© Walter Goralski 2011
Made with Xara
Alex’s Story Part 2:
Then he started south, taking a picture of people on the street, all slowly walking, all looking up. Men in suits, women in
summer business dresses, lots of more casually attired people everywhere. If the first explosion was just something that happened
in New York, the second blast was a wake-up call. Something was happening that demanded attention.
Another block, another photo. Walk south, then east, closer to the towers. The white smoke from the north tower's face is
swept east by the wind, while the black smoke from the south tower, lower and shielded by the other buildings, rises straight up
before fanning out.
"Ah, the Empire State Building got rammed by a bomber right after World War Two," a older man said. "And it's fine. But
two planes, one right after the other? That's weird."
"The fires should be out soon," someone else said. "They have really good sprinklers there."
Down by Saint Paul's, people were milling around, many of them from the towers themselves, Alex realized. Some went
inside to pray, perhaps giving thanks for having made it this far, but others seemed lost. "Where do we go now?" some asked
each other. "What do we do?"
By the Woolworth Building, Alex snapped three photos in rapid succession. The flames are growing higher, not burning
out. The white smoke has turned blacker.
One block was already off-limits, cops herding people away at each end. There was something laying the street, hastily
covered by a tarp. Yellow tape had initially marked it off, until someone had arrived to shut the whole block down. Alex took a
picture anyway: the four men in blue shirts and red ties, carefully guarding the object on the street, are clearly not cops. FBI or
CIA, but not cops.
A little further on is a smoking tire, lying in the middle of the block. Cops guard it from one end of the block, but not the
other. An older man with a shopping bag crosses the street. If he notices anything going on out of the ordinary, he hides it well.
Or maybe he was simply overwhelmed, as many seem to be.
Alex started back north, toward his dorm. What else was there to see? You could probably see more on TV. A photo up at
the towers from a few blocks due north, then a street scene. Everyone looking, standing, waiting, pointing, not knowing what
else to do. Some people were on their phones, but when Alex tried to make a call, all he got was "All circuits are busy. Please
try your call again later."
Maybe he shouldn't go to the dorm. Maybe he should go back to Pace. Two photos he took on the way show the
billowing smoke intensifying, then the people on Murray Street, near City Hall again. Now cops with rifles and bullet-proof vests
are everywhere. Why? What do they know that he doesn't?
© Walter Goralski 2011
Made with Xara
Alex’s Story Part 2:
Then he started south, taking a picture of people on the street, all slowly walking, all looking up. Men in suits, women in
summer business dresses, lots of more casually attired people everywhere. If the first explosion was just something that happened
in New York, the second blast was a wake-up call. Something was happening that demanded attention.
Another block, another photo. Walk south, then east, closer to the towers. The white smoke from the north tower's face is
swept east by the wind, while the black smoke from the south tower, lower and shielded by the other buildings, rises straight up
before fanning out.
"Ah, the Empire State Building got rammed by a bomber right after World War Two," a older man said. "And it's fine. But
two planes, one right after the other? That's weird."
"The fires should be out soon," someone else said. "They have really good sprinklers there."
Down by Saint Paul's, people were milling around, many of them from the towers themselves, Alex realized. Some went
inside to pray, perhaps giving thanks for having made it this far, but others seemed lost. "Where do we go now?" some asked
each other. "What do we do?"
By the Woolworth Building, Alex snapped three photos in rapid succession. The flames are growing higher, not burning
out. The white smoke has turned blacker.
One block was already off-limits, cops herding people away at each end. There was something laying the street, hastily
covered by a tarp. Yellow tape had initially marked it off, until someone had arrived to shut the whole block down. Alex took a
picture anyway: the four men in blue shirts and red ties, carefully guarding the object on the street, are clearly not cops. FBI or
CIA, but not cops.
A little further on is a smoking tire, lying in the middle of the block. Cops guard it from one end of the block, but not the
other. An older man with a shopping bag crosses the street. If he notices anything going on out of the ordinary, he hides it well.
Or maybe he was simply overwhelmed, as many seem to be.
Alex started back north, toward his dorm. What else was there to see? You could probably see more on TV. A photo up at
the towers from a few blocks due north, then a street scene. Everyone looking, standing, waiting, pointing, not knowing what
else to do. Some people were on their phones, but when Alex tried to make a call, all he got was "All circuits are busy. Please
try your call again later."
Maybe he shouldn't go to the dorm. Maybe he should go back to Pace. Two photos he took on the way show the
billowing smoke intensifying, then the people on Murray Street, near City Hall again. Now cops with rifles and bullet-proof vests
are everywhere. Why? What do they know that he doesn't?
