The first thing you see as you approach Ground Zero is the smoke. You see it hanging between buildings, catching the autumn sun. You wonder if that’s it, if that’s The Smoke, or is it just some of normal exhalation of a busy city. Then The Smell wafts toward you and you know the smoke you see is The Smoke. The Smell has an acrid tang; the odors of crushed stone and scorched metal. You breathe it in and keep walking, The Smoke leading you on. You begin to see The Gray Dust.
At first, The Gray Dust is here and there, in cracks and crevices, between the spindles of an iron fence, on the leaves of a weed that managed to push itself up in the brief space between buildings. You see flags. You see flags all over the city now, of course, all over the country, but as you approach Ground Zero, the accretion of flags takes on an increased urgency. Now you not only smell The Smoke, you taste it, too – flat and metallic on your tongue. The streets are full of people, many of them coming to pay their respects at Ground Zero. You can distinguish the visitors from the denizens of lower Manhattan, because the denizens all have face masks. Police and firefighters, who are everywhere, have black plastic respirators with round filters. Average citizens get by with a cloth or paper dust mask.
Commerce is half alive. Street vendors hawk peaked caps with the letters FDNY and NYPD stitched on the front. Many stores try to go about business as usual. You stop and stare at a produce truck, double-parked, making deliveries, the Manhattan skyline – including the twin towers – painted on its side. Some stores are closed, dark. A drugstore holds a going-out-of-business sale, its fa硤e festooned with coupons instead of flags. This far downtown, the subway stations are closed, some for good. Their entrances are covered with plywood. The Gray Dust blows through the streets here and trucks from the city’s Department of Sanitation criss-cross the pavement, spraying water, which makes gray mud of The Gray Dust.
You turn a corner and your path is blocked by a chain-link fence covered by green plastic fabric. You’ve arrived at Ground Zero. The fabric is opaque, so you look above the fence. This is where The Smoke is coming from. You move from street to street, to see what you can over the fence. From certain vantage points, you can see shards of the shattered World Trade Center reaching up into nothing, at others you can see the buildings which surround Ground Zero, many with incongruous gashes cut into their sides, like a paper egg carton which has been dropped and burst open. You see the sun and you realize you are standing where the shadow of the trade center should be.
From beyond the covered chain-link fence come the sounds of deconstruction, heavy trucks, the rumble of broken concrete being shifted or dumped. There are many people on your side of the fence, but they are all silent. They are subdued and courteous, standing aside to let strangers pass. Eye contact is brief and painful.
Just outside the fence is St. Peter’s, the oldest Catholic church in New York. A piece of paper taped to a column in front gives notice that six Masses are now said each day. On the front steps, the air is full of dust, breathing is difficult. People stand on the steps to see over the fence. Inside two sets of doors, the air is sweet with frankincense. The pews are one-quarter full with people who do not seem particularly Catholic, or even churchgoers, just in need of a place to bow their heads for a moment. The walls and stained glass windows are decorated with scenes of crucifixion and martyrdom. They seem inappropriate.
Back outside, you rub some dust between your thumb and forefinger. A gust of wind bolts around a corner and blasts you with Gray Dust, stinging your skin and smarting your eyes. You turn away from it, but are glad for an excuse to let slip a tear.
You reach out for a hand, a shoulder of someone you love. You are glad you didn’t come alone.
Ground Zero
The first thing you see as you approach Ground Zero is the smoke. You see it hanging between buildings, catching the autumn sun. You wonder if that’s it, if that’s The Smoke, or is it just some of normal exhalation of a busy city. Then The Smell wafts toward you and you know the smoke you see is The Smoke. The Smell has an acrid tang; the odors of crushed stone and scorched metal. You breathe it in and keep walking, The Smoke leading you on. You begin to see The Gray Dust.
At first, The Gray Dust is here and there, in cracks and crevices, between the spindles of an iron fence, on the leaves of a weed that managed to push itself up in the brief space between buildings. You see flags. You see flags all over the city now, of course, all over the country, but as you approach Ground Zero, the accretion of flags takes on an increased urgency. Now you not only smell The Smoke, you taste it, too – flat and metallic on your tongue. The streets are full of people, many of them coming to pay their respects at Ground Zero. You can distinguish the visitors from the denizens of lower Manhattan, because the denizens all have face masks. Police and firefighters, who are everywhere, have black plastic respirators with round filters. Average citizens get by with a cloth or paper dust mask.
Commerce is half alive. Street vendors hawk peaked caps with the letters FDNY and NYPD stitched on the front. Many stores try to go about business as usual. You stop and stare at a produce truck, double-parked, making deliveries, the Manhattan skyline – including the twin towers – painted on its side. Some stores are closed, dark. A drugstore holds a going-out-of-business sale, its fa硤e festooned with coupons instead of flags. This far downtown, the subway stations are closed, some for good. Their entrances are covered with plywood. The Gray Dust blows through the streets here and trucks from the city’s Department of Sanitation criss-cross the pavement, spraying water, which makes gray mud of The Gray Dust.
You turn a corner and your path is blocked by a chain-link fence covered by green plastic fabric. You’ve arrived at Ground Zero. The fabric is opaque, so you look above the fence. This is where The Smoke is coming from. You move from street to street, to see what you can over the fence. From certain vantage points, you can see shards of the shattered World Trade Center reaching up into nothing, at others you can see the buildings which surround Ground Zero, many with incongruous gashes cut into their sides, like a paper egg carton which has been dropped and burst open. You see the sun and you realize you are standing where the shadow of the trade center should be.
From beyond the covered chain-link fence come the sounds of deconstruction, heavy trucks, the rumble of broken concrete being shifted or dumped. There are many people on your side of the fence, but they are all silent. They are subdued and courteous, standing aside to let strangers pass. Eye contact is brief and painful.
Just outside the fence is St. Peter’s, the oldest Catholic church in New York. A piece of paper taped to a column in front gives notice that six Masses are now said each day. On the front steps, the air is full of dust, breathing is difficult. People stand on the steps to see over the fence. Inside two sets of doors, the air is sweet with frankincense. The pews are one-quarter full with people who do not seem particularly Catholic, or even churchgoers, just in need of a place to bow their heads for a moment. The walls and stained glass windows are decorated with scenes of crucifixion and martyrdom. They seem inappropriate.
Back outside, you rub some dust between your thumb and forefinger. A gust of wind bolts around a corner and blasts you with Gray Dust, stinging your skin and smarting your eyes. You turn away from it, but are glad for an excuse to let slip a tear.
You reach out for a hand, a shoulder of someone you love. You are glad you didn’t come alone.
(C) Mark Floegel, 2001