PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities
Sorry. The Humor Department is closed until next week. I’m sure that
comes as no surprise. Given the number of times I have bored you with
tales of my former home -- that big, ugly, beautiful, infuriating,
uplifting city on the Hudson -- you knew I’d have something say about the
collective nightmare that began early on a Tuesday morning.
I have nothing to tell you about outrage. I’ll let others try to
express it. I can’t. And you certainly don’t need to hear from me about
the depth of the tragedy, the magnitude of the loss. No rational person
needs to have that explained to them.
There are a few, modest insights I can offer that might be of some
interest. What does that corner of the world, now changed forever, look
like and feel like? What if you were there, early on a Tuesday morning,
making your way to work at the World Trade Center?
The twin towers were the jewels in the crown of the financial
district, which is at the southern end of Manhattan called Lower
Manhattan or “downtown.” If you work downtown, you probably live in one
of the other boroughs, on Long Island or in Westchester, in Jersey or
Connecticut. The majority of New Yorkers don’t live in Manhattan.
Some people do live near downtown, in areas like Tribeca, Greenwich
Village, the East Village and Soho -- but small numbers compared to the
total population of 10 million.
You probably got here on the subway. If you live in the outlying
areas, you were on a train or a bus or both before you got to the subway.
It took you somewhere between 30 and 90minutes to get here.
Depending on where you pop out of the subway, you’ve got to walk three
to 10 blocks. Every corner of Manhattan seems impossibly jammed with
buildings and people, but even more so in Lower Manhattan.
But on a sunny, brisk Tuesday morning in September, you don’t mind the
walk at all. You don’t dare show that, of course, being a New Yorker. You
put on your sternest game face and walk fast. Very fast.
During that walk, you will almost certainly make a quick stop for a
cup of coffee, a bagel, a banana, a jelly roll, whatever. You will stop
at the same coffee shop, hand the man the same amount of money and get
the same amount of change.
A few minutes later, you’ll reach the World Trade Center Plaza. About
four blocks long on each side, the Plaza has a number of “smaller”
buildings on the perimeter, 40 or 50 stories tall. But the Twin Towers,
where you’re headed, rise like sparkling white titans, 110 stories tall, poking two holes in the bright blue sky early on a September Tuesday
morning
The fast-moving river of people surging toward the lobby doors is an
awesome sight. Fifty-thousand smartly dressed men and women, more young
than old, of every size and race and nationality, striding toward the
doors. America is going to work.
Once inside, you know exactly which bank of elevators is yours without
a second glance. If you’re headed for the upper floors, 80 and above, the
elevator ride still gives you a little rush, although you’d never dare
admit it. An awesome “whoosh,” a whirring sound and, a few seconds later,
you’re a thousand feet above the earth.
When you get to your desk, you say hello and settle in. Normally, you
wouldn’t pay much attention to the view. But on a morning like this, you
can’t help yourself. You swing your chair around, check your voicemail,
and at 8:48 on a sunny September Tuesday morning, your life and the world
are changed forever.
Have you absorbed it yet? I haven’t. In the quiet moments, getting
dressed or driving somewhere, I still have flashes of doubt. “Did it
really happen?” I ask myself. “Is this real or am I imagining all this?”
It doesn’t last long. One television image is all it takes to snap me
out of it. Or remembering that our daughter was at 38th Street in midtown
when the first plane struck. Or that her husband, Chris, was at his
office in Tribeca, about 10 blocks from the World Trade Center, with a
perfect view of the north tower at 8:48 on a bright September Tuesday
morning.
They’re both fine, but it was the start of a 12-hour adventure, with
Chris having to make his way out of the war zone on foot, then walking 40
blocks up the West Side Highway to find her.
In every catastrophe, natural or man-made, story after story emerges
about lives that were spared or lost by the most subtle quirks of fate. A
train that was a few minutes late. A dental appointment. A last-minute
decision to grab a cup of coffee before stepping inside a door. People
who should have been there but weren’t. People who shouldn’t have been,
but were.
Incredible ironies, one atop the other. One of the most startling was
a line of copy on a brochure that Nora, a friend of mine, showed me. As a
writer, you’re always looking for a clever twist, a hook, a grabber that
will capture people’s attention and hold it.
Nora picked up a World Trade Center brochure as a souvenir on a trip
to the Apple some 20 years ago. The cover is a beautiful aerial photo of
the World Trade Center towers presiding over Lower Manhattan on a clear,
sunny day, much like last Tuesday morning.
I don’t know if the headline grabbed anyone’s attention when it was
written, but 20 years later it stopped me in my tracks. The bold letters
perched above the Twin Towers proclaim, “The World Trade Center -- the
Closest Some of Us Will Ever Get To Heaven.”
God bless the innocent victims and the fearless rescuers who gave
their lives trying to save them. God bless this country. And may God have
mercy on the murderers who did this, because we won’t.
* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays.
He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.
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