off our shoes to get on an airplane.
On this Tuesday, it is worth adding one more routine: remembering those who died six years ago at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and those who fight for the routines that each of us chooses.
Evergreen native Fred Van Remortel is a lawyer in private practice in New York City.
