Disasters

September 11, 2005

She was a bit of a tomboy who, at sixteen, had already broken her nose five times. It looked perpetually swollen and slightly crooked. I met her the year before she broke it once again, this time on purpose, when she elected to get a nose job to have it fixed. Her distinctive nose, dark brown hair, olive skin, and deep brown eyes gave her an exotic look. That she claimed to dabble in witchcraft only furthered the mystique. She was two years older than me, the girlfriend of my older brother's best friend, and if you haven't guessed by now, I was infatuated. We used to make out during photography class in the cramped privacy of a small storage closet that had been converted into a darkroom. I was a sophomore, she was a senior. I wanted her to be my girlfriend, though looking back now, it was an absurd and naive wish.

I've been thinking about her lately, because shortly after she graduated high school, she moved to New Orleans. I never visited her or even spoke to her after she moved there, but I periodically heard about what she was up to from my brother. I don't think he'd spoken to her either, but he'd heard things here and there from mutual friends. He told me she made high-quality leather masks to sell at Renaissance fairs, and then, a few years later, that she was working in film production.

Vince, another high school friend of mine, lived near her in New Orleans for a few years. He eventually grew to despise New Orleans, however, and moved north again, but while he was there, he saw her fairly regularly. When Hurricane Katrina hit, I asked Vince if he'd spoken to her. "No," he said. "I wouldn't even know how to reach her. I tried calling her mother, but I haven't been able to get through. I'm sure she's okay, though. She's smart and resourceful, and has a lot of contacts."

Although my memory of her stubborn confidence makes it easy to imagine her trying to ride out the storm, I prefer to side with Vince. I'm sure she's okay. Surviving, at any rate. I have to imagine life won’t be the same down there for a long time.

I remember going with her and some friends to the No Nukes rally in Battery Park. It was 1979, and Battery Park was little more than a landfill at the timel, and the Twin Towers were brand new.

Suzanne Vlamis/Associated Press via The New York Times

I was walking out of a deli on the corner of Bedford Avenue today, the anniversary of 9-11, when I overheard two old men talking. "I went down to ground zero today," one of them said. He was wearing a navy blue FDNY T-shirt, written across it in bold white type: ALL GAVE SOME. SOME GAVE ALL. "Did you go down there?" he asked the second guy, who was wearing an FDNY baseball cap.

"No," the second guy replied. "I went down to the firehouse—I cried like a baby."

A younger guy was standing there, too, maybe nineteen or twenty. I didn't realize he was with the old men until the first guy asked him a question. "How's your mother holding up?"

"She's doing okay," the kid replied. "You know—"

I only knew one person who died in the World Trade Center. Another friend from high school, and someone I hadn't spoken to for years. My sister was the one to tell me he'd died after reading about it in my hometown's local paper. He and I were in Boy Scouts together, and I remember coming to New York on a Scout trip when the World Trade Center was still new. We rode to the top.