I know it’s Friday and normally the column would be Cheers and Jeers, but instead I want to take this space to tell you a story about a man I knew who died at the World Trade Center in New York City eight years ago this morning. Forgive me, as this may run a little bit longer than the new standard of 600 words or less, but I think you’ll get a good idea what it’s like to know someone who didn’t survive that national tragedy.
I married a woman who had a townhouse in Manhattan. While I didn’t at first move to New York when we got married, I made several long weekend trips from my home in Detroit. One of the things we liked to do when I was in the city was attend plays and musicals. There is a famous kiosk in Times Square called TKTS, where a theatrical charity sells reduced priced tickets to shows. There is always a big line at that location, so we would frequent another location in the basement of the World Trade Center, where there never was line.
Every time we visited there was a meek, mild, gentle man who worked behind the counter. He was always very pleasant and helpful and over time we got to know a little more about him. One of the peculiar things he told us about himself was that he had no friends…he chose to be reclusive. So as we got to know him, we exchanged telephone numbers, and told him he had at least two friends, but we never called each other. Another time he said he had worked at that location since it had opened, and he very likely would finish out his career there. He said he lived very modestly, and was saving as much as he could for retirement. Shortly thereafter he had been particularly helpful in helping us get some great seats for one of the hit musicals in town, so Jean told me to tip him $100 and tell him it was for his retirement fund. He protested, but I insisted and he thanked us.
After Jean’s death in December 1994, I visited New York City a few times, and during a couple of those trips I went to the World Trade Center to see this man. He hadn’t changed much and always mentioned how sorry he was about the death of my wife. The way he talked about it it seemed like a personal loss to him as well.
During one visit we talked about the first bombing of the WTC that took place in an underground parking lot, very close to his location. He talked about how terrifying it had been, and how he felt very fortunate to get out alive. The next time I saw him we spent about two hours in very pleasant conversation. I sometimes got the feeling he was a little lonely, as people would rush in, get their tickets and rush back out, paying very little to this man or anyone else working there. On this particular day he talked about his new cat and some of his interests. He told me he lived in on the seventh floor of an old walk-up, and how his knees were bothering him after all those years of climbing up and down the narrow, dark stairs. That time was the last I saw of him.
Like everyone else, on the morning of September 11, 2001, I was glued to the television set watching the events unfold live on the screen. I sat there in amazement as the first tower just suddenly collapsed, followed shortly by the second one. I couldn’t move, and it was hours before I realized I was hungry and tired, but after eating I went back to the television throughout the night and into the next day.
Then about 11:oo a.m. of the second day, I thought of this man who worked in the WTC, and loved it so much. I found his number and called it, but there was no answer. I tried several times through the rest of that day, and five or six times over the next week or two. When I had gotten no answer for about the 100th call it began to sink in that this wonderful human being I really liked had perished on the awful day.
It was then I began thinking about a life: what happens when a loner, a recluse dies? Was someone feeding and caring for the cat? What about his possessions? Would someone just take what they wanted and throw out the rest? Did he have family that would miss him? What would happen to all his money he had so faithfully saved for his dream of retirement? The questions kept coming, with no answers. Then one day, I called one last time, only to get a recording saying the line had been disconnected.
No, he wasn’t my best friend, but he was a kind, gentle, loving, compassionate, frightened, lost soul who had found comfort in his meek existence and touched my life in ways he would never had expected. It’s been eight years, and I think of him from time-to-time, and every time I do think of the song You’ve Got a Friend in Me. I still miss him. God bless his soul.
(Ignore my tearstains on your computer screen.)
You’ve Got a Friend in Me
©Randy Newman, from the Pixar film Toy Story
© 2001, Wiley Miller - Non Sequitur
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What a touching column. I lived in Manhattan for 15 years and the TKTS booth was my hidden treasure. Reading your column, who knows how many times I dealt with your friend? I have such fond memories of stealing away early on Saturday mornings, grabbing a coffee and standing in line there for all of 3 – 5 minutes. The anticipation and excitement of seeing what was up on the board for that day, I can still vividly remember. And imagine my thrill of having scored third row seats on a Saturday night, made me feel like such a New Yorker.
I was still living in New York on 9/11 (we were living in Park Slope, Brooklyn) and I often thought of people just like your friend. Shy, reclusive, no family or other connections. They quietly lived their life, going to and from work each day. Would they be missed? Did anyone ever notice that they didn’t come home that night?
I think the only consolation is that every time you think of them, while you may not know their names, their personal information or where they’re from, they somehow know you’re thinking of them. Maybe a little bell goes off for them. I hope so.
Take care,
Katie Hennicke