© Walter Goralski 2011
Made with Xara
Alex’s Story:
Alex Goralski had just finished breakfast in the Pace University cafeteria and started
winding his way up the stairwell to his first class of the day: finance on the third floor. You
could take the elevator, of course, but if you walked instead of waiting, you could linger
over your bagel and coffee for a few minutes longer. Alex didn't mind walking. In fact, he
enjoyed it. The fall semester had just started the week before and he was used to walking
the long cross-town blocks from his off-campus dorm. All freshmen had to stay in the
Marias Tower, and Alex was enjoying his new status as a sophomore. So every weekday,
he walked west to City Hall and then cut through City Hall Park to the Pace tower, right
next to the Brooklyn Bridge ramp. It was a beautiful day in early September, even for New
York. Warm temperatures and a cloudless blue sky. But in a couple of weeks, he knew he
might need a jacket in the mornings.
There were narrow windows set into the stair well for light, and as the string of
students made the first turn between floors, the windows rattled and the stairs shook. A
long rumble rolled over the students, but few of them stopped or even thought anything
about it. This was New York City, after all, and only the week before helicopters had buzzed
the school all night, lights stabbing at the Manhattan tower of the Brooklyn Bridge for most
of the night, where a mental patient from New York Hospital next door to Pace had
threatened to hurl himself into the East River.
"That was loud," said a girl on the stairs.
"Did a tanker truck blow up, maybe?" wondered another student. But that was the
extent of their concern.
The professor came in early, about ten minutes before nine a.m., and the buzzing in the room instantly stopped. It wasn't
anything he said; it was his appearance. He was completely ashen, dazed, slack-jawed. Was he sick? Alex asked himself. He
doesn't look well.
"No class today," the professor said after struggling to find his voice. "Something has happened."
"What? What?" the students wanted to know.
"Turn on the TV in your rooms," the professor said. "Or look outside."
Several students scurried out the door, and others went up to the shaken professor. But Alex gathered up book and papers
and exited more leisurely. What could be going on?
At the foot of the stairwell, he could see a crowd gathered on the steps in front of the school. People pointed and talked,
not with any real sense of danger, but more like "well, that's something you don't see every day."
A student pushed past Alex from behind. "Did you hear?" he shouted. "There's been an explosion at the World Trade
Center. Can you see anything?"
Oh, yes, you can. You can see a lot. The twin towers were plainly visible from where he stood. The blue sky ruined by a
smudge of black-and-white smoke. The lick of tiny orange flames around the jagged edge of the gash.
"What happened?"
"They said on TV that maybe a plane hit the north tower."
Maybe? You could see the outline of a plane clearly, even from this angle, tilted slightly to the left as it hit the upper floors.
On the street, in the park, from the steps of City Hall, it seemed like everyone was looking up. Then, as if a signal had
been given, everyone moved on. A plane hit the World Trade Center. Okay, what else is going on today?
Inspired where others were blasé, Alex ran to a small corner store a block away. He knew they would have what he was
after. Ah, yes! A man was coming out, ripping the disposable camera from its package and tossing the cardboard shreds on the
street. Alex wished he had bought one of those expensive new cell phones that could take pictures, but those were beyond the
price range of a college student.
An Indian man with wire-rimmed glasses was behind the counter, white turban piled high. There were two cameras, the
kind you used at weddings and big parties, left on the rack behind him. The sign said they cost $8.99. "Let me have one of those
cameras, please," Alex said, taking out his wallet.
"Twenty bucks," the man replied.
"The sign says eight ninety-nine!"
"Now it's thirty," the man said. "Don't wait too much longer."
Ah, New York! If Jesus Christ rose in the east instead of the sun, there would be New Yorkers there in half an hour hawking
T-shirts.
Another student came in, the same excitable one from Pace. "I need both those cameras!" he shouted.
"Thirty-five," said the man. "But I can only sell you one. Your friend was here first."
"Fine!" The student threw two twenties on the counter and rushed out with the precious camera. "Keep the change!"
"See, I saved it for you." The Indian man held up the last camera. "But now it's fifty."
Fifty dollars later, Alex had no sooner stepped out of the store than a second explosion rolled over lower Manhattan. It
seemed much louder than the first, and now shards and splinters of --- what? window glass? - gently splattered down onto the
street like summer rain. This time, people screamed and held their hands to their faces. What was going on in New York today?
Alex angled his way back up to near City Hall Park, but not close enough where the towers were obscured by the trees. He
took the first of his photos there. The south tower fires have just begun to lick up the outside: most of the smoke in the picture is
from the first plane. A helicopter hovers near the top of the north tower, the size of a gnat. You can't see any of the people jumping
from a quarter mile in the air to the street because they did not want to burn. One of them will kill a fire chaplain giving last rites to
another jumper. Alex's second photo catches the tree tops of City Hall Park as he follows the cloud of smoke, now mostly white in
the sun as it creeps toward Brooklyn.
© Walter Goralski 2011
Made with Xara
Alex’s Story:
Alex Goralski had just finished breakfast in the Pace University cafeteria and started
winding his way up the stairwell to his first class of the day: finance on the third floor. You
could take the elevator, of course, but if you walked instead of waiting, you could linger
over your bagel and coffee for a few minutes longer. Alex didn't mind walking. In fact, he
enjoyed it. The fall semester had just started the week before and he was used to walking
the long cross-town blocks from his off-campus dorm. All freshmen had to stay in the
Marias Tower, and Alex was enjoying his new status as a sophomore. So every weekday,
he walked west to City Hall and then cut through City Hall Park to the Pace tower, right
next to the Brooklyn Bridge ramp. It was a beautiful day in early September, even for New
York. Warm temperatures and a cloudless blue sky. But in a couple of weeks, he knew he
might need a jacket in the mornings.
There were narrow windows set into the stair well for light, and as the string of
students made the first turn between floors, the windows rattled and the stairs shook. A
long rumble rolled over the students, but few of them stopped or even thought anything
about it. This was New York City, after all, and only the week before helicopters had buzzed
the school all night, lights stabbing at the Manhattan tower of the Brooklyn Bridge for most
of the night, where a mental patient from New York Hospital next door to Pace had
threatened to hurl himself into the East River.
"That was loud," said a girl on the stairs.
"Did a tanker truck blow up, maybe?" wondered another student. But that was the
extent of their concern.
The professor came in early, about ten minutes before nine a.m., and the buzzing in the room instantly stopped. It wasn't
anything he said; it was his appearance. He was completely ashen, dazed, slack-jawed. Was he sick? Alex asked himself. He
doesn't look well.
"No class today," the professor said after struggling to find his voice. "Something has happened."
"What? What?" the students wanted to know.
"Turn on the TV in your rooms," the professor said. "Or look outside."
Several students scurried out the door, and others went up to the shaken professor. But Alex gathered up book and papers
and exited more leisurely. What could be going on?
At the foot of the stairwell, he could see a crowd gathered on the steps in front of the school. People pointed and talked,
not with any real sense of danger, but more like "well, that's something you don't see every day."
A student pushed past Alex from behind. "Did you hear?" he shouted. "There's been an explosion at the World Trade
Center. Can you see anything?"
Oh, yes, you can. You can see a lot. The twin towers were plainly visible from where he stood. The blue sky ruined by a
smudge of black-and-white smoke. The lick of tiny orange flames around the jagged edge of the gash.
"What happened?"
"They said on TV that maybe a plane hit the north tower."
Maybe? You could see the outline of a plane clearly, even from this angle, tilted slightly to the left as it hit the upper floors.
On the street, in the park, from the steps of City Hall, it seemed like everyone was looking up. Then, as if a signal had
been given, everyone moved on. A plane hit the World Trade Center. Okay, what else is going on today?
Inspired where others were blasé, Alex ran to a small corner store a block away. He knew they would have what he was
after. Ah, yes! A man was coming out, ripping the disposable camera from its package and tossing the cardboard shreds on the
street. Alex wished he had bought one of those expensive new cell phones that could take pictures, but those were beyond the
price range of a college student.
An Indian man with wire-rimmed glasses was behind the counter, white turban piled high. There were two cameras, the
kind you used at weddings and big parties, left on the rack behind him. The sign said they cost $8.99. "Let me have one of those
cameras, please," Alex said, taking out his wallet.
"Twenty bucks," the man replied.
"The sign says eight ninety-nine!"
"Now it's thirty," the man said. "Don't wait too much longer."
Ah, New York! If Jesus Christ rose in the east instead of the sun, there would be New Yorkers there in half an hour hawking
T-shirts.
Another student came in, the same excitable one from Pace. "I need both those cameras!" he shouted.
"Thirty-five," said the man. "But I can only sell you one. Your friend was here first."
"Fine!" The student threw two twenties on the counter and rushed out with the precious camera. "Keep the change!"
"See, I saved it for you." The Indian man held up the last camera. "But now it's fifty."
Fifty dollars later, Alex had no sooner stepped out of the store than a second explosion rolled over lower Manhattan. It
seemed much louder than the first, and now shards and splinters of --- what? window glass? - gently splattered down onto the
street like summer rain. This time, people screamed and held their hands to their faces. What was going on in New York today?
Alex angled his way back up to near City Hall Park, but not close enough where the towers were obscured by the trees. He
took the first of his photos there. The south tower fires have just begun to lick up the outside: most of the smoke in the picture is
from the first plane. A helicopter hovers near the top of the north tower, the size of a gnat. You can't see any of the people jumping
from a quarter mile in the air to the street because they did not want to burn. One of them will kill a fire chaplain giving last rites to
another jumper. Alex's second photo catches the tree tops of City Hall Park as he follows the cloud of smoke, now mostly white in
the sun as it creeps toward Brooklyn.
