Escape from the World Trade Center

by Leslie Haskin

  —ISAIAH 2:7–8

  8:10 a.m.

  All Towers

  I loved working at the World Trade Center, with its regal towers. I loved the convenience and status of it all: the shops, restaurants, and tourists who came from all over the world to see its unique majesty. I basked in the pampering of daily concerts on the plaza and activities around the huge fountains. I never tired of it.

  Architecturally, the World Trade Center was the union of seven buildings connected by an above-street plaza and a concourse. The most famous of these buildings were the Twin Towers, or the “Twins.” These were incredible and massive giants. They stood more than thirteen hundred feet high, with 110 floors. About nine million square feet of office space housed more than fifty thousand workers and served more than seventy thousand visitors on any given day. The main lobby of the towers boasted tons of beautiful windows spanning more than one hundred feet from floor to ceiling.

  Its marble floors and walls were astounding, rising toward extravagant chandeliers that caught rays of natural light and generously distributed it into otherwise obscure or unworthy lobby corners. This was a grand building, tasteful, exquisite, and beaming from the light of the sun.

  Outside each entrance were beautiful stone flower planters, almost as grand as the building itself. Designers created every planter, using polished stone and seasonal flowers, the scent of which, when riding a subtle breeze, was in itself masterful.

  The concourse was home to several delis, restaurants, and all the finer shops like Louis Vuitton, Tourneau, Barami, and others. Once inside you could walk for miles, shop, eat, and socialize without ever going outside. The strong walls of the concourse were massive and decorated with fine art, advertisements, and everything that was New York—sweeter than an apple and bigger than big city blues.

  If you have never been to the Trade Center, then you’ve been cheated. If you have, then you’re most likely still there. This was an unforgettable place. Unmistakably built to captivate and maintained to seduce.

  Walking through the World Trade Center during the morning rush was much the same as walking through the World Trade Center at night or midday. It was always busy with people.

  The Twins housed nearly three hundred businesses. They were home to law firms, insurance houses, brokerage firms, government agencies, entertainment management companies, and other businesses wanting that prestigious address. Most offices began their day at about 7:30 with dedicated employees at their desks and working. It was almost a privilege. This was a warm, welcoming house of natural stones, metal, and glass, and it was busy . . . always.

  By 8:00, there were already thousands of workers, shoppers, and adoring fans rushing who knows where. The sound of hustling feet resonated through the concourse and outlasted the sound of their unintelligible conversations.

  That morning was no exception. There were early-bird tourists taking pictures and excited hotel guests looking for maps and asking questions. Most stores were open and people were already browsing. Breakfast meetings were underway and the aroma of deli food mingled with the smell of detergent as maintenance personnel busied themselves with their work.

  From every corner of the concourse, one could see vendors just outside doors, intruding on time with their cloth-covered tables bearing an assortment of what they called “goods” for sale. They sold everything imaginable—fruit, clothes, jewelry, shoes, and even electronics.

  Celebrities, politicians, and international tourists frequented this place. It was one of New York’s finest. It was awe-inspiring, and like the day, it was a masterpiece, beautiful and alive.

  8:23 a.m.

  I stepped quickly through the crowd and to my favorite deli. It was located on the lower level of the Trade Center near the PATH’s exit, so there was always a line. Sam, the owner, was waiting for me with my usual cranberry muffin and hazelnut coffee. I made my purchase and then made my way up the escalators and to the elevators.

  I often played a little game with myself as I approached the lobby doors. I would count my footsteps in contrast to the person walking next to me. I liked the rhythm it produced—nothing important really, just something my friends would call a Leslie-ism.

  That morning, security staffed their stations as they always did, precisely and expertly. They stood with their intentional smiles, directing visitors here and there and asking to see access badges—nothing extraordinary.

  I walked with my usual arrogant and confident strut, swinging my laptop bag and firmly gripping my coffee. My mind wandered a bit in anticipation of hazelnut flavoring and cranberries. As I approached the lobby, I swiped my security pass and jumped onto the already crowded elevator. I did this much like I boarded the train, just before the door closed. I got the same looks of disapproval and ignored them just the same. I felt lucky that morning because some kind someone didn’t let the door close in my face. To me, that was a sign it was going to be a great day.

  Chapter 4

  . . . and the Super Ego

  Above It All

  My company’s office space was a beautiful example of an over-inflated facilities budget. The reception area, located directly in front of the elevator bank, was separated by etched glass doors and decorated with large floor plants and fresh flowers delivered weekly. Natural wood-grained furniture was consistent throughout the more than forty thousand square feet on each floor. Equal in extravagance were the bathroom tiles flown in from Italy.

  Like every other floor in the tower, we had floor-to-ceiling windows about two feet wide, separated by narrower columns. Even from ten feet away, one could look out and into the skies or look down on the city and feel above it all. That’s how working in the towers felt . . . above it all.

  Cubicles, or “cubes,” varying in size and location, engaged most of our office space. They were symmetrical, but cleverly positioned so as not to intrude on management’s tasteful and luxurious corner office views. Underwriting assistants occupied most of the cubes. There was no rhyme or reason to assigning them, except maybe the more overambitious the manager, the larger the assistant’s space. The cubes just outside of the executive offices were most coveted. They had breathtaking views of the city and were a sign of success and power.

  My assistant’s cube was directly in front of the northeast-facing window.

  One of only two African-American directors in the northeast region, I headed the operations department for one of the largest insurance companies in the country. My division was comprised of facilities, management information systems, branch services, about one-third of the underwriting staff, and their underwriting assistants. I had a big title, a bigger salary, and a huge ego.

  I like to think that I managed my staff with fairness and that they liked me. The truth is, my arrogance probably overshadowed my sense of fair play in most situations and my staff hated to see me coming.

  See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places. All these things are the beginning of sorrows. (Matthew 24:6–8 nkjv)

  And so . . . my day begins.

  8:28 a.m.

  I got off the elevator on the thirty-sixth floor and walked the few hundred feet from reception through common office space and to my private office. I did that morning as I always did, with a swift purposeful strut. I paused only for the usual forced smiles, nods, and good mornings. I took mental note of those working and those pretending to work in order that I might later make someone’s day with a big project that afforded them no time for pretense.

  No sooner had I powered up my computer and begun checking my e-mails, when my phone rang. This was typical of my mornings. I ignored it. Everyone knew I wasn’t alive until after my first full cup of coffee. I sat, delighted by the smell, and quietly sipped in the morning.

  Approximately 8:43 a.m.

  A few sips of coffee later, I decided to
go over to my very envied assistant’s desk for some quick answers. I knew from the night before that a problem with one of our major policyholders needed resolution. The idea was to appease my need to be in control and to get an explanation simple enough so as not to complicate my breakfast.

  I liked keeping these types of exchanges short and to the point. We traded pleasantries and got to the problem at hand. In mid-sentence, suddenly and without warning, the building shook violently and thunder came from within. It swayed back and forth slowly for a few seconds, as if riding a calm wave, and then stopped. It paralyzed any fair semblance of time.

  From that precise second, time was both accelerated and suspended.

  Chapter 5

  Strike One

  Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior

  Disaster will come upon you, and you will not know how to conjure it away. A calamity will fall upon you that you cannot ward off with a ransom; a catastrophe you cannot foresee will suddenly come upon you.

  —ISAIAH 47:11

  I was eighteen years old when cancer claimed my mother’s life. It was a fight to the finish and she was a most worthy opponent.

  Momma, or “Madea” as she was lovingly called, was short in stature but a giant in personality. She had a beautiful light tan complexion and the deepest eyes I had ever seen as a child. Still now, there are no comparisons. It sounds cliché, but her smile could awaken the stars at noon. Her effortless and natural love for life and people radiated through her presence. It could overwhelm at times—at least it did me.

  She was playful and enjoyed the practical jokes she pulled on each of her children. Equal to her playful nature was the fight in her. She was strong and steadfast in her convictions with a faith in God that was without question or condition. Her faith was her legacy.

  It was Momma’s huge voice and love for music that directed our church choir. Her voice was as big and as beautiful as she was—and when she sang, Momma sang! Her soulful, raspy voice grabbed you in the gut and made you know “There is a God.” Sometimes her voice floated around in my head for hours, singing: “Pass me not, O gentle Savior . . . Hear my humble cry . . . While on others Thou art calling . . . Do not pass me by.”

  Sometimes on Saturday mornings she would sit in front of her piano, playing without restraint and singing. Her hands glided effortlessly, tickling the ivories, with her eyes closed and head tossed back. She would sing until the neighbors woke up. We call it praise and worship today. Back then, it was simply disturbing the peace. “Leslie,” she’d say, “praise God always, in good and bad times, because we know that all things work together for good to them that love Him.”

  I hated hearing that. I hated that she forced me to learn to play the piano, and I hated having a mother stronger than a riptide direct from the ocean floor in mid-August. I defied her at every turn, but she forced her wisdom on me. She forced me to listen, and somehow I learned.

  I learned from her songs, her family meetings, and her unique ability to feed her children the cold, hard truth and somehow make it okay. Her arms were our safe place. We knew that when we were there, nothing could harm us, not even life.

  I would love nothing better than to honestly say that I went quickly to my safe place in that moment the north tower shook, or that I sensed my mother’s presence with me, but I didn’t. I had no senses at all except for those in my feet, which by now were exacting downward as the once stable floor beneath them was in full tilt.

  The sound and feel of the impact were indivisible. It was huge. The thunder replaced the beat of my heart. The building rocked from side to side. People swore as they lost their footing and stumbled. Most were already in tears. I was shaking and disoriented.

  Loud bangs resonated from the north side of the office. Each time they were so sudden and so random that I nearly jumped out of my skin. There was a nonstop, horrible shriek of what sounded like scratching, stretching, or bending metal. It was like some morbid underscore for an Alfred Hitchcock psycho-thriller . . . only worse. It was unnerving then, and I still cringe at the thought of it. It would be years before I could communicate that sound without complete withdrawal.

  The windows were shaking, and glass exploded from everywhere. Those gorgeous natural wood-grained desks, chairs, and symbols of status went right out the window, literally. They violently and in succession freed themselves through our once sealed and privileged views. Impositions of air whistled in whirlwinds and stole all that remained of usable air. Panic was instantaneous.

  Unintelligible conversations familiar to the concourse now intruded on office decorum. I heard crying from every direction—from behind walls, underneath desks and tables, and even open corners. Most peculiar were the almost inaudible whimpers from behind elevator doors.

  “It was a bomb,” someone called. The floor began buckling. “Get out! Get out.” “The building is coming down!” someone else shouted. It was only seconds before the mad dash toward the exits began.

  I turned to my assistant. The place where she sat was empty. I turned again and watched her trembling body run for the exit while mine stood motionless at that window, paralyzed by the once beautiful sight of the sky. I stood there listening to debris falling from above, banging against the sides of the building, and filling the sky with all sizes of shredded paper, stone, furniture, and people. It was the ugliest and the most dreadful thing I had ever witnessed.

  My mind tried desperately to find words my heart could understand. I didn’t know anything in that moment . . . I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. All I could do was stand there. It was like watching a snowstorm with all sizes of weird and distorted flakes, burying me. It was like a blizzard, or a parade. It was confusing and obvious, and terrifying and breathtaking . . . all at once. It was . . . it was gray confetti . . . almost. I was lost in those moments.

  Then almost in slow motion, that beautiful blue sky choked to death on a horrible smoke that filled the air until outside the window was nothing more than a gigantic dark gathering place for lost souls.

  My heart stopped.

  A rush of adrenaline shot up through me. I felt as if I had run a marathon or twenty miles uphill. My heart pounded so hard that it hurt. My breath was short and quick. I felt lightheaded—like I was suffocating. I watched things fall off the desks, I think. I think. . . .

  Wet. Warm and wet. Urine ran down the side of my leg when someone shouted, “The ceiling is caving.” I felt anxious. Then I heard moaning. It was too close for it to have been anyone but me. I grabbed my arm and told myself to move . . . move . . . move . . . Leslie.

  My knees were weak beneath me. My legs struggled just to keep standing. My mind could not process what I wanted my body to do. My fingers tingled, and my heart leaped through my chest. My mouth was dry. My lips sealed. It felt like the floor had already begun to give way. Was it really sinking? I was queasy and overwhelmed by a feeling that I had never felt before. Whatever it was, it formed a scream that started deep inside my belly. It was big and bottomless and I could feel it growing—getting bigger, until it was bigger than the objects falling outside the windows. It tunneled through me . . . and then . . . stopped at my lips.

  I felt very strange, detached from myself. I looked at my hands and my arms. I saw them, but I didn’t really see them. They didn’t look familiar. My legs looked fake. I couldn’t figure them out. I thought, “What the . . . these aren’t my hands. . . . This isn’t me.” I want to say that it was then that I moved toward the open windows . . . but I can’t be sure. I heard myself talking, but my voice was inside my chest and pounding through some long tunnel. My words seemed muffled. I remember now that I kept making sounds, trying to hear “me.” I was so removed, nothing seemed real. I felt discombobulated, like I was . . . I was floating . . . apart from everything . . . unattached . . . distant . . . lost.

  Then all of a sudden, I felt nothing. My body went completely numb.

  I walked zombie-like into my office and picked up the telephone. I wanted to call my cousi
n Ronnie. I’m not sure why. He’s a smart man. Maybe I wanted him to explain all of this to me. He’s strong, fearless, and protective. Maybe I thought he could defend me from whatever it was that was attacking me. He loved me. Maybe he could stop the pain. I needed to find some control somewhere and maybe, just maybe, I could somehow return the morning to normalcy or steal courage through his voice. Whatever the reason, I tried dialing him, but the connection failed.

  The building swayed again and then settled. Looking back, it never really righted itself again. I hung up the phone and redialed.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see frantic colleagues running in all directions, cussing and screaming. Again, someone shouted to me, “Leslie, what the [expletive] are you doing? Get the [expletive] out of here. This [expletive] building is coming down.” I calmly hung up the phone and left my office. I left my life.

  The journey began.

  Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place. Do not drag me away with the wicked, with those who do evil, who speak cordially with their neighbors but harbor malice in their hearts. Repay them for their deeds and for their evil work; repay them for what their hands have done and bring back upon them what they deserve. (Psalm 28:2–4)

  Chapter 6

  Step-by-Step

  Deeper Into Darkness

  Journal Entry

  October 16, 2001