It has now been 25 years. I still remember so much that happened that day.
I was working as a copy editor for a newspaper called American Banker. I lived in Westchester County, N.Y., and I would take the Metro-North commuter train down into Manhattan every weekday morning. When the train arrived at Grand Central Station, I would take the subway (the 4 or 5 line — whichever one arrived first) to the Bowling Green station to get to the newsroom.
That morning started like any other.
I remember what I was thinking about when I boarded the Metro North train in Ossining along the bank of the Hudson River. Our office had purchased a block of tickets for the Red Sox-Yankees game two days earlier, but we had paid for better tickets than we received. That morning, I was reminding myself to ask about getting a refund for the difference.
I remember my power walk through Grand Central. As was usually the case, my train arrived at one corner of the cavernous station, and the subway platform was in the opposite corner. There were several television screens available on my path from one train to another, but that morning I didn’t give them so much as a glimpse.
I remember the first sign of trouble. During my subway ride, the conductor announced that, due to “an accident,” we would not be stopping at Fulton Street. I wondered if “accident” meant a train had skipped a track, but I was not getting off at Fulton Street anyway, so I let that thought drift to the back of my mind.
I remember the scene as I emerged from the Bowling Green station. As I reached the surface, I saw that every man, woman and child on the street was standing perfectly still and looking straight up into the sky. Neither thing ever happens in a place like New York, so I turned my head to see what everyone was staring at.
I remember the smoke. From my angle, it seemed to rise in two perfectly straight columns, as if the particles were marching in formation upward. From my vantage point, I could not see debris or flames, but this seemed like too much smoke to come from a mere accident.
I remember the scene at my office building roughly a block away at 1 State St. Several of my colleagues, including my editor in chief, had gathered on the sidewalk outside the building’s front entrance. One of them called me over, and I asked, “OK, what the hell is going on?”
The editor-in-chief told me: “Terrorists have crashed planes into the World Trade Center.”
He then gave a brief pep talk about how our workday was going to be different from every other day, but I couldn’t believe my ears. The World Trade Center was less than a mile from where we were standing. We had held our office Christmas party there nine months earlier. What else was going to happen today?
I remember the next bit of news. One of our colleagues had called our Washington, D.C., bureau to let them know what was going on. That’s how we learned about the Pentagon.
I remember the sound. Above and beyond everything else, that sound will stay with me for the rest of my life. It wasn’t a crash as much as it was a roar. I honestly remember thinking that the sound was yet another airplane seeking yet another target.
I had no idea I was hearing a tower fall.
I remember the panic. As soon as the sound reached our ears, everyone started running away from the World Trade Center. We didn’t have very far to run, since we were already at the southern tip of Manhattan Island. Our office was literally across the street from the Staten Island Ferry. But we all ran anyway, whether out of fear or instinct.
I remember worrying about being trampled. I had grown up hearing about people being crushed to death at concerts and sporting events, and I was worried that this was going to happen to me now. When I reached the Staten Island Ferry station, I did my best to station myself behind a pole.
I remember the cloud. It quickly engulfed everyone and everything. Even when the cloud hit me, my mind could not process what that cloud meant — or the one that hit us shortly afterward.
I remember the buses. As soon as it could, the police department rounded up MTA buses to get everyone out of the area. I still don’t know how I managed to get on one heading for Grand Central.
I remember the phone call. The disaster had wreaked havoc on the city’s cellphone services, which were not nearly as advanced as they are today. I was trying frantically to call my better half to let her know I was still alive. After what seemed like an eternity, my phone finally rang. It was my mother in Florida. I told her we were being evacuated, and she took it from there.
I remember the dust. As our train took us back to Westchester County, I could still see it floating over the city. I could feel it all over my hair, my face, and my clothes. I was never able to get it completely off my soft-cover briefcase.
I remember watching the news with my better half for the rest of the day (and for a long time afterward) trying to figure out how all this happened. The people on the other side of the screen seemed as stunned and confused as the rest of us.
I remember waking up in the middle of the night and saying, “That could have been me.” Fortunately, that was the last time the events of that day disturbed my sleep.
I know that many people suffered immeasurably more than I did. I did not personally know anyone who died that day. I did not suffer any long-term health effects. (I briefly developed a cough, but that was due to acid reflux, and it dissipated quickly.)
Being in the news business, I know lots of people still remember that day just as vividly as I do. And I hope people will think before they tell us to never forget. Because a lot of people couldn’t forget it if we spent the rest of our lives trying.
Paul Pearson is the executive
producer of 7@7 at Las Vegas
Review-Journal.
