Reluctant Hero: A 9/11 Survivor Speaks Out About That Unthinkable Day, What He's Learned, How He's Struggled, and What No One Should Ever Forget by Michael Benfante Page A
Authors: Michael Benfante
Tags: United States, Historical, History, Politics & Social Sciences, Biographies & Memoirs, State & Local, Terrorism, 21st Century, Memoirs, Politics & Government, Specific Topics, Americas, Mid-Atlantic
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I found nothing. I remembered the flames above my head on my 81st-floor corner office. And I certainly remembered seeing the top of the North Tower exploding. I looked at the group and didn’t say a word. The one in the red T-shirt looked me in the eyes. He knew. I didn’t know for sure what had happened to their friends, but I knew it couldn’t be good. What words could I say? I walked into the church.
The church was almost empty, and very quiet. A woman sat alone in the front pew to the left. We walked straight up the center aisle. There was an altar front and center and a cross to the right. John knelt down in front of the cross and was praying intensely. I went into a pew to my right. I was exhausted. I got down on my knees and said, “God, I don’t know what I did to be in your good graces, but thank you.” John came beside me, and we knelt there together in silence for a while.
I was raised Catholic, an altar boy for seven years, and received all the sacraments during that time. I went to church almost every Sunday in those days. As an adult, I practiced my faith infrequently. But I made myself a promise I would go every Sunday from that time on.
We left the church and headed to Boozer’s office. Along the way we passed various restaurants with outdoor seating, where,to my astonishment, people were sipping cocktails and snacking on hors d’oeuvres and, well, just eating lunch. What the hell? They were chatting and pulling at the waiter as if it was just another sunny September Tuesday in Manhattan. I think about that image today, and I still can’t believe it.
Boozer
Boozer is Brian Wenrich. He owns Quinn Exterminating on 30th and Broadway, located on the “penthouse” floor of an old eight-story building. His father was a high school football coach at Our Lady of the Valley in Orange, New Jersey. As a boy, Brian was a stocky kid with big calves. He hung around his dad’s football practices, anxious to participate with the older boys. The high school players nicknamed him after Emerson Boozer, a straight-ahead fullback for the New York Jets in the 1970s. As Boozer got older, the nickname became more apt, owing to his jovial consumption of alcoholic libations. I met Boozer in a softball league when I was twenty-six. I’m surprised we hadn’t met earlier. We are the same age, born twelve days apart. We grew up in neighboring towns, me in Montclair and he in Essex Fells. He went to public school, and I went to a Catholic school, and our paths didn’t cross. But we hit if off as soon as we met. Kindred spirits, we were. We bonded as single guys enjoying their run-and-gun years. We went to concerts, ball games, and bars. We became like brothers. For the two years I had been working in New York, I met him for lunch once or twice a week a block from his office at O’Reilly’s, a great old New York City drinking establishment. I also made Quinn Exterminating a customer, which was not only good business but also a convenient excuse to visit with him during the workweek.
Boozer would give you the shirt off his back. And on this day, that’s literally what I needed.
When John and I walked into Boozer’s building, the security guys gave us the What the hell you must’ve been through look everybody everywhere gave us. They stared at us like we were ghosts. We entered Quinn Exterminating, and Boozer’s assistant gave us the same look.
The door to Boozer’s office was open. I edged a few feet away from the door and watched him without saying a word. He stood there, focused intently on a little TV set, propped up on an office chair, that showed the catastrophe—the planes hitting, the Towers imploding—over and over again. Sensing eyes on him, he wheeled around and gave me a big bear hug.
“Boozer, I’m a mess.”
“Man, I don’t care. You’re fucking alive .”
The little TV set drew me in. I watched a clip of the second plane crashing into Tower 2. It was the first time that day I really saw what
The church was almost empty, and very quiet. A woman sat alone in the front pew to the left. We walked straight up the center aisle. There was an altar front and center and a cross to the right. John knelt down in front of the cross and was praying intensely. I went into a pew to my right. I was exhausted. I got down on my knees and said, “God, I don’t know what I did to be in your good graces, but thank you.” John came beside me, and we knelt there together in silence for a while.
I was raised Catholic, an altar boy for seven years, and received all the sacraments during that time. I went to church almost every Sunday in those days. As an adult, I practiced my faith infrequently. But I made myself a promise I would go every Sunday from that time on.
We left the church and headed to Boozer’s office. Along the way we passed various restaurants with outdoor seating, where,to my astonishment, people were sipping cocktails and snacking on hors d’oeuvres and, well, just eating lunch. What the hell? They were chatting and pulling at the waiter as if it was just another sunny September Tuesday in Manhattan. I think about that image today, and I still can’t believe it.
Boozer
Boozer is Brian Wenrich. He owns Quinn Exterminating on 30th and Broadway, located on the “penthouse” floor of an old eight-story building. His father was a high school football coach at Our Lady of the Valley in Orange, New Jersey. As a boy, Brian was a stocky kid with big calves. He hung around his dad’s football practices, anxious to participate with the older boys. The high school players nicknamed him after Emerson Boozer, a straight-ahead fullback for the New York Jets in the 1970s. As Boozer got older, the nickname became more apt, owing to his jovial consumption of alcoholic libations. I met Boozer in a softball league when I was twenty-six. I’m surprised we hadn’t met earlier. We are the same age, born twelve days apart. We grew up in neighboring towns, me in Montclair and he in Essex Fells. He went to public school, and I went to a Catholic school, and our paths didn’t cross. But we hit if off as soon as we met. Kindred spirits, we were. We bonded as single guys enjoying their run-and-gun years. We went to concerts, ball games, and bars. We became like brothers. For the two years I had been working in New York, I met him for lunch once or twice a week a block from his office at O’Reilly’s, a great old New York City drinking establishment. I also made Quinn Exterminating a customer, which was not only good business but also a convenient excuse to visit with him during the workweek.
Boozer would give you the shirt off his back. And on this day, that’s literally what I needed.
When John and I walked into Boozer’s building, the security guys gave us the What the hell you must’ve been through look everybody everywhere gave us. They stared at us like we were ghosts. We entered Quinn Exterminating, and Boozer’s assistant gave us the same look.
The door to Boozer’s office was open. I edged a few feet away from the door and watched him without saying a word. He stood there, focused intently on a little TV set, propped up on an office chair, that showed the catastrophe—the planes hitting, the Towers imploding—over and over again. Sensing eyes on him, he wheeled around and gave me a big bear hug.
“Boozer, I’m a mess.”
“Man, I don’t care. You’re fucking alive .”
The little TV set drew me in. I watched a clip of the second plane crashing into Tower 2. It was the first time that day I really saw what
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