Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [13]
Within two days of her arrival at the house, Roselle went off to work with me at the World Trade Center. Initially, we spent a lot of time exploring the building’s hallways, its lobbies, and the underground shopping center. I worked hard to make sure she would not expect to always go the same way to get to a particular location within the building. I always felt it important that Roselle not be able to anticipate my commands—something that can easily happen within a confined space such as the WTC. Roselle and I made a good match; we were always up for an adventure.
But my 9/11 adventure would have very high stakes.
As Roselle and I walk together down the first few concrete stairs of Stairwell B, I begin to smell a peculiar odor. It reminds me of the smell of kerosene lanterns at Boy Scout camp. At first it’s slightly pungent, though. Just a tickle. I wonder what that smell is? Roselle must smell it too, but she gives no sign.
More stairs, with our small group heading down. The temperature in the stairway is comfortable, not too hot or too cold. The electricity is working and the air is breathable. But that smell . . .
Then it hits me. As a salesman, I’ve flown all over the world and been through countless airports. I know that smell. I’ve smelled it on the runway. I could swear it’s jet fuel.
I don’t say anything yet, but my mind begins to reel. Could a plane have hit our building?
4
HEARING
THE COFFEE TABLE
I wonder if anyone else has an ear so tuned and
sharpened as I have, to detect the music, not of
the spheres, but of earth, subtleties of major and
minor chord that the wind strikes upon the tree
branches. Have you ever heard the earth breathe?
KATE CHOPIN
The stairwell doesn’t feel crowded at first. People are quiet. Focused. No one is panicking. We just want out.
Stairs are usually a breeze. If I can ride a bike or drive a car, I can certainly climb down a bunch of stairs.
When I can, I walk down with my hand on the metal railing to my right. The railing juts out from the concrete wall, which feels cool to the touch. On the left is another metal handrail, this one supported by metal balusters. On my left, Roselle matches my pace, my hand on her harness handle. David is just ahead. Our stairwell is fifty-six inches wide, a full foot wider than the two corner stairwells. This additional space allows two people to climb down the stairs side by side. Sometimes we move out and pass people on the left; sometimes people pass us. I switch Roselle from side to side as needed. Everyone is polite but focused.
Each floor has nineteen stairs split up into two flights. The first flight has ten stairs. At the bottom is a landing with a 180-degree turn, then nine more stairs. Usually I don’t count stairs. It’s the dog’s job to pause and let me know when I get to the top of a set of stairs and when I get to the bottom. But this time I count for something to do.
Not only am I counting stairs, I’m listening carefully. My adrenaline is pumping, and I feel very alert with all of my senses heightened. As I walk, I strain to hear and decode the smallest sounds from the building. It’s telling me a story, and I don’t want to miss what it has to say.
Part of the story is what I am not hearing. I haven’t heard any more explosions. No fire alarms have sounded. No emergency announcements have crackled through the PA system. No emergency personnel have appeared to let us know what is happening. And no one can make phone calls. Cell phones are so ubiquitous that as a culture we are used to one-sided conversations surrounding us in almost any public place. But cell phones don’t work well in our steel-and-concrete cave. So as we descend, it’s mostly quiet.
The lack of cell phone reception also means we aren’t getting any news from outside. It’s like we’re together