8:46 am – American Airlines Flight 11 crashes into the North Tower of The World Trade Center.
I am in The Nectar getting coffee to go. I stop to tease Andreas the chef about something deciding to just drink my coffee there. He’s busy writing Tuesday’s specials on a giant blackboard.
9:03 – American Airlines Flight 175 slams into the Center’s South Tower.
Realizing I’m now running late I make haste toward the door running smack into George, one of the owners.
“Did you a hear a plane crashed into the World Trade Center?” he asks. I don’t think much of it. I have an audition for Clairol and really need to hurry.
“It’s probably one of those 2 seaters,” I tell him, “you know, a Patsy Cline plane.”
9:37 – American Airlines Flight 77 flies into The Pentagon in Washington D.C.
I’m staring into my closet like it’s an abyss wondering what to wear. Should I opt for a suit or just jeans with a nice blouse? I decide to dress up. It’s important after all. I choose an off-white Talbots suit with a pale yellow shell underneath. The phone is ringing. It’s Mildred who works at the funeral home.
“Susianna, did ya hear a plane hit the World Trade Center?” Don’t these people have lives? Don’t they know this is big day for me? If I get this job I can go to Paris plus pay off all my bills, in that order.
“Yeah, I heard,” I say sharply, “those private planes are very dangerous. You’ll never catch me on one. Mildred, I gotta go, I’ll call you later.”
9:59 – The South Tower collapses after burning for 56 minutes.
I’m almost ready hoping I haven’t forgotten anything. Missy the cat watches as I neurotically spill all the contents of my Kate Spade mailbag onto the bed making sure nothing’s missing. I quickly load it back in.
10:03 – American Airlines Flight 93 crashes in Shanksville Pennsylvania.
Shit, I forgot to feed her. As I’m spooning Fancy Feast into Missy’s bowl the phone is ringing off the hook. I ignore it. Let the answering machine pick it up. Is the universe conspiring against me? Since when do I get so many calls this early in the morning?
10:28 – The North Tower collapses after 102 minutes.
I’m finally out the door. A salesman from Peter Eliots Clothing Store runs over to me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked with a queer look on his face.”I’m catching the train downtown, why?” “Oh no you’re not. Don’t you know what happened? We’re under attack. The whole city is burning. They flew 10 planes into Wall Street. We’re all gonna die.”
“Excuse me?”
I stand there frozen. Is he pulling my leg? But then I see tears and realize something is indeed very wrong. Just then Evan, the florist, pulls up at the curb.
“Susannah, you better throw some shit in a bag. We’re being evacuated.”
“Evacuated? I have an appointment with Clairol.”
“Not today you don’t kid. We’re being attacked. Terrorists are everywhere.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, they’re saying collect your loved ones and prepare to leave.”
“Who, who’s saying that, and leave and go where?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
My loved ones? Missy! Omigod, I lent her carrier to Max the Himalayan. I’m not going anywhere without my Missy.
I run, and I mean run to Petco on 86 and Lexington to buy a carrier. I’m almost hit by a UPS truck crossing Park. The street is filled with panicked people dashing in every direction. I see a woman I know, white as a ghost, charging up Madison Avenue.
“Debbie, what is it,” I say never seeing her so distraught.
“Whitney is down there. Her phone is dead. I can’t reach her,” she cries as she flies passed me. Whitney is her daughter who works near the Trade Center.
Petco is closing its doors just as I get there. “NO NO, PLEASE,” I plead, “I NEED A CAT CASE.” God bless Hector the cashier who lets me in.
When I get back home my neighbor Helene Grossman calls. She’s going to Lenox Hill Hospital to give blood. Do I want to come?
“But I thought we were being evacuated?”
She assures me that’s not the case explaining exactly what had happened. I agree to meet her at 77 and Lex. When we get there the line is around the block; a hundred other people had the same heartfelt idea. Even Woody Allen and Soon Yi show up turning around when they see the line. We wait for hours before we’re seen. They pass on my Blood Type, AB Positive only wanting O since it’s the universal donor.
Helene and I then go back to her house to eat since neither one of us have all day. I remember vodka on the rocks, cold chicken and some kind of smelly cheese.
6:00 pm or so.
I leave to go check on Missy who’s asleep on the window sill. She mews hello as I walk in. I notice my suit that was so pristine when I left is grossly wrinkled with a mustard stain glowing on its jacket sleeve. I’m so tired that I plop on the floor. I begin to cry. Missy climbs down onto my lap purring as if to say, it’s okay. It will be okay.
But will it?
Turned out no one needed all that Type O blood the hospital so meticulously collected. The dozens of people they expected to treat never showed (actually it was a little more than a few dozen; 2,606 if you count the hijackers). Helene, who has special administrative skills is told she wouldn’t be needed after all.
8:00 pm
My alarm goes off causing me to jump in the air forgetting I had set it. I decide to go to Campbells Funeral Home near my house to see if I could help. They were fully staffed but thank me for offering. “We’re just waiting, they tell me, to see how bad it is. At this point no one really knows.” I hang around for a while not wanting to be alone. The stillness is deafening; peace, quiet and beautiful weather feel dramatically wrong.
A hearse pulls up.
They wheel in Fire Chaplain Mychal F. Judge, a priest, listed as ‘victim 0001′ the first official casualty of the September 11 attacks. I remember how silent everyone becomes and how loud the gurney sounds as it rolls in the side door. Father Judge was a Franciscan monk. Makes me think of St. Francis, wondering if he’s here in the room to bring his brother back home. In 2001 I’m still a practicing Catholic.
I say an Our Father then go home.
I pass out in my suit with Missy tucked beneath my arm.
6:35 am – September 12, 2001.
The sun rises.
It wasn’t the end of the world after all…
just the world as we know it.
I feed Missy then take off my suit.
Lest We Forget 
‘Victim 0001′
Susannah Bianchi
|
|
||
