Allen Street

The radio’s capacity to receive NPR’s signal disappeared, so I got up from the worn leather workman’s stool that I was using as a desk chair and fidgeted with the dial. As I turned up the volume static and fuzz cracked though the speakers.

Moments before, there had been an explosion or a crash or something. I had never heard that sound before. It wasn’t like a gunshot or like any fireworks – not even really good illegal ones you can get at the border. When I peeled the homemade red polka-dotted curtain away from the window, I noticed a big black cavity in the middle of the North Twin Tower. The side of the tower facing me was a black hole. This hole had jagged edges and flames the color of American cheese dancing out of it. Immediately, I wished I had film in my camera.

I wrestled with the radio antenna, but I managed to get the station back just in time to hear the announcer say “It appears that a passenger plane has hit the North Tower.” Then, my radio fused out again.

I turned on the dusty P.C. computer in the living room and adjusted the rabbit-ear antennas. This was Joel’s old computer from God knows when. I switched the button to “television mode.” I moved Joel’s ceramic cactus ashtray off the keyboard and tossed his unopened pack of Marlboro Reds onto the coffee table. I put the station on New York One, the local news.

The phone rang. I picked the cordless receiver up on the first ring.

“Joel?”

“Yeah. It’s me.” He sounded out of breath.

“Did you hear that?” he asked. I could hear him inhaling from his cigarette in-between questions. He must be on a break, I thought.

“Yes. I thought a bomb went off” I said.

“I heard the plane go right over us. It sounded pretty fucking low.”

I could hear Joel sucking in another Marlboro. I imagined his squinty eyes wincing as he slowly inhaled. This action always exaggerated the premature crow’s feet which had developed around his eyes at the early age of 26. I had always assumed that the hardened look of his face wasn’t from sun damage, but from spending long days standing over an industrial grill, poking at lamb chops and pieces of organic baby goat. I imagined him throwing the cigarette into the gutter on Thompson Street and then stomping on it a few times with his black work boots.

“I have the News on. I think I am going to get some film,” I said.

“Yeah?”

His tone changed from concern to surprise as if it was cruel of me to step out for a minute to buy film. There was silence. I walked to the fire escape. I looked out at the Tower, which reminded me of an enormous cigar with smoke pouring out of the tip. On the other end of the line, I cold hear pots clashing. Joel was speaking a combo of Spanish and curse words to the kitchen crew.

“I will talk to you later,” I said.

We hung up.

Looking out the window, just beyond the iron fire escape, I could see voters lined up around the block on Allen Street. Voting suddenly seemed like a priority. I flipped through file folders in search of my voter registration card. The bedroom floor was blanketed with dirty laundry, farm press kits for my freelance writing assignment, and an old New York Times whose lines were now blurred by misdealt sips of coffee.

The phone rang again.

“Hello.”.

“Hi, it’s me,” Joel said. “Did you see that?”

“No, What?” I walked back to the window. I hadn’t heard a thing.

“The South Tower was hit by another goddamn plane.” Joel was upset and serious. I rolled my shoulders back and listened to the rhythmic crunching beneath my shoulder blades. This is what I do when I am tense. The act of rolling my shoulders back confirms that, yes indeed; there are crunchy marbles of stress in there.

“So, the first crash was not a mistake.”

“It was a fucking plane. I watched it fly though the building. I watched the front of the plane come out facing me on this side,” said Joel.

I knew Joel was standing out there on Thompson Street with his crew of prep cooks.

“I stepped out of that windowless dungeon of a kitchen with my guys to get an iced coffee. I saw it. This is some fucked-up shit.”

I held the cordless phone to my ear. I looked down at my bare feet and noticed a huge chip of nail polish had peeled off of my right big toe. I picked more at the section that had peeled away.

“Joel?”

I was waiting for him to say something. Holding the cordless phone between my ear and shoulder, I walked back over to the window. I opened it up and stood there. Mr. Kitty, our black and white alley cat brushed his side up against my left calf. Mr. Kitty climbed out onto the fire escape. The sound of sirens was overwhelming. I could hear siren in the background on the radio, and the real sirens driving down Allen Street. The south end of New York City was in “siren surround sound mode.”

“I have to go.” Joel said.

I had forgotten that he was on the phone.

“Oh yeah, Um, okay. Call me later if you can. I am going to return those computer labels I bought for the printer and get some film.”

We hung up. It took me about six minutes for me to find my keys, my receipt for the labels and a purse. I walked down the stairs. There were a lot of people on Allen Street; people were sort of wandering. They weren’t walking with their normal sense of purpose. I exited the apartment, walked down Allen Street to Grand. There, a construction worker had his truck door open. A group of five people were surrounding the open door. The radio reporter was not up to speed with current information. He was suggesting the “accident” was some sort of bomb or explosion that had gone off in the base of the tower. People were shaking their heads in disbelief with their eyes fixated on the burning tower. Even from two miles away, the flames were visible. The air reeked of ash. I kept walking, made a right turn and headed toward the stationary store on Delancey.

The store was owned by a tall Hasidic man. Just yesterday I went to the shop to get one those Composition notebooks with blue and white leopard print, a red ink pen, and resume paper. On a whim, I had purchased $30 pack of printer labels. Why? I am not sure. Once home, I thought the cost of the labels to be a bit extravagant.

When I entered the store, a little bell rang. The owner was also listening to his radio. The volume was turned up so that it could be heard from anywhere in the store. He looked up and nodded, acknowledging my arrival. The store was organized the way it always was, but it felt like the wrong time to be shopping.

A women in a long navy blue skirt walked in.

“Isn’t this awful?” the Hasidic store owner said. His back was hunched over a bit. He was restocking the Rubber Cement and putting little price tags on each orange bottle.

The little bell at the front door rang again. A woman with static black hair and a paper medical mask walked in. Apparently it’s never too early to bust out your home emergency kit.

“Isn’t this awful,” he kept saying while shaking his head from side to side. I couldn’t help but watch the two ringlet curls on either side of his head sway back and forth with each turn of his neck. Distracted for a minute, I imagined myself grabbing a pair of scissors that were for sale near the cash register, and cutting off each perfectly curled lock.

The store owner took his time walking over to the register. When he got to the register, he folding his hands together and placed them on the counter.

“Will that be all for you today?” He asked

“Yes,” I said, pushing a pack of Wintergreen Trident a little closer to him.

“Um…I guess I will hold on to the labels for today.” For a man who sells Steno pads and Number Two pencils, the labels were a significant sale.

“Try them, and if they don’t suit your purpose, I will refund the sale – no questions asked.”

“Okay,” I said.

I walked farther east on Grand Street. I bought film for my camera at Dragon One Hour Photo. The development center smells like a combination of processing chemicals and Joe’s Chinese Food, the restaurant next door. I walked back around the corner to Allen Street.

As I turned onto Allen I saw the hole. One tower was gone. Where it had been just ten minutes ago, there was an empty cavity of smoke and ash.

“The first one folded!” said a man in a hard hat who was doing construction next door. By now, more people had gathered around his construction truck. I wiggled my way into the group. Standing around the truck was an odd assortment. There were about four Chinese men, two African American ladies, one Japanese woman, and two white construction workers (a medley that typically doesn’t huddle, but something felt comfortable about standing among a group of people.)

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a tinted window of a parked taxi next to the construction truck. I was still wearing the Mount Sac T-shirt I slept in. On my face, I wore remnants of my pasty face mask and the vitamin E cream that I had applied before I went to bed. My hair was greasy. Over my shoulder was a hand-sewn purse. It was all ready frayed and ripping. My appearance didn’t matter to me. It felt comfortable to just be there in this group. We were all silent.

I kept moving south, toward Hester Street. As I walked home, I made up a mental “to-do” list since I had deadlines to be meet and housework to finish. It felt sort of sickening to think that at the very moment my country was enduring a great act of terror, I was trying to methodically cross items off my “to-do” list.

I felt it necessary to vote. I walked over to the Chinatown YMCA. The entrance had changed since the November election. A man directed me with his hands to go around a courtyard to an auditorium door. I was the only one standing on the red linoleum floor. Crinkled in my hand was the voting slip, proving my residency and registration data. A middle-aged, heavyset woman at the front door told me to go around the building again.

As I walked around, I must have walked the wrong way. There were a lot of community people on the grass. They were watching the buildings burn the way I watched footage from a Guns N’ Roses concert in ninth grade - half in awe, half horrified. Reaching into my purse, feeling like a sick-o for wanting to take a picture, I reached for my camera. My pocket was empty. I must have left it upstairs in the apartment. I forgot about voting and left the grass to retrieve my camera.

On the way home I passed a teenager who was walking at a brisk pace. He was eating a Chinese bean pie. I wondered if it was appropriate to be eating. Are those within a one mile radius allowed to break for lunch? For a few moments, I paused and looked around the streets. The terror was not registering. Just one mile away; I was too far from the epicenter to feel. It seemed like all of us on Allen Street were too far away. How could he eat in public? Maybe a banana or a granola bar, but not a pastry – no, not today. Death was in front of us. They were dying. Those people in those buildings were dying. I knew that much. I could feel it. Then, I overheard the unthinkable: “People are jumping from the top of the twin towers.” It was this that I couldn’t wrap my mind around.

A sense of urgency took hold of me. I hurried up the five flights. I could hear my radio two floors before I reached the front door. My apartment still smelled like peculated coffee and the cigarettes Joel had smoked before work. I felt unworthy of showering. For some reason, it seemed rude to be hygienic while others were trapped. I felt like I didn’t deserve a shower. If the people in the towers didn’t have options, neither did I. I decided to put on lipstick. I had survived for no reason. Then, moving quickly, I grabbed the binoculars and took a look out the window. I loaded the film and took a picture of the remaining tower.

I walked back into the kitchen, a little confused as to what to do. I still felt it was a priority for me to write the two articles; one about Cate Blanchett and the other about vineyards in Upstate New York. I ate a granola bar and instantly hated myself for eating. I looked out the window again and watched the one tower stand there like a huge distress signal that I could not ignore. I just stood doing nothing.

The phone rang. Joel’s voice was different.

“Hello.” He said.

“Hi.” I answered.

We were both silent. Again, both of us were listening to the radio.

“These people are really fucking sick,” said Joel.

He was mad, but not the way most people get mad. He was sad, too. I could tell. He seemed out of sorts. I could tell that he did not feel up to butchering, casing sausage or making sure everyone else was behaving the kitchen.

A plane hit the Pentagon, and then the newscaster’s voice warned that perhaps the plane was aiming for The White House. I thought about how the morning had been so clear - a perfect fall day. I thought about Pamela Heart, the photographer I worked for last year. She lived on John Street. She had photographed the 1983 World Trade Center bombing. Was she okay? Last year, I got to her place at 9:15 AM. I sometimes got off the subway down there, but usually I was running late and would take a taxi.

“They said there is another plane in the air,” I offered.

“I know,” said Joel.

I switched to CNN. NPR was unavailable since antenna had been on top of the South Tower.

“Okay, I have to go again,” said Joel. “Don’t panic or anything, but you never know what is going to happen. Will you go buy some water and food and get some money?” said Joel.

“Yes, call me in a while. I love you.” I said.

“I love you. Bye,” he said.

I locked the apartment door behind me and walked back downstairs. There was a lot of foot traffic. I was in a dazed state. I went to the bank and took out $200. I stuffed it in the pocket of my denim skirt. There was one other girl in Citibank. We both talked about how this particular Citibank never has a pen. It was small talk and it, for once, didn’t matter. Small talk was calming.

The grocery store had the News on overhead. The store was surprisingly empty. Saltines and bottled water were an end-of-the-isle special. A coincidence? I somehow doubt.

I bought plenty, more than I could comfortably carry. In the checkout line, the woman in front of me was sent home because the credit card processing machine had been turned off. Several customers stepped out of line. I was trying not to look worried or scared with my bottled water. The truth of it was that I felt really selfish. I mean, just 20 minutes prior to my shopping spree one of towers had fallen. The radio announced that an estimated 6,000 were missing. I couldn’t process faces. That mass of human life couldn’t possibly disappear in a single swoop of terror. Planes should never fly so low.

I felt ashamed that I was buying potatoes, canned food, peanut butter, milk and two half gallons of water. On the way home, all I heard were sirens. My arms drooped down to my knees from the weight of the bags. People looked at me trying to walk with all of my heavy grocery bags.

I was ashamed to be thinking of myself. I hated that I was the one who was buying food “just in case.”

When I opened the door, I noticed the answering machine was blinking. The first call was from Joel. He said he would be home shortly. The second call was also from Joel.

“Hi. Call me when you get this. Okay, Ade?”

I called him back.

When he answered, he was a bit breathless.

“Hi, are you okay?” asked Joel.

“Me? Yeah. I went to the bank and got some stuff. I couldn’t carry very much though,” I said.

“Oh, I got worried. I told you to go out and then the second tower fell. That was stupid of me.

I think the restaurant is staying open today. So, I have to stay here,” said Joel.

“I am going to go out to get some more water,” I said.

The television’s volume was on extra loud. Perhaps I wanted it to compensate for my own lack of words and emotion. I could hear from the fourth floor on my way up the stairs. We listened. There was another airborne plane. We both held the receivers.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Okay. Call me in a while,” I said.

“I will,” he said as he hung up.

Being home all day was strange. Having the news on in the background reminded me of weekends when the football game was left on in the living room even though my dad was in the back yard mowing the lawn. I just sat at my desk and looked out the window at the smoke and dust.

Just hours before, I had looked out the window at the towers and now, both were gone. I made another cup of coffee, but I didn’t drink it. I just sort of sat in the apartment. My thoughts honed in on pictures of the aftermath of the A-bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima from my fifth grade history books. Even if I didn’t remember the picture very well, I remember it well enough to say that the ball of smoke and ash lurking out my bedroom window was the closest thing I have ever seen to that caliber of destruction.

The sirens resonated through the city all day. I wasn’t sure what to make of them. They were as ubiquitous as the air, the sky and the smoke. Everyone who has meaning in my life called me, wanting to know if I was all right. Everyone who called me mentioned the background sound of the sirens through the phone line. The presence of the sirens could not go unmentioned.

Dust-covered office workers paraded past my apartment. Some of them wore face masks. Someone must have been handing them out as people evacuated. Some of them were talking - all of them were agitated, inconvenienced, exhausted and traumatized. There weren’t a whole lot of tears. I felt better about this because I couldn’t cry on September 11. Nothing, not even the date, seemed real to me.

Usually I write in my journal every day, and to be honest, the date never seems important. Sometimes when I am tired or feeling particularly lazy, I guess at the date. On September 11, I failed to record the facts accurately. I have my journal entry recorded as September 10. The date isn’t memorable or important when I am writing about the coffee shop customers, my own frustrations about having little money or no hot water in the apartment. In my journal, I write about larger ambitions than my daily grind of making cappuccinos and of taking panini orders. I write about friends in California and about my newest career ambitions. Mostly though, I write about how I am going to escape waitressing once and for all. But, when people are being evacuated, the date becomes of importance.

I pulled out the journal for a second time that day. This time, I wrote the real date: September 11, 2001. Then, I sat in my apartment alone. I thought about how one of the biggest events in my lifetime just dropped before me, and like everyone else, I watched it, as though it were a movie. All I had done was run errands and buy canned food. Afterward, I just sat in my bedroom, trying to concentrate on Cate Blanchett, press kits from upstate vineyards, and e-mails from long-distance friends. I was feeling a bit guilty for not being helpful. I couldn’t contribute beyond giving blood. The Red Cross did not need blood. In fact, the soonest I was penciled in for a blood reservation was mid-November. “I suppose the date would have to do,” I told the receptionist at the Red Cross.

The families of the city’s victims needed money. So that is what I gave. However, I seriously doubt the check wrote to the “E-24 Family Relief Fund” could sustain the appetite of one person for more than a week. But, the reality of my financial life means that coffee tips are all I have to offer.

In the New York Times, I read one reporters account of the tragedy. “I could not tell bodies from steel.” Immediately, I asked myself, “What bodies?” Perhaps the reporter was suggesting too much by reporting that there were bodies.

---

It wasn’t until three days later that I thought about the firemen who had to climb nearly 100 flights with heavy equipment. I read the stories of the firemen that were falling over, staggering up the stairs from the heat, and the steepness of the climb. I didn’t think of women who couldn’t run in high heels or of handicapped people that worked in the building. I forgot that someone’s pregnant wife was a secretary and that it had to have been someone’s birthday in the office that day. Someone was supposed to have dinner prepared for her children that night. Perhaps she was going to walk to the market on her lunch break.

On September 13, I was glad that I had to return to work at the coffee shop for no other reason than I wanted to be around people. Sitting at my desk, watching the dust fly around in the air for the past two days was making me numb. I needed to hear stories, to see people, to become as vulnerable as I was supposed to be at this time of loss. I needed to discover that other people didn’t feel like brushing their hair and that other people were questioning why they were living in New York City. Really, I couldn’t be the only one asking myself these questions.

September 13 was a Thursday. The night was particularly gloomy. Both the US Army and the NYPD had blocked off the West Village below 14th Street. I had a tax statement, an old paycheck and a Visa bill crumpled in my pocket just in case I needed to prove my Chinatown residency.

Joel came to pick me up from work at midnight since there were no taxis to take me home. Our walk home felt strange. The streets were empty. I didn’t realize how hollow the site - newly named, "Ground Zero" - was until I saw the hollow glow hovering over a pit of rubble. There was nothing but a ghostly blob of dust blocking my view of what used to be the twin towers. Never before had Houston and West Broadway seemed so ominous.

About three blocks from Lafayette Street, thunder and lightening cracked the silent sky. We walked fast and in silence. By the time we reached the Bowery district, the rain was pouring down. The two of us were drenched. We started running fast. I let the rain pour off the shop awnings and onto my face. Really, nothing seemed to matter. My blue clogs became waterlogged. My tube socks felt super thick as they squished between my toes. My pants retained water and threatened to drop from my waistline. I held them up with my free hand as I leapt over pebbles.

The water felt good. If I had them, tears could have secretly welled up in my eyes. Maybe yesterday tears would have done some good. Lord knows, tears would have made me feel human. At that moment, running made me feel very alive. I suppose it was the vacancy of the streets that caused such unprecedented silence. The storm seemed to be saying, “Never forget this.” I felt like Joel and I were the only two people in Chinatown. I wanted to get to the apartment. My speed wasn’t really important, but maintaining fast legs felt good. Really, getting wet didn’t matter.

Doing my best Sound-of-Music-style leaps, I jumped over puddles and leaped off of curbs. On that night were no cars to honk at me. It would have been okay for me to fall on my face. I wouldn’t have cared one bit. The police guarding Allen Street let us though with the wave of the hand. ID cards seemed dumb. No one was trying to come downtown.

When Joel and I got to the top of the five-floor walk up,I walked to the window. The curtains were violently blowing into the bedroom. Outside there was that glow that insisted on staying in the sky to mark where the towers had stood. Not even the thunder the lightening could shake the smoke and ash that hovered above “ground zero.” Men were out there digging. Nothing mattered in whole city, but those digging men and those sopping-wet “missing persons” signs. I wondered, “Does Scotch Tape stick to street lamps in the rain?” I feared the missing signs would also dissolve. Then, I must have fallen asleep because I don’t remember anymore.

(names were changed in this story)