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 B
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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happened. I know people had told me about the terrorists and the planes, but it was all still inexplicable to me. “Boozer, what’s going on?”
Boozer explained to me all that he knew. It was a lot to take in.
As Boozer told me the tale of two planes and how the Towers were no more, my cell phone regained service. From then on it would ring nonstop. Things got hectic. I was working two phones at once. I took calls on the cell phone with one hand and made calls on Boozer’s office phone with the other.
I got through to my CEO around 1:00 p.m. The Network Plus home office was making a head count. No one had spoken to me yet. I told him John Cerqueira was with me. John looked up quizzically. Then Tom Sullivan called. Sully is a college buddy who lives out in Colorado. He was very upset, crying. He said he saw me on TV. He saw me running up the West Side Highway live on the news, and then everything turned to black on thescreen. He thought I didn’t make it. He had been trying to reach me for the past hour and a half. “I thought you were gone,” he said.
I talked to Joy again. I called my parents’ house again. Apparently, a lot of people were calling my parents’ house.
“We got to get you out of those clothes,” Boozer said.
Boozer gave me and John exterminator outfits—gray pants, a gray shirt with the Quinn Exterminating logo, and some sneakers. I peeled off everything: shirt, tie, T-shirt, pants. I threw all of it in the trash. I learned later that Boozer took it out of the trash and put it in a plastic bag for me. He gave it to me a couple weeks later. I did not open that bag until I began to write this book. That gray ashlike dust, and that smell—that acrid burning scent that I’d never smelled before and never smelled since—are still on those clothes. I still don’t know quite what to do with them.
I felt better sitting in Boozer’s office in clean clothes. I had also been brought up to speed. I understood what had happened at the World Trade Center. I knew about the Pentagon. I knew there was still one plane unaccounted for. That’s the story we were following. The phone continued to ring.
Joy was waiting for me uptown. I was at 30th and Broadway. She was at 82th and 2nd. But I knew she was OK, and she knew I was OK. The overwhelming sense of urgency that dominated the last three hours—the longest three hours of my life—had left me. As long as I knew everybody was OK, I relaxed, mentally. Or maybe that was the feeling I wanted to have, so I gave it to myself, just temporarily. How long could I stay in emergency mode?
“Let’s get you something to eat and drink,” Boozer recommended. So John, Boozer, and I walked over to O’Reilly’s. Normally, we sat at the bar to eat, but the bar was packed. Thewhole place was packed. Boozer found us some space in the back, in the dining area where patrons enjoy the frill of white tablecloths. This was the first time I’d sat anywhere but at the bar at O’Reilly’s. Boozer ordered us beers and a ton of food. I didn’t realize it, but I was starving. I was insatiable. I had beers in each hand. I was so keyed up, so intense and full of energy that I could’ve consumed anything and I wouldn’t have felt it at all. I was full of adrenaline, antsy, unable to sit still. I guzzled beer, not to escape or get drunk, but to simply feel the liquid. I devoured one cheeseburger and then another. Boozer continued to fetch food for us from the front bar.
I was inhaling a fistful of fries when Boozer called to me to come to the front. And there I was, on TV. I watched the clip of me running for my life up the West Side Highway. It’s about 2:30 p.m. Four hours earlier, this was all actually happening. Now I’m watching it on TV! This was hard to process. “That’s me,” I said sotto voce with some disbelief. It was surreal, and it was frightening all over again.
That was it. Like a lightning bolt, sanity hit me. I’ve gotta get the hell out of here
Boozer explained to me all that he knew. It was a lot to take in.
As Boozer told me the tale of two planes and how the Towers were no more, my cell phone regained service. From then on it would ring nonstop. Things got hectic. I was working two phones at once. I took calls on the cell phone with one hand and made calls on Boozer’s office phone with the other.
I got through to my CEO around 1:00 p.m. The Network Plus home office was making a head count. No one had spoken to me yet. I told him John Cerqueira was with me. John looked up quizzically. Then Tom Sullivan called. Sully is a college buddy who lives out in Colorado. He was very upset, crying. He said he saw me on TV. He saw me running up the West Side Highway live on the news, and then everything turned to black on thescreen. He thought I didn’t make it. He had been trying to reach me for the past hour and a half. “I thought you were gone,” he said.
I talked to Joy again. I called my parents’ house again. Apparently, a lot of people were calling my parents’ house.
“We got to get you out of those clothes,” Boozer said.
Boozer gave me and John exterminator outfits—gray pants, a gray shirt with the Quinn Exterminating logo, and some sneakers. I peeled off everything: shirt, tie, T-shirt, pants. I threw all of it in the trash. I learned later that Boozer took it out of the trash and put it in a plastic bag for me. He gave it to me a couple weeks later. I did not open that bag until I began to write this book. That gray ashlike dust, and that smell—that acrid burning scent that I’d never smelled before and never smelled since—are still on those clothes. I still don’t know quite what to do with them.
I felt better sitting in Boozer’s office in clean clothes. I had also been brought up to speed. I understood what had happened at the World Trade Center. I knew about the Pentagon. I knew there was still one plane unaccounted for. That’s the story we were following. The phone continued to ring.
Joy was waiting for me uptown. I was at 30th and Broadway. She was at 82th and 2nd. But I knew she was OK, and she knew I was OK. The overwhelming sense of urgency that dominated the last three hours—the longest three hours of my life—had left me. As long as I knew everybody was OK, I relaxed, mentally. Or maybe that was the feeling I wanted to have, so I gave it to myself, just temporarily. How long could I stay in emergency mode?
“Let’s get you something to eat and drink,” Boozer recommended. So John, Boozer, and I walked over to O’Reilly’s. Normally, we sat at the bar to eat, but the bar was packed. Thewhole place was packed. Boozer found us some space in the back, in the dining area where patrons enjoy the frill of white tablecloths. This was the first time I’d sat anywhere but at the bar at O’Reilly’s. Boozer ordered us beers and a ton of food. I didn’t realize it, but I was starving. I was insatiable. I had beers in each hand. I was so keyed up, so intense and full of energy that I could’ve consumed anything and I wouldn’t have felt it at all. I was full of adrenaline, antsy, unable to sit still. I guzzled beer, not to escape or get drunk, but to simply feel the liquid. I devoured one cheeseburger and then another. Boozer continued to fetch food for us from the front bar.
I was inhaling a fistful of fries when Boozer called to me to come to the front. And there I was, on TV. I watched the clip of me running for my life up the West Side Highway. It’s about 2:30 p.m. Four hours earlier, this was all actually happening. Now I’m watching it on TV! This was hard to process. “That’s me,” I said sotto voce with some disbelief. It was surreal, and it was frightening all over again.
That was it. Like a lightning bolt, sanity hit me. I’ve gotta get the hell out of here
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