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 [email protected].