I never knew anyone quite like Allan. At first he looked like the kind of guy that you would pull small children out of the way of if you saw him coming down the street. He capped off the baggy jeans and black t-shirts with a haircut that was a complete buzz all the way around, except for a 15-inch section in the very front. Usually he combed this mane back, but on some occasions he would use glue to form three long spikes that went straight up, and you swore that if the wind blew just right you could pick up Space Shuttle transmission off those follicle antennae. For all of his looks, he was also the most loyal, dedicated, committed and all around best person anyone would want around. If I were ever to go into battle, to this day I would want Allan at my side.
That morning I was working as a sub at Creekview High School. Allan was a senior, and an active kid in my youth group. During the 9:00 pass period between classes I saw Allan in the hallway. He walked right up to me, and in his classic dead-pan voice asked, “Dude, did you hear what happened? Some dude flew a plane into the World Trade Center and it fell over. That stuff is messed up. Later.”
As he waddled off I thought to myself that, while Allan had one of the best senses of humor around, that didn’t seem very funny. Why would he say that, because of course there was no way that was true? It was my “off-period,” so I took my time walking down the hall, all the while debating to myself whether what he had just told me had any merit.
And I noticed the televisions in the hallway were on, and there was a crowd of teachers gathered around them. I couldn’t see what was on the screen, but at that moment I knew Allan was right.
I saw one tower standing… and lots of smoke.
My little brother lived in Brooklyn and worked for a law firm in Mid-Town Manhattan. One day he mailed us a picture of him standing on the Brooklyn Bridge, with the Twin Towers standing guard in the background, along with a note saying something about how this was the view on his way to work. Now for some reason I had taken that to mean he worked down by the World Trade Center. I did not know that on occasion he would bike through that area as he headed uptown, but that he worked no where near the Towers, and would often take the subway to work.
In a moment of panic one can quickly shift gears and run through a check-list of things at a very fast rate of speed, and I guess the whole idea of “it is 9:08 a.m. here, but this is the central time zone, and so that means it is 10:08 a.m. in New York, which would mean Ramsey would already be at work, and didn’t he send us a picture that had him and the World Trade Center, and does he work down there, and holy shit there is only one building standing, how did a whole tower collapse?” must have been on my face, because the principle standing next to me, watching all the horror unfold on the screen above us said to me, “What’s wrong.”
“I… think… my brother… works down there.”
I never want to know panic like that again. The principle pulled me into her office and let me call my brother’s office from her desk. I never got through, but about a half-hour later he called my grandmother to say he was at a pay phone, was all right, but had to go.
I don’t know how she found the number, but my Granny called the school to tell me she had found Ramsey and he okay.
I broke down in the office… and then my left eye began to twitch. It didn’t stop for six months.
It started twitching again yesterday. Uncontrollably.
That is part of my 9/11 story. The next day Allan would have another comment that would haunt me as much as the one from that morning.
Stay tuned…
The following pictures were taken by my brother from his Brooklyn appartment.
