I remember that morning as if it were yesterday. I
sat there, at the foot of that bed, listening to the radio as the world changed.
A few weeks prior, I packed up my little studio apartment in
Lubbock, Texas, and schlepped myself back to my hometown of Endwell, New York.
I had just graduated with my bachelor’s in marketing, finished up some classes
over the summer, and was anxious to start a new career.
I searched job listings all over the Northeast for some sort
of entry level marketing job and lined up interviews in a few different places.
On Monday, the day before that morning, I had had an interview in
Baltimore. It went well, but the firm wasn’t what I was looking for. My next
interview with another marketing firm was lined up for Tuesday morning in
Queens.
As an introvert, I don’t often stay with people, much
preferring to just get a hotel and stay out of everyone’s hair. I like my space
and privacy, so cohabitating—even for just a one-night visit—isn’t really my
jam. But, at that time, I was 22, fresh out of college, and trying to save
every dime I could, so when my old friend Mary invited me to stay at her house
on Monday night as a pit stop between my Baltimore and Queens interviews, I was
glad to take her up on the offer.
Mary lived in New Jersey, just outside of New York City. She
and my parents were very close when we all lived near each other when I was a
baby. I was born in Morristown, but because I was a very sick, early baby, I
was rushed into Manhattan right away to get special care at Cornell University
Medical Center. So, even though I was born in Jersey, I still made my way into
New York within a few hours; I consider myself a New Yorker through and
through.
I got to Mary’s Monday night, had a great dinner, then went
out with my old buddy Eddie (Mary’s son) for some ice cream. I wanted Eddie and
Mary’s opinions on how I should get to my interview the next morning, since they
were both very familiar with commuting options into New York. Did it make sense
to drive through the city to Queens, or would it be better to take the PATH
train to the World Trade Center station, then switch trains and head into
Queens?
I didn’t mind driving in the city. In fact, I kind of liked
it—and still do. In high school, my friends and I would often drive the
three-hour trek down to the city on a Saturday to see a show and tool around,
and I would, almost without exception, end up being the driver.
After talking it over that night, I decided it made more
sense to drive to my Queens interview. To take the PATH
train, I would have had to leave earlier, change trains, and then repeat the
process in reverse when I was done. It seemed cheaper and easier just to drive.
Besides, any excuse not to get up at the crack of dawn is a huge plus in my
book.
On Tuesday morning—that morning—as I was getting my
tie tied and about to head out to drive to Queens, Mary came down to the
basement room where I had stayed. She said something had happened at the World
Trade Center. We turned on the radio, then both sat on the foot of the bed and
listened as the tragic events unfolded; we didn’t know what
to think. Shock took over as our brains tried to wrap themselves around what we
were hearing.
I called the firm in Queens where I was scheduled to have my
interview and the receptionist there must not have been aware of what
was going on. She advised me that cancelling an interview wasn’t a good idea,
but I told her that there was no way I was going to be able to get there. At
this point, we still didn’t realize the full scope of what was unfolding across
the country, but we knew whatever it was was bad—very, very bad—and I wasn’t
about to head toward it.
My mom called. Or, maybe she paged me. It was 2001 and I had
a very cool Cellular One teal see-through pager at the time—the late adopter
in me not quite ready to make the switch to a fancy new cell phone. Anyway,
whether she called or paged, I distinctly remember standing in Mary’s kitchen
on her antique wall-mounted phone, talking to my mom who was urging me to come
right home. I can imagine how her heart must have sunk when she heard the news,
knowing I was headed into the city that morning.
Mary’s daughter Kimmy had already gone into the city early
that morning for school. After trying unsuccessfully to reach her, she
finally called Mary and said she was at a friend’s and would be staying
there for a day or two until the dust settled and bridges and tunnels reopened.
That was a huge relief. Another mother had just found out that her child was
out of harm’s way. But countless other mothers wouldn’t.
As soon as we heard that Kimmy was safe, I got in my car and
drove the three hours home—listening to the news, turning the news off to sit
in quiet, then turning the news back on and repeating the cycle. I was
traveling Interstate 80 westbound, away from the city. There weren’t many cars
going in my direction, and for miles and miles it seemed there weren't any cars at all going in the eastbound direction. There were some emergency vehicles, sirens blaring, heading that way, but the lack of traffic and eerily open interstate sure was surreal.
I remember being on a charter bus on a school field trip in
late 1993 or early 1994 when I was a freshman in high school, driving by the
World Trade Center after it was bombed. We saw the shrouded, damaged lower part
of the North Tower. It made an impression. We couldn’t have imagined then that,
less than 10 years later, the whole complex would be gone.
As an adult, I’ve been to the World Trade Center site loads of
times. I visited the grounds often when I lived in the city in the mid-2000s. I
watched the progress as the rubble was cleared, memorials were erected, and new
buildings were built. I found a good perch from the second floor of a nearby
Burger King where I could see over the fence and into the craters where the
towers once stood. The footprints of the North and South Towers still show, but
now they’re beautiful memorials—places to reflect, mourn, hope, and take some
deep breaths.
I don’t know why the cards fell where they did that
morning. We hear stories upon stories about those who survived by what may
seem like chance, fate, or divine intervention. And we hear thousands of other
stories about those who didn’t survive—victims and heroes whom we honor again today. My experience wasn’t as near of a miss as many others we hear about,
but it still takes my breath away when I think about it. One simple
decision—drive or take the PATH train—has been coming back to me often for the
past 18 years. Had I chosen to take the PATH, I would have left earlier and
been on my way toward the World Trade Center station when everything began to unfold.
I woke up early this morning, remembering that morning, 18 years ago today: September 11, 2001. A generation has passed, but memories live on; it will never be forgotten.
…
Marty Johnson is
a shopkeeper, writer, and business coach. He serves as ex officio Director of
Communication for AMBC, Editor of MBC
Today, and is the owner of Uncle Marty's Shipping Office in Ithaca, NY,
where he's also Co-Founder of the Collegetown Small Business Alliance. Please
visit him at askunclemarty.com. #AskUncleMarty
