From My Journal: The lobby was filled with frantic men and women; nearly all of them had cell phones in their hands, trying unsuccessfully to reach a loved one. Over in the corner of the bar, a big screen TV was tuned to CNN. Those watching stood slack-jawed and silent, trying to understand the horror playing out before them.
Someone suggested trying to get a cell signal outside, so I did. On the sidewalk beyond the glass doors of the hotel, life seemed to have come to a halt. New York City is not known for this. New York City is known for quite the opposite. Other than the endless yet sporadic parade of police cars and fire trucks, traffic had slowed down, retreating almost. Those few individuals who stood nearby were doing the same thing I was about to do: search for a cell phone signal that–quite simply–didn’t exist. Even if it had, I don’t know that we could have held a conversation because the piercing noise of sirens could not have been talked over.
I returned to the hotel lobby, located a pay phone in the mezzanine and dashed up the stairs toward it. I dialed the toll free number of the production studio and, having blessedly gotten through, asked for Jodi, the producer we’d been dealing with. When she answered, I could hear the fear and devastation in her voice. I asked what we should do. “Stay put,” she said. “We’ll call you when we can.”
When I came back down the stairs and into the lobby, a young couple approached me (or perhaps I approached them, who’s to say now) and suggested I inform the hotel I’d be staying, otherwise we might lose our room. I went back upstairs to find that Dennis had dressed in the jeans and shirt he’d worn the day before. I frowned, suddenly realizing we had but two sets of clothes: the ones we’d worn the previous day and our “show clothes” which we would also wear on the flight home. Still, this wasn’t of paramount importance. What held his attention to the television was. “They got the Pentagon,” he informed me.
I sat on the edge of the bed with my hand cupped over my mouth. “Dear God, ” I muttered. I couldn’t seem to finish the prayer. Together we sat and continued to watch the news until, fifteen minutes later, the South Tower collapsed, bringing with it glass, concrete, offices full of furniture and technology and . . . sadly . . . what would be the remains of staff unable to escape the furnace. When it had finally collapsed, a gray cloud of thick smoke with a life of its own rose from the carnage. It enveloped the buildings around it, racing through the streets as though trying to catch those attempting to escape it. Men and women screamed. Again, I felt shocked to remember this was all taking place just over my shoulder . . . just three miles south. I began to weep.
“We need to go downstairs and hold the room indefinitely,” I told my husband when I could find my voice. Together we went downstairs and took care of business, then came back to the room. I immediately went to the room phone and, this time, successfully called our son in Albany, NY while my husband made another attempt to call our daughter in Orlando [on his cell phone]. He was unsuccessful, but I was able to get through.
Chris and I said our hellos and then there was a pause. I could tell he was listening to the news, trying to grasp some new piece of information. “Another plane went down in Pennsylvania,” he told me. “They knew it was being hijacked. They don’t know if was shot down or what.”
“This is horrible. Just horrible.”
“What can we do for you from here?” he asked.
“I may need your help contacting people. We can’t call out on our cell phones and I’m not sure how successful we’ll be with the land lines . . .” When we hung up, I looked at the clock. It was now a little after 11:00 a.m. By then, the North Tower of the World Trade Center had also collapsed as had the world we had always known.
Looking Back (2021): The couple who approached me in the hotel lobby, where absolute pandemonium was taking place, were also in NYC to tape the Ananda Lewis Show. On Thursday night (two days later), we went to Times Square together just to get out of the hotel. They were nice and we stayed in contact for a while, then lost touch.
What I recall most about stepping outside of the hotel to try to make a phone call was what I referred to as “quiet chaos.” No one was saying anything much, but the screaming of sirens was never-ending. High-pitched. Over and over and over. Someone said, “I think they’ve shut cell service down.” We were told later that this was the case.
The North Tower of the WTC was hit at 8:46 and collapsed at 10:28 The South Tower collapsed at 9:59 after being hit at 9:03. The Pentagon was hit at 9:45 shortly before the South Tower collapsed. Flight 93 went down in a field outside of Shanksville, PA a little after 10:02 a.m., coming down at 580 miles per hour after the hijacked passengers decided to take matters into their own hands, which led the terrorists to crash the plane.
After I called our son, I managed to locate my mother (she worked for the Screven County schools and was never in the same place day to day) by calling the board of education. They confirmed that she was at the elementary school and gave me the number. I then called the school and asked that she be brought to the phone. After what seemed an eternity, she said, “Hello?” Her voice quivered.
“Mother, I’m okay,” I said.
She broke down and sobbed. The sound of her weeping will never leave me. The fear. The relief. All of it will never leave me. Ever.
After I hung up, the room phone rang. It was our daughter in Orlando. She’d remembered the producer’s card on my home office desk, driven to the house, called the Winter Park studio number to get King World Productions’ number, and then called Jodi at KWP to get our hotel information. I was proud of her intuitiveness in the matter. Her calm.
When I called my father, an FBI Academy grad and retired GBI squad commander, I told him about the man on the plane. He gave me the number to call the FBI in NYC. “You need to report this,” he said. I’m not sure when I called them–shortly after, I know–but they showed up the following day to interrogate us. Their knock on the door nearly scared me to death–bam-bam-bam–and they wasted no time getting our story. “Thank you,” they said to us before leaving. “This sounds like it could be something,” I heard one of them say to the other as the door closed behind them.
If it was, we were never informed. But, now knowing that the terrorists trained in Orlando–and we flew out of Orlando–I’m certainly glad I did.
Thank you for sharing this personal account of a horrendous event.
You’re welcome.