When They Ring Those Golden Bells

There's a land beyond the river
That they call the sweet forever
And we only reach that shore by faith’s decree
One by one we’ll gain the portals
There to dwell with the immortals
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

- Natalie Merchant

Missed connections have taken on an entirely different meaning now. I was about to begin my second meeting of the day, when a colleague turned to me and asked me whether I had heard about Lloyd’s son.

“Lloyd? Lloyd Glick?,” I asked. Lloyd and I had been working together on a project in Morris Plains, NJ since 1996.

“His son was killed on flight 93."

“Jeremy?” I had been aware of all the media reports, the story of the flight 93 heroes, who attempted to retake their hijacked plane from the terrorists on September 11. The plane and its contents were obliterated in rural Pennsylvania but it never reached its intended target. Presumably, countless other lives were saved as a result. Over the years, I had hooked up with Jeremy several times in Hackensack, NJ. One week had elapsed since the tragedy and I never made the connection.

My Little Town

In My Little Town, I grew up believing
God keeps His eye on us all.
And he used to lean upon me as I pledged allegiance to the Wall.
Lord, I recall, in My Little Town,
Comin' home after school, flyin' my bike past the gates of the factories,
My mom doin' the laundry, hangin' out shirts in the dirty breeze.
And after it rains there's a rainbow and all of the colors are black.
It's not that the colors aren't there, it's just imagination they lack.
Everything's the same back in My Little Town,
My Little Town, My Little Town.

Nothin' but the dead and dyin' back in My Little Town.
Nothin' but the dead and dyin' back in My Little Town.

-- Paul Simon

Days after the terrorist attack, I attempted to re-establish contact with friends and colleagues who worked or dwelled in lower Manhattan. My broker was walking through the ground floor of tower one when the first plane hit. He watched as the plane hit the second tower and then ran frantically towards the edge of the Hudson river. After scrambling over a seawall he was ultimately ferried to the secure embraces of New Jersey, where he could safely glance back and watch the horrors continue to unfold. Many of these "refugees" were encamped near Newark for the next day or two. It took him a full two days to get back home to his wife and family on Long Island.

A friend was on the 88th floor of the first tower and watched as the plane seemed to be heading straight towards him, so close, he said, that he could see the pilot. He ran down all 88 floors and into the safety of the second tower. Security personnel advised everyone to stay put, where they would most assuredly be safe. He ignored these admonitions and ran outside anyway. And lived.

Another client working out of 1 World Financial Center recounted how he ran outside after the first plane struck the tower and watched transfixed as the tragedy unfolded. He suddenly ran for his life as the nearby tower began to disintegrate before his eyes and barely survived the copious deluge of falling debris. He was nearly struck down by several falling bodies. He will never forget this as long as he lives.

Thick as Thieves

The worst of it has come and gone
In the chaos of millennium
And the falling out
Of the doomsday crowd
Their last retreat is moving slow
They burn their bridges as they go
The heretic is beautified
Teach the harlot's child to smile

Rocked again by indecision
Should we make that small incision
Testify, to the bleeding heart inside
We cut, we scratched
We ran, and we slashed
And when he opened up at last
Found a cul de sac
Deepened black
Of smoke and ash
Deepened black
Smoke and ash

- Natalie Merchant

After scouring various real estate options, the data entry subcontractor had finally secured alternative office space in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. Two weeks had elapsed since the WTC massacre and authorities had finally permitted them to revisit their former office and vacate their business and personal belongings. A 15 minute subway ride on the 4/5 line to Wall Street deposited us a short distance from the office, located just several blocks from the disaster.

The stench of decomposition at Ground Zero was nearly unbearable; bodies and body parts that had not been instantly cremated still lurked under the mountain of rubble. And some areas still seemed to smolder, like grayed charcoal briquettes not quite quenched after the party has long since died.

At first, I was somewhat overwhelmed at the sheer height of the debris but in retrospect I should have expected it; the materials that had comprised the twin 110 story towers could not simply disappear into a black hole. I stared for a while as a dusty parade of heavily laden trucks stopped briefly to be hosed off before beginning their trek to the Fresh Kills landfill on Staten Island. Kill actually means "river" in Dutch but it struck me that the Anglicized distortion of its true meaning seemed to make a lot more sense under the circumstances. After observing the somber activity for a short while, I finally turned away and walked inside my client's old building. When I started the journey back to midtown a little while later, I just stared at my feet as I walked to the subway.

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