I was in New York on 9/11 - September 11th.
I had gone to the Big Apple in June of that year, after finishing college, to seek my fortune and chance my arm. I had dreamed of going to to the states for all of my, admittedly short, life. The land of the free where a man or woman (there were only the two types back then) with a solid work-ethic and spirited determination could make their way to the promised land - i.e. eventually posses straight teeth and more than three pairs of Levis.
Got a gig working as a labourer on a site building a new Hyatt Hotel on the corner of Wall Street. and Pearl. Tough work in the Manhattan summer sun but good, honest money (and a lot of it) in my pocket come Friday lunchtime. I did better than a lot of lads. Plus - an Irish surname and the brogue to go with it goes a long way when you're looking for a job during the day or company at night.
New York was buzzing and still basking in an early September glow. The weather on that fateful morning was glorious. "Blue and true" is what pilots refer to a day like that - not a cloud in the sky for miles.
As usual, I left my small digs in Murray Hill around 6:30AM, caught the 4 train from the 33rd St. station. with a coffee and egg bagel from the Egyptian-run bodega. Still had a DiscMan in those days and I was listening to Televsion's "Marquee Moon" for most of the 25 minute journey downtown.
Coming back up above ground after exiting the Wall St. station - I had a few minutes to kill so I sat on the steps of Federal Hall, sparked up a Marlboro Menthol and took in the last of the cool breeze that was deceitfully masking the killer heat which would be down on my neck and shoulders as I swung the navvy shovel in 2 hour's time.
I caught the eye of Luis, the newspaper vendor originally from Xalapa, Mexico. I walked past his kiosk every day, sometimes buying the New York Times or else just a pack of chewing gum. Luis called out to me "Hey! Araña!".
Araña is Spanish for spider, a nickname that I picked up after helping Luis assemble his newly delivered wooden kiosk a few weeks before. When he thanked me I told him that my mother always said "Many hands make light work."
Luis repeated this to himself a few times "Man-ee hangs ma-aches light work" and then looked at me and said "Si! Si, Carnal - like ha spy-deer!"
So he called me araña and I called him Spideog - which I remembered sometime later is actually the Irish for robin and not spider but, at that point he was referring to himself as Spideog and all.
"Ya está haciendo calor!" I called out as I waved back at him - fanning my self for mock-effect.
"Not for me, amigo!" he replied. "Check ju later, Araña"
Down at the site I found Robbie Larkin - a Irish man of undiscernable county origin. He was definitely Irish but he had lived in Australia, England, Oman and several states in America before landing in New York - his accent was like a vocal jumble-sale.
"Howsit, Crisp - me old mucka? Ready to fackin' work, yis fucking duhty shitehawk, is yuh, maite?"
"Grand, Robbie - yeah. You?"
"Me neighbour is fackin' drongo playing his steel drum music all fackin' night. The oul head is wrecked in all fairness."
"Eh... where are you fro...."
"Yisser on the mixer today, get going"
I took to my task like every other day. Worked the shovel, ignored the weeping blisters and calluses on my hands and either disregarded or joined in with the slagging going on.
Just before 9AM there was a loud bang - a VERY FUCKING LOUD BANG - the sort of noise that makes you jump out of your skin and then double-check that you still have all of your limbs.
"What the fuck was that?" I shouted over at Robbie.
"It ain't facking good - whatever it was." as he continued to look around.
Then from the far West end of the site people started running in our direction towards the main gate. Dozens of my co-workers just sprinting and looking very afraid.
"Wos happenin'?" asked Robbie as the foreman Corey Michaelson approached us.
"The Arabs! Jeezis Keyrist a-mighty! The Arabs have...!"
Then there was a second even louder bang!
"OHHHHHH MY GAWWWWWWWWWD!" screamed Bronson Cartwell - our health and safety guy. "They've hit another one! THEY HAVE HIT ANOTHER ONE!!!"
"The fuckin A-Rabs!"
The screams continued for a long time until we got out of the site and were sent home until the bosses figured out what to do. I was still at a loss as to what exactly happened - this was before I had a mobile phone so it was hard to get real time info as I walked the 30-odd blocks uptown all I knew was that there was shit still flying through the air.
Turned out that Khalid and Jabir - brothers from Kuwait who drove the JCBs - had accidently hit the Portaloos which had not been emptied for some considerable time.
Admitedly, these weren't as bad the events of September 11th 2001, this happened in 2004, but it was still fairly fucking rank.
en.wikipedia.org
