Story Arcs

On a gorgeous morning 7 years ago, I was walking to a Brooklyn subway station to catch a train into work when I ran into cabbie parked along the street. He was standing on the passenger side, watching a little black & white TV perched on the roof of his cab. I could just make out the fuzzy image of a familiar, blocky skyscraper billowing smoke. "Looks like a plane hit one of the towers," he said, pointing West to Manhattan.

I walked on. By the time I made it to my subway stop, the second plane had hit. Cops were screaming at everyone to get off the trains and go home. Sirens blared as every firetruck and ambulance in Brooklyn tried to make it across the bridge into downtown. The streets were full of confused people. I don't think we knew enough to be scared yet.

I decided to walk on, headed towards the East river, to get a look for myself. Walking through a nice neighborhood of brownstones, I was hit by a cloud of smoke and ash coming at me from the river. A few people ran the other way. I walked on.

Finally getting to the riverbank, I sat on a bench and looked across at the familiar Manhattan skyline, the lower half covered in choking, black smoke. I looked over at the hipster kid sitting on the other side of the bench, listening to a little pocket radio. "They fell," he said. "What fell?" "The towers, man. They're gone." I spent the rest of the morning sitting and staring.