It’s not difficult for me to talk about. I’m not sure if its acceptance or if I’m still in shock. I feel as if I’m still numb from the experience and it’s all just a dream.
It started out like any other day as a daily commuter on New Jersey Transit. I wait at the Main Line train stop in Glen Rock, New Jersey. I have my MP3 CD player and listening to my tunes, hoping for a burst of adrenaline to get me through my day, let alone start it.
It’s a pleasant day. The sky was clear and was temperature comfortable. The company I worked for at the time recently moved to Jersey City from Secaucus, right across the Hudson from the World Trade Center. You could look out of the east windows and see the ferry stop right at the base of the 16 story building.
It’s about 8:45 am when the train arrives to pick up the drones for the daily duties, we all board looking for seats away from anyone else. I take a seat facing the direction the train is going – sitting backwards always made me feel uneasy with all of the freak rail accidents that have been happening ever since I started riding on the train – in a two seater. The ride was fairly uneventful as the train made its routine stops, picking up more people as we went on. We were strolling through Newark my fellow passages started mulling about. I looked up from my foggy daze of tired eyes and loud music and gazed out of the window. I squinted my eyes when I saw a stream of smoke coming from a tall tower. A male passenger leaned over the seats in front of me to get a clearer look. I took out my ear buds and asked if a plant was on fire. If you ever traveled through Newark on the train, that possibility was definitely realistic.
All he could do was look at me with a confused smirk or some sort of odd facial expression. People were mumbling to each other, but nothing was being communicated. I became even more confused as the train came through the first series of junction tracks. I received an email on my two-way pager from my boss saying “Turn around and go back home.” My boss being the joker he is made my response a natural one. “Um, why?” At this point I thought everything to expect was a joke “Go back home or you’re fired.” Ok, I really needed to know what’s going on so I pressed on with another “Why?” “Terrorists bombed the world trade center again.” I was in utter disbelief and at this time, we had reached Hoboken Terminal. Everyone on the train was standing at this point and more confused than me it seemed.
We all looked out of the windows and started out of the train, and then the flood came. People we scream and running for their lives. It was as if an under water tunnel had broke and water poured in and up to the entrances leaking outward. I had to get out of there; they had obviously experienced something worse than me. I ran out to the bus depot to see if I can find anything out. The time was 9:40 am and I had to find out exactly what was going on but there was no cell service. I wandered around the outside of the station and I found a five foot square area I could reach a signal. I called my dad at work. “What the h*ll is going on?!” I asked and his response was sobering and surreal all at once – “Two planes crashed into the towers.” And I made the stereotypical response of “You’re kidding.” Two planes had hit the towers, but no one was certain if it were a coincidence that two planes veered off course or if it was an intentional act of aggression. As I listened in horror, an NJ Transit worker came running out of the bus depot yelling that another plane had hit the Pentagon. His father lived in Virginia and his father called him to make sure he was ok.
All I could do is stand around. Not a clear thought was going through my mind; no semblance of clarity had passed my eyes. People were still rushing away from that area as quickly as they could. I decided to wait as they rushed onto trains. That was the only point a message had cleared the smog in my head – “Let them get out of here, I can take any train I want back home.”
11 A.M. - the rush of panicking people had slowed down. I decided I could make my way home. The train was still heavily loaded with frightened and shocked people. Most were weeping and the ones that weren’t crying were like me, confused, scared and unable to make sense of any of it. I was scared for somewhat selfish reasons – I was supposed to go on a trip to Vancouver, British Columbia that Saturday. Would this continue on for days? What is going to happen next?
I couldn’t listen to my MP3s, I couldn’t really think, I was even sitting backwards on the train. I called my friend in Vancouver to make sure she knew I was ok, but I couldn’t reach her. After what seemed like a 30 second trip from Hoboken back to Glen Rock (this time on the Borough Line), I walked down to John’s Boy Pizzeria, my own little safe haven where I can count on a friendly face. Another gentleman that would normally be at work was already in the mostly empty pizza shop. I asked Umberto if he what had happened and all he could do was gawk at the TV so I joined him in empty stare of the images on the screen. Numerous times, over and over were the shots of the two aircraft being used as piloted missiles slamming into the façade of the monumental buildings. As the morning went on, the surrounding buildings – number 7 building – had crumbled. Countless architecture “experts” had commented on the structures and how long they could withstand such trauma. All I could wonder was how could the human spirit withstand such trauma. In my building of safety, in my life of routine, I no longer felt secure. I had lost my blissful ignorance. As with everyone in this area, there was no thought of revenge, there was no thought of who had done it. All there was left was “We need to find them.”
Days after the ordeal, I was able to go to work. For the next few months no one’s lunch hour was typical. We all helped the rescue effort the only way we could – handling supplies and loading the ferries. Our building had become a command center for the rescue effort and we had given anything we could have possibly given.
My family lost two close friends that day – Barry Glick and Dick Morgan. Both men loved fathers and husbands. And both passed on before their time as did many other husbands, wives, sons and daughters.
