The Messenger
This is two stories, both about the Twin Towers. Everyone has a 9/11 story. I have more than two. These two are related by workplace, my "day job," at the time.
I arrived at the office on 9/11 shortly after 7:00, as usual, to open the door and turn on the lights. I looked forward to continuing a Quark tutorial before the executives arrived at 8:00.
The office was located on the west side of Union Square, at 14th Street, on the 12th floor. Most of the office windows faced south, towards lower Manhattan, with panoramic views of the World Trade Center.
I was immersed in my tutorial when the first tower was hit. I didn't notice until associates started arriving at the office.
Earlier, my attention had been drawn by an aircraft flying at low altitude. It was loud -which caused me to look up from what I was doing. It was as large as a commercial jet airliner, but the underside had a drab-color appearance, resembling a military transport plane.
Reconstruction of the first plane's flight path will show that it crossed 14th Street headed south, flying above 5th Avenue. I was annoyed, at the time, by what looked (to me) like a reckless publicity stunt.
Next story, it's January, 2002. My mission (if I want to continue working for the company) is to bring an architectural model from the office to City Hall for approval. The on-going disruptions after 9/11 would make for more potential problems than usual for this type of delivery.
It would be an easy walk if I were not carrying an architectural model in an improvised, foam board, box. The subway was likewise out of the question. The box was too bulky for convenience, and the trains were not running below 14th Street.
I had to catch a cab. Always challenging to hail a cab from the curb in New York City, one finally stopped, even with the architectural model box in plain view.
"City Hall," I said, "or as close to it as possible."
The cab driver didn't appreciate my touch of sarcasm.
"No, I cannot go there," he said, shaking his head.
He looked Oriental. He had dusky complexion. That gave me an idea. I said the Shahada, and added, "I am a Muslim, and you must help me."
It worked. The taxi driver let me off at the steps to City Hall. I felt like a VIP. The driver proudly refused payment of the fare -but I insisted.
The hardest part was to keep smiling after repeatedly being asked if I was carrying a bomb in the box on the way to council chambers.
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