Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [54]
The TV is on, and I’m fielding phone calls. I don’t even dare go to the bathroom because I don’t want to miss Mike’s call. I wonder if the fire is in the stairwell?
There is chaos around the towers, the streets and sidewalks brimming with a mass of people running and walking in every direction. People’s faces are pale and strained. There are airplane parts on the ground and papers everywhere, blown out of the buildings by the explosions.
The column of smoke seems even bigger and blacker than before, when, without warning, it turns gray and starts to expand out the sides. It almost looks like a nuclear explosion. The cloud grows and grows and metal pieces are shooting out of the building, and the whole thing falls, the top floors collapsing downward. In just ten seconds, one of the towers is down inside a huge, gray cloud. I freeze, my eyes fixed to the screen. What happened?
The TV newspeople are in shock, too, struggling to describe what they are seeing. Finally someone announces that the South Tower has collapsed.
I keep praying and answering the phone. Although I know Mike’s office is in the North Tower, seeing the other tower disintegrate makes me more worried. When Mike was without a guide dog for six months, people downtown weren’t always too helpful. What will they do when everyone is in a panic, running?
Roselle and I walk as if in a dream through the streets of Manhattan. I want to put as much distance as I can between us and the crumbling World Trade Center. I want to talk to my wife. I want to go home.
Although Tower 2 has collapsed, our tower has not. Tower 1 is on fire but upright and holding steady. I wonder if our offices are okay. When will I get to work in suite 7827 again?
As I walk, I continue to brush off my clothes and hair, although I know I can’t get all of the dust off. David tells me I have some blood on my face from some flying chips of concrete that struck my ear. I have the sudden realization that I am covered in parts of the World Trade Center, pulverized to a fine, silky dust. Not only am I wearing it; I am walking through it, too. I can’t quite get my mind around that.
We’ve been walking about ten minutes when it happens again. I hear that same freight train waterfall sound. The vibration is deep, thundering through the earth and climbing up through my shoes and into my legs. I pull back gently on Roselle’s harness, and we stop. Roselle is calm and quiet, pressing against my leg.
The rumble becomes a roar, though not quite as loud as before. I don’t feel the same terror this time because we have put some distance between us and the towers. But my heart breaks. Our tower is falling to the ground.
For a few moments we listen to the sounds. Glass shattering, steel snapping, concrete crushing. It’s the sound of a building dying. I don’t feel the same adrenaline rush as before. I think I’m too tired. Mostly, I just feel sorrow. What’s happening to the firefighters who passed by? And the people above the crash zone? Are there people still in the stairwell, gripping that same rail and counting the stairs? What about the emergency workers in the lobby, standing in place and directing people out?
A picture of my office flashes into my mind. Not a visual, photographic-type picture, but a three-dimensional image of the office, with furniture, fixtures, and office equipment occupying a precise layout. I know the location of every pencil and piece of paper, every wall plug and light switch, and every piece of technology in the office. I think of my framed picture of Karen (for my visitors to enjoy) and of Roselle’s safe haven under my desk. My fingers twitch a bit as I think about my Braille writer from high school, the first piece of technology that let me communicate on paper. Throughout the years, it accompanied me to each new office, taking prime real estate on my desk. Is it still in one piece? Right now it’s easier to think about a dusty piece of