Tower Stories

  Relativity has also been produced at many regional theaters across the United States.

  ANTONIO “NINO” VENDOME

  In the wake of the attack on the Trade Towers, Canal Street turned into a highly organized, bustling refugee camp. The change happened practically overnight. Restaurant owners like Antonio “Nino” Vendome opened their kitchens, and their employees scrambled to feed thousands of hungry rescue workers, police, and firemen. Many establishments covered their initial expenses, estimated in the millions of dollars altogether, from their own pockets.

  Nino Vendome owns Nino’s Restaurant, a neighborhood favorite at 431 Canal Street. Mr. Vendome is a square-shouldered, barrel-chested man who appears to be in his fifties, with spiky, steel-gray hair.

  WHY DID I open my restaurant to these people? The way I figure it, it’s not some kind of birthright to have people risk their lives and their families on your behalf and not be appreciated. Let me tell you something. My family came here from Italy in 1955 with four suitcases and $40 to get started. I put down roots in real estate and ended up doing pretty well. I’d established myself in business by the time I was twenty-one.

  This city was different back then. A lot different. I put a key in the door of my very own office one morning at 4:00 A.M., and I turned it. I knew there were risks being out on these streets, but I also knew there were men in blue around to protect me. I could never have established anything if these men in uniform weren’t out there, putting their lives on the line. So yeah, I feel like I owe them.

  The attack happened on Tuesday morning, and I organized the restaurant on Wednesday so that we were up and running as a relief shelter on Thursday. We’ve been going 24/7 ever since, and it’s already been a month.

  When we started, it was obviously an emergency situation; none of us knew whether we’d be operating for one day, two days, three. But as long as I’m around, we’ll stay open until somebody tells us we aren’t needed anymore.

  Our location is ideal—we’re about fifteen blocks from Ground Zero, a distance where the air quality is acceptable. Workers can actually enjoy their food while they’re here. And I’d say we’re feeding between five to seven thousand people a day, which includes everyone involved in the rescue efforts—policemen, national guardsmen, Con Edison power company workers, sanitation workers, utility company workers—everyone working in the rubble right now. We don’t ask questions. Our doors are open, whether you want to come in and cook for yourself or you want a meal prepared. Or maybe you just need a place to sit and take a nap. That happens a lot.

  The outpouring of support by New York City eateries—and the number of free meals served to rescue workers in the months following 9/11—was nothing short of staggering. General manager Nick Pasculli said that keeping Nino’s open twenty-four hours to serve nearly 5,000 meals a day cost the restaurant at least $80,000 a week.

  I’d estimate we’ve served about 100,000 meals so far to thousands of different people who come in here bone-tired. Exhausted. They come in from all different types of situations. But you know what? I have yet to hear one of them complain. Make sure you write that down.

  I set my own staff of about ten to fifteen people to work. Then I hired fifty more and took in at least a hundred volunteers to round out the ranks. We’re handling an incredible volume right now. On a daily basis, we’ll prepare 2,700 eggs, 400 pounds of potatoes, 350 pounds of meat, 180 pounds of bacon, 150 pounds of sausage, and 125 loaves of bread.

  We’re going to need more bodies as we become more organized. Volunteers have been coming in from around the country and that’s great, but we have no idea where they’re staying. All I know is they’re coming here selflessly to do what they can.

  For instance, across the street there’s a barbecue truck run by a church that drove up from Texas. That’s right, you heard me: Texas. They’re cooking ribs and chicken in this submarine-like oven mounted on the flatbed outside. This thing must be thirty feet long and it’s cooking twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There’s a tractor-trailer behind it full of chopped wood to keep the grill fires going. And this is what Americans are doing. We’re very resourceful people.

  We were originally producing all the food we serve here, but the volume of workers grew so rapidly. My place can only handle 150 people at a time. So the question became: How do you serve 7,000 people? It’s a game of logistics.

  I’ve recruited other restaurants in the community to help prepare food. Immediately, we were looking for products with nutritional value. Carbohydrates and proteins; lots of pastas and chicken. The mainstay theme is Italian, but we have some French menu items plus all different types of vegetarian cuisine. We’ve asked suppliers for donations of stews, chickens, frozen pizzas; romaine and mesclun lettuce; sports drinks and sodas. Kitchen stuff, too: garbage cans, paper napkins, folding chairs, and toilet paper. There’s a list outside that specifies who’s contributed everything. And people have astounded us with their generosity.

  Right after this whole thing happened, we had survivors from Windows on the World working with us. One of their managers was working here one night. His name was Steve—I forgot his last name. After all he’d been through, losing all his people, here he was, laughing and joking to keep people’s spirits up, serving chicken and salad.69 A great guy to be around.

  He was working with us night and day. Then they had a memorial for some of his co-workers, and he just fell apart. He hasn’t been back since. We’re just letting him be for now. What else can you do? He’s been through a lot, but he gave us a lot. We’ll reach out to him in time. For some of these people … what else can I say? It’s going to take a lot of time.

  I started my first business right around the corner from here about thirty years ago. I’ve been involved in restaurants for well over twelve years. In all that time, I’ve seen the selflessness of people, and I’ve seen the selfishness. I don’t want to cast aspersions but, on an honest assessment, this situation has brought out the worst in some people.

  For instance, at one point early on, I needed more refrigeration. So I went to a local distributor and he dropped off a refrigerator unit. The thing was worth $500 and he wanted to charge me $1,000 a month to rent it. I agreed, because I needed it right away to do the job. But I knew I was getting robbed.

  So I explained to this guy that he’s a thief and a crook and that this is not the time to be doing that sort of thing. Then I cut the check for $1,000. He came around to the restaurant and said, “What about another thousand for the deposit?”

  I said, “You know what? Do I look like a fucking idiot to you? Get out of here before I decide to do something stupid.”

  So I’ve experienced that kind of idiocy. It doesn’t matter. I’ve experienced some unbelievable unity as well.

  There’s a big sign out front that reads, “Feel free to share your thoughts with our nation during this tragic time.” People have taken us up on the offer. The walls and windows of buildings up and down Canal Street are covered with stickers as far as the eye can see. And each sticker bears a unique message from a rescue worker:

  “Love like your life depends on it.”

  “From the ashes, we will rise and become even stronger.”

  “It’s time for America to bless God.”

  “Dennis is gone, a wonderful spirit.”

  “Life is good even when it’s bad.”

  “How much foreign oil are you using? It’s now our war.”

  “New York: May we never forget how close we’ve become. Let’s stay this way.”

  There are drawings made by children, too. Crayon-on-oak tag images of Captain America and Superman. I saw the cartoon hero Wolverine slashing through Osama bin Laden with his razor-sharp claws. And inscriptions are posted from representatives of many religions and countries: the B’nai B’rith, the Jews for Jesus, the Virgin Islands, Argentina, and the Dominican Republic.

  I read these notes, and I was blown away. They started out as a way to help the rescue worke
rs with their mental fatigue and stress. Then we issued everyone coming through our doors some paper and pencils so they could express themselves, whatever their thoughts might be. The terror, their families, the war, whatever. It started small. People would write a note and stick it to the wall. Now the entire block’s covered. We’ve encapsulated them under plastic to protect them from the elements.

  I’ve been talking to the New York Historical Society and the Museum of Modern Art about making sure these notes get curated. This is something I feel needs to be documented for the world to reflect on in perpetuity. A thousand years from now, people will want to know what went on here. People will want to read what our reactions were and wonder what it was like to be alive during all this.

  All these fellas, these uniformed officers—we serve them a meal and they’re so grateful. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” That’s all I keep hearing. These are the guys who were running into the buildings as they were collapsing, and everybody else was running out. They’ve lost their dear friends, but they still stop to say thank you when someone hands them a bottle of water.

  We want to make a statement here that identifies unsung heroes. I am so grateful for this privilege.

  I’m no one special—write that in your story. I’m like everyone else. We’re all constantly working to keep a roof over our heads, working to nurture our children. These people we’re feeding? None of them live in three- and four-garage homes. None of them is secure with their children’s educations. They’re just men and women whose families live with the idea that every day they go to work, they might not be coming back.

  In the ’60s we used to call them pigs, and God knows what. But it’s time we stopped cursing at them and spitting at them and taking them for granted. It’s time to take a step back and appreciate what these uniformed people do.

  So you plant the seed of knowledge. You plant a vision. Maybe now some coffee shop in Utah will look at that uniformed individual a little differently. And maybe they can’t afford to give him a free meal, but they can afford to treat him with the respect that he deserves.

  That’s our goal. To protect these people who are the mainstay of this country.

  69 Windows on the World, the famous 30,000-square-foot restaurant located high atop the North Tower, lost seventy-three employees.

  BOBBIE-JO RANDOLPH

  Bobbie-Jo Randolph, twenty-seven, is a volunteer firefighter and on-call EMT from Hermiston, Oregon. Bobbie-Jo is a member of the Disaster Medical Assistance Team (DMAT), a branch of FEMA. She was one of several rescue workers from all corners of the nation who responded to the call for assistance at Ground Zero.

  A FEW YEARS AGO, I met a pediatric emergency physician in Portland named Dr. Helen Miller who worked for Oregon Health Science University. She had moved to Oregon from Seattle, where she’d been on the DMAT team. She’d really enjoyed working DMAT, but there was no team in Oregon, so she decided to put one together. When she started recruiting people, I went to an emergency medical conference in Sun River, outside of Bend, to meet her and throw my hat into the ring.

  Initially, we had less than twenty members. In order to qualify for a team, we had to get more people interested. So we went out into our communities and said, “This is what we do. If you’re interested, come talk to us and we’ll try to push your applications through.” That was in 1999.

  At first, we made ourselves known by doing some local events with the Seattle county team. In Oregon, they have what’s called the Gorge Games, a large athletic event where participants do everything from windsurfing to running to biking. It’s a televised event, one week long, and we provided medical care. But we kept training and training over the past two years, drilling ourselves to handle any disasters that may or may not occur.

  When New York happened, we thought we were ready. Ground Zero was the first time the federal government deployed us.

  When a national disaster is declared, DMAT teams from around the country send their rosters to the head honcho at FEMA. We were one of the first teams to get our roster in. We said, “Look, we have an entire team ready to go.”

  Normally there are different team levels: One, Two, and Three. Level One is the highest priority, with teams that have more people and more equipment. Oregon is currently at Level Two, so we’re not normally the first people to get called. But having our rosters together helped. There were several other teams that were closer to New York, like Ohio and North Carolina; those teams were deployed first. Each team went to Ground Zero for a two-week period before getting rotated out and replaced by another team.

  Oregon team members were asked to go in mid-October. We sent a first team out, then the government asked for more. I was on the second team. As I recall, I left the fifth of November, 2001.

  I was in bed when I heard about the attack. Someone called my phone and said, “Turn on your TV right now,” so I did. It was just before the second plane had hit, maybe 5:00 or 5:30 in the morning on the West Coast.

  I was watching when the second plane hit. At first I thought it was a replay of the first plane’s impact. Then I realized, no, that’s a different building—there are two buildings on fire now. I’d never been to New York City. I’d never seen the Trade Towers except on TV or in photos.

  Honestly, the first thing that came to my mind was that I wanted to jump on a plane, get over there and help. That, and my concern for the safety of the people in those buildings. Before the buildings collapsed, I wondered what the chance for that was. These are things that go through your mind when you’re a firefighter.

  I remember thinking: not to worry, those buildings are huge. A few floors might collapse, but nothing else. It was never in my mind that the entire building could fall. But when they did, I also remember thinking, there hasn’t been enough time for the firefighters to get out. I wondered whether there were people still alive in there … or did they all evacuate? The news wasn’t coming as fast as my mind was moving.

  I remember sitting there, watching everything and wondering if this was real. It seemed more like a movie. I guess everybody says that, huh?

  After the buildings fell and we knew that it was definitely going to be a disaster site, I called up my team leader. Dr. Miller had been inundated with phone calls, but she told me what she’d told everyone else: she’d already called FEMA and told them we were available if anyone needed us. At that point, nothing was set up yet. It was too soon to tell. This was the day of the attack.

  She asked us all to keep a watch on our email rather than to keep calling her. She wanted the phone lines open in case. And every day she’d send us an update: “We’re still on the list. Keep your bags packed, we don’t know when we’ll go.”

  DMAT wants to know that you can be on a plane immediately after they call. Usually you have between twelve and twenty-four hours from getting the call to leaving for a disaster location. That makes it difficult in Oregon, which is a huge state. I live three hours from the nearest major airport. Plus I had my kids to think about. If I have to leave town, I’ll do different things with them on different occasions. When I left for New York, my mom, my ex-mother-in-law, and the boys’ father took turns watching them.

  I remember getting the call. Helen didn’t make it because she was already here in New York with the first team Oregon sent out. With Helen in New York, Steve Myron was the acting team leader in Oregon. He happens to live twenty minutes from me—we were the only two people from our team living in Eastern Oregon—and we’re good friends of six years. Steve’s a police officer, an EMT, a firefighter, and he does hazmat. He’s the king of all trades, an awesome guy.

  Steve and I’d been involved in something called the Hometown Heroes Ball, which was sponsored by our local country radio station. It was a huge dance with a few famous singers—New Yorkers probably wouldn’t know them because these folks are country singers. But we had the dance to thank all the local heroes, our firefighters, policemen, EMTs, servicemen, anyone with a badge. They all got in for fr
ee and their guests paid a nominal fee, and all of that money plus money from a silent auction went to the charity funds in New York.

  I’d been listening to the radio and planning on going to the ball. Steve had put together a PowerPoint program about September 11, a very moving presentation with music under it, about three songs long. He’d shown it to a few people and everyone cried when they watched it, but he hadn’t done anything else with it. I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could do the PowerPoint show at the fundraiser?”

  So I called up the radio station. I told them we had a team that was working in New York right then, and that we’d love to show the presentation and talk about what we do. They said, “Awesome. We’d like to see it.”

  We went to the dance and showed the PowerPoint program. About halfway through the slide show, there are pictures of the firefighters, paramedics, and police who died, fifteen or twenty slides with fifteen or twenty people on each slide. People started clapping as the pictures came up. They offered a standing ovation and continued clapping until the images of the people were done and the show went back to slides of the site. I looked around the room and there wasn’t a table where people weren’t openly crying.

  We were sitting at our table when Helen called us on Steve’s cell phone.

  “Put a second team together,” she said. “You’re coming out here on Monday.” Just like that, we were being deployed.