I didn’t believe the headline I saw at the top of the New York Times website on the morning of 9/11/2001. They said a plane hit one of the Twin Towers. The “story” consisted of literally one sentence, with a link to the Associated Press’s website. The Times rarely reports news that isn’t their own. The AP site offered no more than that one sentence. The story was breaking. No further details available.

I wasted a lot of time poking around online, trying to find more from other news outlets, before turning on my TV. So I was just watching talking heads talk about this weird development. My assumption the whole time was that a small plane, a Piper Cub maybe, had hit one of the Towers. And then, while the TV news cameras were trained on the Towers, another plane—a fucking jet—flew into the second building. Saw it with my own eyes.

A friend came over from her apartment to watch. We watched, stunned. Both of us were reporters. We talked about how everyone was covering the news. I knew the WTC complex fairly well. I’d taken a train back to Hoboken from the basement of the Towers only the previous Friday afternoon. I went in and out of that station all the time.

Then, one of the anchors said that one of the Towers had fallen. We didn’t believe it. We couldn’t see it, frankly, via the TV broadcast. There was just too much black smoke obscuring the buildings.

We ran up the fire escape of my apartment building to get a better view from the roof.

And then we saw the second Tower collapse. Again, right in front of our eyes.

The two of us hugged each other on the roof, disbelieving.

I don't recall when I headed over to the home of my parents, who lived about 15 miles north in New Jersey, along the river. It might have been that night. It might have been early the next morning. I went because all the cell towers were out, and landlines appeared dead or busy. I couldn’t get through to Mom and Dad, and I was concerned. It took me forever to get north because so much of the traffic was rerouted from the city to the other side of the river.

Hoboken is just across the river from New York City. For days people wandered down to the waterfront to watch the column of smoke, and wince at the acrid stench. For days we all traded stories. My cousin, who had a heart condition, departed her law offices in the financial district, and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, covered in white dust, along with so many other people. She never should have exerted herself that way, in her condition, but what could she do?

Some time later, I don’t remember when exactly, I got around to writing a short story incorporating some of what I’d seen that day.

It’s the only story I ever wrote about 9/11. It’s a mob story about an ex-enforcer whose attempt at living the clean, civilian life is disrupted by the tragedy. I’m proud of that story. I think it manages to capture some of what I we were all feeling that day, and the weeks and months to come.

It’s also one of the first stories I managed to place with a mystery publication—Beat to a Pulp—so I’m proud of that too. It’s available in two different formats, if you’re interested.

I just couldn’t let the day go by without remembering. I’ve let many of these anniversaries slip by without comment.

“Back to the Boke” (sold as an ebook single, and in the Daggyland #1 collection)

Photo of Hoboken scene above by me; book cover by Jason Gurley.