Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [41]
“We all know you can see,” Kevin used to joke. “Come on . . . there’s no way you can’t see.”
Once, Kevin and I were walking down the street together with my guide dog. The sidewalk was crowded, and a woman coming the opposite direction neglected to move aside, bumped into me, and fell down. We helped her up, and she came up fighting mad. She shouted at Kevin, “You’re his handler. You should be more careful.”
Kevin and I both reacted when we realized she wasn’t talking about the dog, she was talking about Kevin. Handler? If ever I was tempted to use my white cane as a ninja stick, that would have been the time. But Kevin and I just laughed it off.
A feisty and opinionated New Yorker, Kevin was a huge help in dealing with the New York cabdrivers. Many of them were uncomfortable with dogs in their cabs, and if I stood on the curb, they’d pass me by. It wasn’t easy for me to catch a cab. So Kevin would stand at the curb and hail a cab while I stayed back out of sight. When the taxi stopped, I’d run forward with Roselle and join him. If the driver still balked, Kevin would unleash his New York City bluster. “Look, this is a working dog. You pull away and we’ll report you to the Taxi License Commission. And I have friends in Homeland Security. Don’t mess with us.” We did file a few complaints to the NYC Taxi and Limo Commission against cabdrivers who refused to transport us. We probably helped finance the city budget with those complaints.
On September 11, Kevin happened to oversleep because he’d been up late the night before playing with his beautiful one-year-old baby girl. He ended up going into work late and was on the PATH train, just entering the tube under the Hudson River, when the first plane hit our tower. The ground vibrated, and the train stopped then reversed and went back to Jersey City. With the trains stopped, he was stuck in Jersey City. He watched the towers fall, not knowing whether his Quantum colleagues were dead or alive. I had expected Kevin that morning, as he had a 10 a.m. appointment with people from Cantor Fitzgerald on the 102nd floor of Tower 1. He had not arrived by the time we left, but I didn’t know until later what had happened to him.
When David, Roselle, and I hit the concourse, the shopping mall under the World Trade Center, we begin to run. More water. We still don’t know exactly what is going on, but from the commotion in the lobby, it’s pretty clear that we need to get out and away. The shops in the mall are deserted, and the human traffic is flowing the same direction: up and out. We take an escalator and ride it up and outside to the second-floor plaza.
For the first time since the chaos began, we step into New York sunlight. We stop and breathe in some fresh air. It seems like a lifetime since we heard the explosion. I check my watch. It’s been an hour, almost to the minute.
David looks around, then up at the towers. “There’s a fire in Tower 2, up high,” he says.
What? The explosion was in Tower 1. What is going on?
We’re confused. What is happening? Maybe when our building tipped, the fire jumped to the other tower. We can’t think of any other explanation. The stairwell had been like an isolation chamber, blocking us from any outside news.
But we’re about to find out.
9
RUNNING
WITH ROSELLE
Faith is taking the first step even when
you don’t see the whole staircase.
MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.
Waves of people approach. First, the paramedics. “Thank you, but we’re fine. No injuries here.”
Next come the television reporters, asking for comments, but we are still in flight mode, and we keep moving. People fill the streets, streaming in all directions.
We pause for a moment on the southwest corner of Broadway and Ann, about a hundred yards away from Tower 2, the South Tower. David takes out his camera to take a picture of the gray and black smoke billowing upward from the towers while I try to reach Karen on my cell phone to let her know we are safe. All