It was a courageous time, it was a fearful time; it was the age of materialism, it was the age of fanaticism; it was a morning of order, it was a morning of chaos; it was the hour of sacrifice, it was the hour of cowardice. It was a day for global terrorism, it was a day for renewed patriotism; it was a day that would affect me profoundly.

I kissed my wife Julia, who was eight months pregnant, grabbed my briefcase, and headed for the door of our three-bedroom ranch.

"Damn it," I said. The lock was stuck again and it needed to be replaced, but it would have to wait for the renovation that included windows, siding, and a front door. The remodeling was going to cost some bucks so off to work I went.

I was caught up in the rat race, chasing the American Dream, but was oblivious to it after ten plus years. My job at the Big Bank was thirty-some-odd miles from my hometown of Wantagh, a suburban hamlet nestled on the south shore of Long Island. The train, spilled coffee cups, discarded newspapers, and walls plastered with advertisements would be my companions for the next fifty minutes.

I stared at the poster in front of me: 'Must see TV, Thursday'. Must I see this ad again? I've read this one at least a hundred times.

Finally, the train arrived in Penn Station and I switched to the downtown subway. The ninety-degree brick oven on wheels smelled of urine. A homeless man, dressed in a tattered overcoat, was lying across five seats. The subterranean journey could not end soon enough.

I emerged on Wall Street to crowds of people heading to their towering office buildings under clear blue skies. The smell of coffee and fresh bagels came from the street vendors' carts as they served up breakfast to the Financial District. The forty-two stories of the red granite office building pierced the heavens on the corner. Passing the security guards, I flashed them my badge as I always did and headed for the elevators. I pressed the same dull button in the same middle elevator bank and then traveled up the same fifteen stories. Weaving through the maze of gray cubicles, I arrived at my desk next to a window facing Wall Street.

"Morning," I said to John who sat in my neighboring cube.

He lifted his thick fingers from his keyboard, "Morning."

"Nice day."

"Yeah--a good day for a round of golf, but we're stuck here."

I sat down at my desk, logged into my computer and began to read my email.

"Hey Rob," John's voice came from over the cubicle wall. "Look outside!"

I turned to the window behind me. Sheets of paper were raining over Wall Street like the first snow of winter.

"Did you hear anything about a ticker tape parade?"

"No. The playoffs haven't even begun yet."

I pressed my face up against the window and looked up. The paper stretched high in the air, far above any nearby skyscrapers.

Mike, the production support manager, came running down the aisle. "A plane crashed into the World Trade Center!" He turned the corner gasping and continued spreading the word throughout the floor.

"Holy shit." I turned toward my keyboard and pointed the web browser to CNN.com. On the home page was a picture of the North Tower with a gaping gash in the upper floors and fire shooting from the wound in the building like the breath of a dragon. I felt a chill shoot up my spine as I flipped on my desk radio.

"This is unbelievable," said an uneasy voice from the speaker. "How could a plane hit the Twin Towers on a clear day like this?"

I picked up the phone, my fingers shaking as I dialed.

"Sweetheart, it's me," I said, my voice shuddering.

"Hi, honey. What's wrong?"

"Big news. A plane crashed into one of the Twin Towers a few minutes ago."

I surveyed the scene outside my window. The street and alleyways were blanketed with reams and reams of paper, some of them rose and pallor gray. People had paused from their purposeful walk, staring at the sheets. The neighboring buildings obstructed the view of the World Trade Center and it occurred to me that the people down below had no idea what had happened. Sirens blared and a fire engine zoomed up the street, leaving a wake in the sea of parchments.

"Really?" My wife was silent for a moment. "Let me turn on the TV."

I paced in my cubicle, the phone receiver pressed to my ear.

"Oh, my God. It looks awful," Julia's breath was heavy. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, my office is at least eight blocks away." I felt the adrenaline coursing through my body and smelled the sweat on my upper lip. I wanted to run. "Let me check to see what we're going to do here. I'll call you back."

"Okay, I love you."

"I love you too, Sweetheart."

I hesitated then hung up the phone.

"A second plane has crashed into the South Tower," the radio blared. "This is no accident. New York is under attack."

My manager and coworkers gathered around my desk, lines tight around their wide-open eyes. Everyone fixed his or her eyes on the boss, especially Jacquelyn, who worked on many projects with me.

"What do we do?" she asked.

He paused as if he was not sure, then took a deep breath. "The emergency response team has asked us to remain on the floor for the time being," he said. "We'll be getting an update at ten AM."

Most of my colleagues returned to their desks and made phone calls as more sirens wailed from the street below. I dialed my wife, but only received an area busy signal pulsing from the handset. I disconnected and pressed the redial button. The same annoying throb came through and mixed with the blaring horns outside. I repeated the disconnect and redial sequence again and again until my heart rate surpassed the beat of the signal. I smashed my fist on the desk then grabbed my cell phone--no airwave link. I tossed it aside and sank into my seat.

A deep, low rumble filled the building and I jumped to my feet. Jacquelyn let out a squeak and covered her mouth with both hands.

"The South Tower of the World Trade Center has just collapsed," the radio announcer stammered.

Fine white particles stormed over Wall Street like the blizzard of all blizzards. The bright sun reflected off the pieces like flakes in an insidious snow globe. I felt trapped inside the crystal dome. Thoughts of what might be in the debris raced through my mind.

My phone rang.

"I want you to come home now!" Julia cried into the phone. "I'll come pick you up if I have to."

I eyed the debris still raining down on the center of Western Capitalism. Hundreds of panic stricken people, scattering for their lives, filled the corridor of Entrepreneurial Dreams.

"I- I can't let you do that! You might go into labor, or something worse could happen. Besides, they shut down all the trains, bridges and tunnels."

The sprockets and cogs that drove the New York engine had come to a grinding halt and so had I.

"I'm going to stay put for now," I said. "I'll call you back when I find out what we're going to do. I love you."

I hung up. My hands felt like they had been soaking in ice water.

"They have evacuated the White House," the radio announced. "There are reports coming across the wire that smoke is pouring from the West Wing. The President is in Sarasota, Florida where he had been reading to schoolchildren. One moment while we patch through to the impromptu news conference."

"Today we've had a national tragedy," the President said. "Two airplanes have crashed into the World Trade Center in an apparent terrorist attack on our country."

"No shit!" Mike said.

"Shhhh," the others returned.

The President's voice was slow and steady. Snapping cameras were the only other sounds that could be heard. "I have spoken to the Vice President, to the Governor of New York, to the Director of the FBI, and have ordered that the full resources of the federal government go to help the victims and their families, and to conduct a full-scale investigation to hunt down and to find those folks who committed this act. Terrorism against our nation will not stand."

John came over from his cubicle. The blood had run from his face. "I hear there are eight other planes unaccounted for. I'll bet you any amount of money that the terrorists are Muslim extremists."

"What did we ever do to them to deserve this?" I shook my head in dismay. "I feel like the world is coming to an end."

"If it's Muslim extremists," Mike said, "I think we should drop a nuclear warhead down one of their minarets and turn their desert into glass."

"We have a report that a plane has crashed into the Pentagon," the radio declared.

The soot in the air began to settle. Carl, the desktop manager, passed by my cubicle.

"Carl," I said, "they hit the freakin' Pentagon."

"I don't know about you, but I'm out of here," he said determinedly.

I began to weigh my alternatives. Should I head outside into the disarray of the unknown or stay put and wait to get the official word of what to do next? I chose the latter and turned to my boss.

"Can you believe this?"

"I--"

A sound like a tractor-trailer truck hitting a huge pothole reverberated through the building, shaking the floor. My manager's eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"The North Tower has just collapsed," the radio declared.

Smoke, soot, and debris filled the air again, artificially turning the bright, sunny day into the darkness of night. I walked over to Jacquelyn's cubicle. Tears filled her eyes and mascara was running down her face. Her lower lip quivered.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"My good friend works in one of the Towers."

"Jesus," I muttered.

A rumor swept the floor that a car bomb had gone off nearby. The emotional tension was weighing me down like cement shoes at the bottom of a river. I felt as though I was struggling to reach the surface and gasp a breath of fresh air.

"We're hearing reports of a plane crash in Western Pennsylvania," the radio announcer said.

"When will this end?" I asked, staring out the window.

"We've been told to head down to the fourth floor to await further instructions," a senior manager said. "You'll need to switch elevator banks on the ground floor to get there."

We gathered up what was essential--our cell phones and wallets--and took an elevator to the ground floor. Carl, shoulders bent, emerged from the unnaturally darkened street with a thousand-mile stare. Soot covered his clothes and a fine white powder surrounded his mouth and nose. Something inside me said I was looking at a schoolboy lost in a morbid amusement park. A combination of fear and regret replaced his earlier determined look. His eyes were strained with fatigue--a fatigue so strong it must have clung to him like a man to a life preserver in a stormy sea.

"How could I be so stupid?" he asked to nobody in particular and brushed the ash off his shoulders.

A crowd had formed in the building lobby and lingered for some time. It seemed as though people were considering their options--to stay or go. The security guards sat behind their desk, wearing dust masks, but there were none to offer the employees. I considered leaving or going to the fourth floor as the corporate directive dictated. On faith, the terrorists must have flown those planes into the Towers and Pentagon, but what about my faith in Corporate America and the American Dream. Damn.

I entered another elevator bank with a group of confused staff and went up to the fourth floor. Employees surrounded radios and televisions, getting the latest on the devastation.

I picked up the receiver of a phone in an abandoned cubicle and repeatedly tried my home number. A busy signal was all I achieved. I switched to my cell phone--no reception. I slapped the antenna shut and looked around. Jacquelyn had made it to the floor, her face was now placid, and the tears in her eyes had dried up.

"Any news on your friend?" I asked.

"Her alarm clock never went off today. She overslept and never made it to the Trade Center. She's home safe."

"Thank God."

We gathered around the TV. A grim-faced Mayor Giuliani appeared on the screen.

"I urge everybody below 14th Street to calmly walk out of lower Manhattan," he said.

My colleagues stood still, waiting for a manager to give us the word to leave, but none was forthcoming. John pushed his way through the huddled and still undecided staff.

"You heard the Mayor," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

I turned to Jacquelyn and John. "Let's get some paper towels from the bathroom and soak them in water. You don't want to breathe any of that stuff out there."

A number of colleagues joined us. We filled our pockets with the towels and silently headed for the street. People were walking in a shocked daze with their noses and mouths covered. Two men behind us had chosen coffee filters as their protection from the soot and grime. We followed Front Street along the East River, marching like refugees from a war zone, our feet shuffling and heads hanging low. I looked up Maiden Lane toward the Trade Center. All I could see was pitch-black smoke billowing high in the air. I grabbed a fresh towel from my pocket and covered my face. Police with bullhorns guided us onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Soon, the air became clearer and I discarded my makeshift mask, but I could still taste the acrid atmosphere at the first buttress of the span.

I tried my cell phone. The call connected and my pulse began to race.

"Sweetheart, it's me. I've made it to the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Thank God."

"I'll call you when I make it to the train."

The noise of an obscured highflying jet was in the distance. Thoughts of further attacks raced through my mind and I turned toward my companions. I could see in their faces that I was not alone in my feelings. A woman ran in horror as the screaming jet engine became louder. I assumed she was panicked by the prospect of another suicidal hijacker, ramming into the bridge and sending us all to a watery grave.

"Sounds like a military jet to me," John said.

Beyond the last buttress, a woman lay on the ground with lacerations on her legs. A police officer stood over her while EMS workers wheeled a stretcher toward her.

"She must have been caught in the debris falling from the towers," John whispered.

"That's a long way to walk in high heels," I said.

We made it to Brooklyn with the scorching sun beating down upon us and my mouth was dry from the long and arduous lower Manhattan refugee march. We found relief at the Marriott Hotel on Adams Street where employees lined up pitchers of water on a table outside. I smiled at the waiter and grabbed a cup.

"How are you going to get home?" John asked.

"I'd like to make it to the Long Island Rail Road station on Flatbush and Atlantic Avenues. Maybe the trains are running from there."

"I'll show you the way. We're going to have to walk up Atlantic Avenue right through the heart of a Muslim community."

My heart pounded in my rib cage at the thought of what might await us there.

"How about you, Jacquelyn?"

"I have a friend up this street," she said. "I'll see you guys later." The tragedy's rope that tied us together began to slacken.

"Be safe," I said.

Jacquelyn disappeared in the crowd of displaced, downtown office workers searching for anyway to get back to their homes.

***

Atlantic Avenue was quiet and lined with shuttered storefronts. An Islamic broadcast came from speakers mounted on the wall of a Mosque. I felt out of place in my business suit and pale skin. I looked at my watch--it was one o'clock.

"Is this one of their prayer times or a call to all Muslims to partake in a Jihad?" I asked rhetorically.

A few Muslim men eyed us from across the street. I looked away and fixed my stare on the sidewalk in front of us.

"Let's get the hell out of here," I said.

John walked stoically next to me although we picked up the pace a bit. "We're almost at your train," he said.

I focused my mind on getting away from here and home to my pregnant wife. John, the coworker-turned-guide, was invaluable and we arrived at the Long Island Rail Road.

The station entrance was packed with people and a police officer was standing on top of a nearby bus. He raised a bullhorn to his lips. "There is no subway service at this time. Only the Long Island Rail Road is running."

"That's going to work for me," I said. "Thanks, John. What are you going to do?"

"I have a friend who works in the neighborhood. I'm going to stop by his office."

I shook his hand. "Okay. Take care," I said.

Given the shared experience, the routine parting words took on heightened meaning. The rope that held us together was now completely unraveled.

***

"I'm on the train," I said into the cell phone.

"That's a relief," Julia said.

Relief alluded me, but I was certain it could not be far off. Every leg of the journey that brought me closer to home was a success in itself, but it would not be a complete success until I was there.

"I hope to be home in an hour or two."

"I'll be waiting."

I pressed the disconnect button and sat back in my seat. What were usually the surroundings of a monotonous and dreaded commute was now a capsule of comfort and anticipation. I smiled at my old friends, 'Must See TV, Thursday' on the wall, a 7-11 coffee cup on the floor, and the New York Post on the seat. A man in a wrinkled business suit, his collar unbuttoned and his tie loose, sat down next to me. The lines on his face disrupted an otherwise perfect tan.

"What a day," I said.

"I worked in the Trade Center back in '93 when it was bombed," he said as much to me as to the empty air.

"Wow."

"I work in Brooklyn now."

He eyed my cell phone.

"Can I call my wife?"

"Sure."

He spent a few moments on the phone--long enough so his wife knew he was okay and on his way home. Finished, he handed the phone back to me. "Can I pay you for it?"

"Forget it," I said.

Imagine in this damaged city that a fellow New Yorker would offer to pay for a phone call. I thought my spirit had burned out, but the offer rekindled my respect for humanity despite the heinous and vicious acts perpetrated by some of its own.

***

I fumbled with the lock on the weathered door. It stuck as it always did and the feel of the stubborn tumblers made me smile. The door swung open and my part Black Lab part Gordon Setter jumped up on me and licked my face. Sammy's effusive greeting thrilled me like never before. Julia rushed from the kitchen and we hugged and kissed for what seemed like an eternity.

"Thank God you're home."

"For a while there I wasn't sure..."

"Don't even think about it."

The weight of the day's events caught up with me. My limbs grew heavy and a dull pressure throbbed in my head. I sank into my threadbare easy chair and stared at the TV. The broadcaster's repeated playback of the planes crashing into the two towers and their subsequent collapse was surreal. Yet, it brought into focus what I had heard, felt and seen in lower Manhattan. I sipped at what would be the first of many beers as the calls from relatives and friends came in. The concern of my loved ones moved me, and it reinforced how important they were in my life. To hell with the rat race.

I tried to tune into something else, but kept returning to the news. At last, Julia and I went to bed and clung together, feeling safe and secure. I put my hand on her tummy and felt the baby's kicks then I slept until dawn.

That morning I rummaged through the garage and found the case. I blew the dust off it and pulled out the American flag. It was wrinkled, but otherwise in good shape. I slid the pole in the rusty clip on the side of the house. The site of the Stars and Stripes gently waving in the breeze brought a tear to my eye. I could not imagine a time I would return Old Glory to its case.