There was a barricade at 14th Street keeping people from going south and another one, I can’t even remember, Canal maybe? I had a press pass and a mask (only because I’d been growing mushrooms in my apartment) and I walked down to where the WTC used to be. I had no idea media people were supposed to be staged on the West Side Highway. As I got closer, the gray layers got thicker and there were small fires, deep puddles and crushed cars. Emergency vehicles left with their doors still ajar. The light was orange and eerie. Suddenly I was right up to the skeleton of the towers, a huge hillside of pulverized terror. Without the towers, I became lost. There was a hotel on the left with the emergency lights on. A guy had pulled a chair out from the lobby and was sitting there watching the fire department run water to one of the buildings across the street. I pulled a chair out of the lobby and we talked for an hour. Nowadays if I had been found down there like that the police would’ve probably shot me. Times have changed in that direction. The more years pass, the more I wish I would’ve stayed home that night. But, there was no TV signal because the local stations broadcast from the towers. I was curious and wanted to be in the middle of it like the selfish little 25-year-old publishing executive bastard I was. I wish I wasn’t there. That night ruined New York for me. I started losing confidence as though I had an air leak after that. I should have just cried. I couldn’t. So I acted out and moved to Nevada and let life destroy me quickly. I couldn’t recover. I didn’t want to recover. Here I am. 40. Broke. Addicted. Hungry. Depressed. Suicidal. Lost. 

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