But in my pocket is a green slip folded to the point of falling apart. A little box has a typewritten X in it. Next to it is printed PREVIOUSLY EXCUSED EIGHT (8) TIMES. While I’m getting an Egg McMuffin at Eighty-second and Broadway just before nine, WINS radio says there’s a freak accident downtown. “A small commuter airplane has just crashed into the World Trade Center.” My first thought is, I’m going to be in that neighborhood anyway for jury duty. I’ll see everything. What fun! By the time I get off the train, all the way downtown, it’s nine-thirty. When I emerge from the Chambers Street subway station, I see the two buildings with giant black smudges on them. The smoke is out of control. Why are both buildings damaged? There are hundreds of people on the corner, quietly watching. Every office building empties. Everyone is on the street, standing shoulder to shoulder, the workaday rush slowed to a crawl. It’s weird how there isn’t any sound. No traffic. No hubbub.
