My Morning in Lower Manhattan
A story of small decisions, unimaginable loss, quiet heroes, and a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge that thousands of us took together — strangers united, for once, if never before.
While I still kept a residence in Chicago, I worked in New York from late 2000 until around 2004 — a consultant with Deloitte Consulting, working mainly in Lower Manhattan and occasionally with the private wealth institutions in Midtown. My "home" ranged from the Hilton and Starwood hotels (I was a points junkie, as many consultants were) to the Righa Royal in Midtown to a great studio apartment in Union Square. For several weeks I stayed at the Millenium Hilton, directly across the street from the World Trade Center. When my dad came to visit me in New York in August 2001, this is where I was staying.
But on September 11, 2001, my home was the Embassy Suites at the World Financial Center, and my office was right off the intersection of John Street at One Seaport Plaza. My route to work every day was a brisk ten-to-fifteen-minute walk across the pedestrian bridge linking the World Financial Center to the WTC, through the World Trade Center, and down John Street.
On that particular day, I was tired and perhaps a bit lazy. And I was running a little later than usual. So I chose to take a taxi. Taxi drivers hate that — traffic is terrible and the trip is so short it's basically a headache for them. I got to my office building around 8:45 a.m., went through security as usual, and got on the elevator.
Flight 11 crashes into the north face of the North Tower (1 WTC) at roughly 466 mph, between floors 93 and 99. The aircraft enters the tower mostly intact.
The plane hit the tower while I was on the elevator. I didn't feel or hear anything inside it, but when I reached the building's cafeteria there was commotion — dozens of people gathered near the windows. I joined them and looked out at the North Tower, clearly on fire.
There had been boiler fires recently, and downtown buildings often had small fires. We all thought it looked pretty bad, but we still assumed it was just that — a fire. As investment bankers and New Yorkers, most of the people around me were used to excitement. Lots of swagger. Lots of attitude. "Dude, that looks pretty fucked up." "What the f*&k? Some engineer is about to get fired." "Damn cleaning lady left her cigarette in the storage closet again." We all thought it was a boiler, or an electrical fire, or a cleaning crew smoking near combustible solvents. A few people speculated it was a small plane, apparently having heard of something like that before.
The first network television and radio reports of an explosion or incident at the World Trade Center. CNN breaks into a commercial; the screen subtitle first reads "World Trade Center disaster."
I paid for my bagel with cream cheese and my coffee and went to my office. My client — the firm's Chief Financial Officer — was in his office with the news on. I stood there a while, watching the fire and listening to more speculation, then went back to my desk to start the day. I called my partner back home and woke him up to turn on the news. He'd already started getting calls from people who couldn't reach me on my mobile.
Then I felt a tremendous shake, heard a loud noise, and knew something had gone very wrong. Running into his office, I heard my client screaming: "Those bastards. Those f*cking bastards."
We were at war.
Flight 175 crashes into the south face of the South Tower (2 WTC) at about 590 mph, between floors 77 and 85. By now several networks are covering the first crash live, and millions see the second impact as it happens.
I have never in my life felt as sick to my stomach as I did in that moment. Fear, anger, sadness, shock, disbelief — every emotion hitting at once. My brain battling with my heart. Tears held back as anger welled up. Immediate questions about what was next, and whether the entire city was under attack, or worse.
Part of the building began evacuating right away. There were multiple companies inside, and some had different instructions than others. I walked downstairs and looked out the front door: chaos and dust everywhere, people walking by and looking up, security shouting. Everything conflicting — some said stay inside, others said get out.
Flight 77 crashes into the western side of the Pentagon and starts a violent fire.
Everyone began to think the worst. The WTC, the Pentagon — what was next? Chicago started evacuating the Sears Tower and other large buildings; even buildings in Charlotte and Atlanta emptied out. I changed my mobile voicemail (using my desk phone) to let everyone know I was okay. Later I'd feel bad it took me that long, when I found dozens of messages from worried friends and family.
Just blocks from what would become known as Ground Zero, those of us who hadn't yet evacuated debated whether to stay or go. I decided our building was an unlikely target — not a famous building, and far enough from the WTC that it couldn't be an accidental hit — and that the chaos outside looked more dangerous. I stayed inside and went back upstairs. Minutes later, I would be thanking God for that decision.
The South Tower begins to collapse, 56 minutes after the impact of Flight 175. As the roar goes silent, tremendous gray-white clouds of pulverized concrete rush through the streets.
That famous photograph of people running from the smoke — they were running down my street, the same street I walked every morning from the WTC to my office. The plumes overtook Lower Manhattan and quickly reached my building. People who had left were either already over the Brooklyn Bridge or standing nearby, watching. Those who stood and watched ended up covered in dust and debris, exposed to awful things flying down the street.
We stayed in the office, watching in horror as the images replayed — the building we saw every day collapsing in a cloud of smoke. Then we watched the second tower fall.
The North Tower begins to collapse. The Marriott Hotel at the base of the two towers is also destroyed.
About a half-hour later, our building began a full evacuation, and my client and I helped get people out. To this day I have enormous respect for that CFO — one of the last people out, waiting until he was certain everyone from the firm was heading away from Lower Manhattan. I was a new Manager; he ran finance for a large securities firm. But on that day, everyone was equal. Equally shocked, equally saddened, and angry. So angry.
As I left the building, I saw shoes, purses, briefcases, dust, building particles, and paper everywhere. A strong burning smell hung in the air, and the dust burned your eyes. Despite thousands of people outside, there was a strange quiet. Everyone was in shock — some crying, some angry, most just in disbelief. I think I was more surprised by the towers falling than by the attacks themselves.
I walked to the Brooklyn Bridge and started the crossing so many made that day. Trying not to look back at the chaos of Lower Manhattan, or at the gaping hole in the skyline now filled only with smoke, I trudged along with hundreds of others — strangers united, for once if never before. All races, genders, ages, and sizes. Suits and sweats. Children still in their school uniforms. All of us walking away from a nightmare, unsure whether it would be over when we reached the other side.
As I walked, I thought about three things:
- What would have happened if I'd walked as usual? Where would I have been when the first plane hit? The second?
- How many people are dead now, and how many will never be found? How much more death and destruction would I have seen if I'd stepped outside before the first tower fell?
- What do I do when I get over this bridge? I knew not a soul in Brooklyn.
I felt alone, scared, and — yes — pissed. And I will move on. But I will never forget.
In peace comes strength,
Adam
