The Third Wave_ A Volunteer Story - Alison Thompson [5]
I was just an everyday civilian with no formal credentials other than the will to help. When I heard about the lockdown, it occurred to me that if I left Ground Zero now, I might never make it back in. But after three full days down there, I decided to venture out anyway. I made a stop at a friend’s house, where I refueled myself with food and stocked up on supplies.
When I returned, I marched straight past two National Guards with submachine guns, trying hard to look like I belonged there. I knew the work I was doing was probably the most important thing I would ever do in my life, and I was determined to get back to it. Luckily, they didn’t stop me.
The miserable rains started late on the night of September 13. It was freezing. Everyone had to come off “the pile,” as it was too hazardous to work—large chunks of iron debris were still slipping off the surrounding buildings.
I was stuck inside St. Charlie’s bar cuddling with a large older nurse under green garbage bags that we hoped would help fight the wind blasting through the broken windows. We lay across three steel chairs and held each other tightly. A few hours later, I woke up and apologized for holding on to her stomach. She replied, “Actually, those were my breasts!” We laughed, regaining our sanity. Then we looked around to find that we had been sleeping in a corner filled with human feces.
The next day, while working on the rubble pile, I heard the voice of an angel calling out in the haze, asking if anyone wanted Kentucky Fried Chicken. I hadn’t eaten since having a snack at my friend’s house the day before, so I stood up and screamed, “OVER HERE!” I couldn’t believe my good fortune: Kentucky Fried Chicken is like crack to me. I sat in the midst of the burned plastic and ash, tearing at my precious piece of meat, its succulent juices running down my filthy face.
Throughout my life, my true friends have always known to bring me a bucket of KFC to make me happy. Jonathon Connors, my good buddy who worked on the 104th floor of the World Trade Center, was one of those friends. As I devoured my piece of chicken, my mind floated to him, and I hoped that he had made it out alive. I picked up my phone. Miraculously, it was one of those rare occasions when I could get a cellphone signal. I made a call to a mutual friend, and learned that there had still been no word to anyone from Jonathon. I knew at that moment that I had lost him. It made me more determined than ever to keep working. I found some sunflowers in a wrecked kosher goods store and asked a Con Edison worker to tie them onto lampposts in remembrance of the dead.
After my minifeast, I found a toothbrush and water in a burned-out store and brushed my teeth while sitting cross-legged in the gutter. When I was done, I tied the toothbrush to my waist with a piece of rope, knowing I’d lose it otherwise. Then I started laughing at myself, imagining how absurd I must have looked. I thought about all the M*A*S*H episodes I had watched on TV growing up and how, ironically, they had prepared me for this very moment. I’d learned from them that humor was an important part of surviving a tragedy.
Later that day, policemen manned the nearby Burger King and cooked free burgers for everyone. Weeks later, five-star restaurants like Daniel and the Tribeca Grill started sending down filet mignon meals to the aid workers. New York and the world were unselfishly donating their time, skills, and money to help. I remember someone spoon-feeding me crème brûlée, which sent me to nirvana. Moments like those made me proud to be a New Yorker.
On the fourth day after we’d set up shop in St. Charlie’s bar, FEMA came by our little first aid station three times to try to shut us down. They said it was time for “the professional disaster people” to take over and asked all volunteers to leave. We prepared to protest. But then they covered their badges and told us to please