IT WAS ONE of those perfect New York autumn mornings—blue skies, a crisp breeze. A day when I felt lucky to live in the city. I was on my way out of my East Side apartment when the doorman waved his hand to stop me.
“A plane just hit the World Trade Center,” he said.
An image of John F. Kennedy, Jr., shot through my mind. He had crashed his private plane into the Atlantic Ocean two summers ago. These private-plane owners really don’t know what they’re doing, I thought as the doorman pushed open the door. It was a terrible accident to be sure, but an accident nonetheless. I expected to see something about this one in the paper the next morning.
I walked over to Lexington Avenue and hopped on the 6 train. I was on my way to 51st Street for my advertising agency job. I grabbed a seat and pulled out my book. Two stops later, a crowd of people pushed their way in.
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