We All Fall Down: The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer (5 page)

She hurried down the stairs and hugged Joanne. They held on to each other and cried. She heard more words of reassurance, the empty words she needed to hear.
He’ll be all right. Everyone’s telling me so.

“Did you hear about the second plane?” Joanne asked. “What the hell’s going on?”

In the family room, they turned on the huge TV and watched again and again, in bigger, more hideous detail, as the second plane hit the second building. Every major channel scrolled those same terrible pictures in slow motion, the plane flying straight, as if it were any plane on any other day, except hitting the second Tower: a fireball, followed by flying debris.

Peter Olinto, an attorney and old friend from a few towns away, walked in. As if he’d heard the news and run from his house, he arrived still dressed in bathrobe and slippers. “How are you, Louise?” He bent toward her in a gentle, caretaking way.

All she could do was look up and search Peter’s eyes.
Is there something there that I don’t know yet? Is he—is anyone—hiding…anything?

The phone rang, but now Joanne leapt up to answer as Louise sat watching, grateful not to have to talk to anyone—at least not until she knew about Pasquale.

Along with Peter and Joanne, she kept her eyes glued to the TV screen, her only link to him and what he was going through.
He’ll call any minute—from down on the street. He’ll call to tell me he’s coming home.

Things changed on the screen in front of her. There was smoke, but not the way the smoke had been before, billowing out from the place where the plane had crashed. Something beyond a fire itself was happening. There were huge clouds, rolling black, and what looked like a huge gray waterfall, like dark fireworks, with streamers falling.

The other building was coming down, Building Two! Louise watched, paralyzed and glued in place, as all that smoke became gray dust—monstrous, ugly mountains of rolling dust, as if a giant overstuffed vacuum bag had suddenly burst open. Quickly, with unbelievable speed, the invincible Tower fell, until there was nothing.

“NO! NO! NO! NO!” She pulled forward. “NO! NO! NO! NO!”

It was horrible, but that wasn’t his building. His was the one with the antenna on top; that crumbling monstrosity was the other. Her mind didn’t race, didn’t move. She sat frozen, watching as masses of debris and dust rolled through Manhattan streets, as people ran in front of clouds as high as the buildings. It was a horror movie. Death poured through Manhattan, rolling over people, over cars, over streetlights, over signs.

Thank God Pasquale stayed where he was,
she told herself and took a deep breath. It was good that he was safe, away from the debris and the ash clouds clogging the streets.

She watched in disbelief, hugging Pasquale’s shirt around her. She more tightly clutched the crucifix she’d brought down with her.

Bad things come in threes,
she hurriedly told herself again and again
. A plane hit his building—one bad thing. A second plane hit the other building—second bad thing. Now Building Two falls—third bad thing. This is the end. No more bad things will happen. Bad things only come in threes…

It wasn’t a rational thought, but being rational was too painful; at that moment, there was no room for rationality.
Don’t even think it, Louise! His building won’t fall too. If you think it, it might happen. Don’t think it! Don’t!

Joanne had her arms around Louise. They watched and sobbed as a seemingly invincible part of New York City came to an end. They stood together, watching the destruction of a city on television.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Twenty-Second Floor

“And I felt the walls crack, that I was next to…that was when I knew the building was going.

I was just praying and praying. And then I felt the walls separate…”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

(on WB11 News)

People around Pasquale stood still, their eyes huge and their mouths opened, as if breathing might bring on a second shaking. “We’ve got to go!” someone shouted.

“We’re going to be trapped.”

“Something’s going on…”

Steve patted the air in the direction of the nervous crowd. “It’s gonna be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll go.”

An older man, his face tight, pushed forward. He was an engineer, a member of the Port Authority Structural Integrity Group. He looked from face to face and shook his head. “The building’s unstable,” he warned, his voice ominous. “That’s why it’s shaking, hit the way it was.”

A few of the women caught their breath, and one began to cry.

Steve patted the air toward them, but his face bore the same fear as the others.

The smoke trickled in through the hallway doors. No one breathed deeply. The wet rags over their mouths helped, albeit not enough. And nothing could help the fear or that shake of the building—of everything around them not being as it should.

“Why haven’t we heard anything?” Pasquale demanded of Steve, who looked as unsure as Pasquale felt.

“I-I don’t know. Who the hell knows what’s going on?”

“What the hell are we still doing here then?” Pasquale asked, looking around at the people, most of whom were leaning against the walls, some crying, others talking on their cell phones, holding them close to their mouths so the screech of the alarm wouldn’t drown out their desperate voices.

“I don’t know. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Steve finally said.

In the lobby on the north side, Steve and Pasquale ripped the tape from the double doors to the hallway. They ran into the hall and to the closest stairway door, Stairwell B. To their surprise, the stairwell was well lit, and there was very little smoke on that side. They ran back to tell Pat.

“Let’s gather everyone together and tell them we’re leaving,” Pat said.

People grouped close to the hallway doors on the north side.

“I’m not leaving until we’re told to,” one man proclaimed, pulling back.

“Look,” Pasquale said, “at least stay in the stairwell. There’s a lot less smoke there. It’s easier to breathe. The firemen should be up here soon.”

Off in Irene Shulman’s office, close to the conference room, the phone rang. Someone ran to answer and came back with the news that it was Jerry DelTuffo, Physical Plant Manager of the George Washington Bridge, and a good friend of Pat and Steve’s.

Pat ran to talk to him and came back to report that Jerry was in Fort Lee, New Jersey, watching the smoke and fire from there. “I told him we’re leaving. I’m keeping the phone off the hook, and Jerry’s staying on the line, just in case we need to come back here and let him know what we’re doing.”

At 10:10 a.m., they gathered flashlights and wet cloths and made ready to make their descent down the stairs to the street, sixty-four floors below.

Someone took a head count: sixteen people. Pasquale was at the front of the line, Rosa and Genelle were directly behind him, then Simon Weiser, Lisa, Debbie, Susan, Franco, and others, with Steve and Pat bringing up the rear.

As they entered the stairwell, someone said in a relieved tone, “This doesn’t look too bad. The stairs are empty. Shouldn’t take long to get down.”

In the lead, Pasquale called back to the others, “Everything’s clear! Don’t see anything.”

The line snaked its way down behind Pasquale, and everyone was calm and moving at a normal pace.

When they reached the forty-ninth floor, they ran into firemen sitting on the stairs, exhausted from climbing in their heavy gear. Their hats were off or pushed to the back of their heads. With hollow eyes, like men heading into hell, they looked up at Pasquale as he led his group past. The men were sweating and worn out, with still many floors to climb. One, an Italian-looking, brown-haired fireman who appeared to be in his early thirties reassured them that the stairs were clear and that it would be an easy descent from there.

As they headed into the thirty-something floors, they passed additional firemen. “If you wanna save time, get into Elevator Bank 27 on the twenty-fourth floor,” one of the men called out.

But Pasquale knew better than to head that way. Even back in 1993, during the last bombing, he’d known it wasn’t a good idea to get into an elevator.

“That’s the fastest way to get trapped and killed!” someone who agreed with his assessment called out.

Another rescue worker made his way up toward them, his feet hitting each step with a loud
smack
of his boots. He looked at Pasquale and the others and nodded. “It’s all fine, a clear run. Just keep going,” he said and plodded on up the stairs.

They got down to the twenty-ninth floor, then twenty-eighth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-sixth. They kept up their slow, but steady pace: twenty-fifth, twenty-fourth…

Pasquale looked at the number plate on the wall. For just a moment, he thought maybe they could take an elevator from there.
No. It’d be too risky. We have to walk down the rest of the way.

They’d reached the twenty-third floor.

We’re going to make it!

Next came the twenty-second floor. The stairs were clear.

Pasquale had kept careful count of the floors and knew there were only twenty-one left between them and safety. He turned to check on the others. “Twenty-second!” he shouted back at them, reassuring himself along with the others.

He was going to say something else and had opened his mouth to do so, but before the words could tumble out, the stairs gave a huge, growing shiver. The metal shook with a loud clamor beneath his feet. Everything around them—the floors, the walls, the stairs—began to shake with seemingly monstrous tremors. They were caught in a huge shaking machine, their bodies being mercilessly thrown back and forth. Everyone crouched low, bending as they hung on desperately to the railing that was trying to shake them free. Terrified and not knowing what else to do, they kept their white-knuckled hold, as if being connected to the building could save them. For a brief moment, they all froze. Around them, the walls heaved with gigantic tremors. Overhead, a loud and growing pounding came, as if heavy objects were being dropped directly above them: a mountain of concrete, stone, brick, steel, all grinding downward. The noise reverberated through the stairwell, growing until there was only noise and nothing else. The air filled with dust. A loud
crash
echoed everywhere as the stairs tore away from the wall and the world began to crumble around them.

Without thinking, Pasquale dived into a corner of the stairwell, beneath the landing above. He laid his hands on the shaking wall and buried his head between them, anything to protect himself from what was falling toward them. The roar grew louder. There were screams and shouts of terror as the noise grew far beyond anything the human ear could tolerate.

Pasquale held on, his hands flat against the wall.
This corner will hold,
he told himself.
If I stay right here, in this little place, I will survive whatever is coming, whatever is falling.
His fingers became a part of the surface he clung to. His back was turned to the things falling around him, hunched to take blows.
If I can just hold on long enough, I’ll be safe. I’ll get out. I’ll see Louise again…

The wall next to his head began a slow, rending crack and sprang open at the top. The crack widened and jaggedly worked its way down through the block and plaster until it reached his hands and buckled there, beneath his fingers. Everything crumbled, falling around and away from him. There was dust in every molecule of air. Debris pummeled his head and body from every direction. His skin was strafed with falling pieces of the upper floors.

The building is…coming down! My God! I can’t believe this is how I’m going to die!
Pasquale thought as he stayed tucked in the fetal position, but the building shattered, and the wall fell away. There was nothing to cling to, nothing to grab.

Louise…Hope…

Terrible screams seemed to merge with the thunderous roar, a choir of horror as the floors above and around him fell into pieces.

He pulled himself in tighter, into a ball.
Maybe it will all pass me by. Maybe there will be something left to cling to when the dust settles.
He pulled his head down to his knees and prayed again and again. “Take me quickly, God. Please! Quickly!” He pulled in a last, desperate breath as the floor gave way beneath his feet and the wall he’d clung to disappeared in a shower of dust.

Pasquale Buzzelli then fell into space, his body turning and twisting as he wafted, seemingly weightless, on a terrible wind. He became one with the walls cascading down around him, another piece of debris, like the metal, block, and paper—everything, all of it together, a part of the thick, choking dust. As if caught in a nightmarish never-ending theme park ride, he flew, gasping hard, his throat burning. He couldn’t catch his breath as he hung in air, suspended, then plummeted down into a free fall, his body tossed by gusts of hellish breath.

He knew he had only seconds left to live.
Louise! Hope, I’ll never see you. Please, God, take care of them. Never again see Louise…My mother…My father…Quick death please! Oh God, please be merciful. Please make it quick
.