We All Fall Down: The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer by Pasquale Buzzelli, Joseph M. Bittick, Louise Buzzelli
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be like vultures or scavengers, waiting for prey.
If he could have, he might have ambled out of that chair and run, as far away as he could get from them. He had never dealt with the media before, but something in him didn’t want to go near them. “Get me outta here!” he called over his shoulder to the nurse. “Anywhere! Just get me away from—”
She turned the chair fast, heading off in the opposite direction.
Phil was back with them, running to catch up. “No cabs anywhere.”
A policeman jumped from a van standing at the curb. “Hey, fella, you need to get somewhere?” he called over.
“How about Gramercy Park? We have to get this guy home!” Phil answered.
The cop nodded and helped Phil maneuver Pasquale and his bum leg into the van. As the doors closed, Pasquale looked back toward the front of the hospital. There were only the figures of the reporters, almost motionless: no screaming ambulances for them to chase and no chaos. He’d come down along with one of the tallest, most well-known buildings in the world. Surely there have to be other injured people. Surely there have to be more like me…more survivors.
But there was only chilling quiet. Nothing was going on.
All of those people from the buildings—where are they? And those questions lingered in his mind from the minute he left the hospital to the time they finally reached Gramercy Park and Phil’s apartment. Where are all the people?
He sat in Phil’s living room.
Phil brought him water and turned on the TV when asked.
The picture came on of the South Tower: a peeling away of the structure; the gigantic fall of concrete and steel. Then there was Pasquale’s building, with the antenna on top, crumbling and melting. There was an almost loop-like video of planes heading straight and purposefully toward the buildings. All of it was so eerily calm, with the blue sky and that bright sunshine behind it—and those planes, flying straight and low and on purpose, becoming fireballs.
His Tower, the North Tower, had been the first hit, but the South Tower had been the first to fall. He’d thought that when the North Tower fell, it had toppled over. He imagined he’d survived because most of the building had fallen away from him. He wasn’t ready for the truth, for what that horrific footage would reveal.
It wasn’t a building falling over. They were two buildings disintegrating , with forces inside so great that the exterior shell, all concrete, peeled away like a banana. He sat there in awe, not understanding. It couldn’t have been possible for him to live through what he was watching . It’s just…not possible. He shook his head again and again. How could I have survived a twenty-story or more fall at that velocity? Twenty stories! How did I survive the remaining 90 or 100 floors of concrete, steel, wood, pipe, electricity, glass, furniture, appliances, fixtures, computers, mechanical equipment, and so on collapsing on top of me, somehow passing me by?
To a logical-thinking structural engineer, it didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t been found under the rubble, but on top of it, looking up at that blue sky. It was as if he’d been the last piece to fall. His parents had raised him Catholic, and he believed in God. He’d prayed at the time of what he thought would be his death. He’d never believed much in miracles, but the questions looming in his head couldn’t possibly be answered by logic of any sort. Quickly figuring the odds of his survival, given all the parameters, he came up with something akin to one in one billion. It was all so far beyond him, why he was still alive; it was simply too much to think about.
A plane had hit the Pentagon, in Washington DC. Another plane had gone down in a cornfield in Pennsylvania. He watched as the horrible pictures, the smoking wreckage, played over and over. His throat tightened with anger, and his hands clenched uncontrollably. There was nothing anyone could have done to protect
If he could have, he might have ambled out of that chair and run, as far away as he could get from them. He had never dealt with the media before, but something in him didn’t want to go near them. “Get me outta here!” he called over his shoulder to the nurse. “Anywhere! Just get me away from—”
She turned the chair fast, heading off in the opposite direction.
Phil was back with them, running to catch up. “No cabs anywhere.”
A policeman jumped from a van standing at the curb. “Hey, fella, you need to get somewhere?” he called over.
“How about Gramercy Park? We have to get this guy home!” Phil answered.
The cop nodded and helped Phil maneuver Pasquale and his bum leg into the van. As the doors closed, Pasquale looked back toward the front of the hospital. There were only the figures of the reporters, almost motionless: no screaming ambulances for them to chase and no chaos. He’d come down along with one of the tallest, most well-known buildings in the world. Surely there have to be other injured people. Surely there have to be more like me…more survivors.
But there was only chilling quiet. Nothing was going on.
All of those people from the buildings—where are they? And those questions lingered in his mind from the minute he left the hospital to the time they finally reached Gramercy Park and Phil’s apartment. Where are all the people?
He sat in Phil’s living room.
Phil brought him water and turned on the TV when asked.
The picture came on of the South Tower: a peeling away of the structure; the gigantic fall of concrete and steel. Then there was Pasquale’s building, with the antenna on top, crumbling and melting. There was an almost loop-like video of planes heading straight and purposefully toward the buildings. All of it was so eerily calm, with the blue sky and that bright sunshine behind it—and those planes, flying straight and low and on purpose, becoming fireballs.
His Tower, the North Tower, had been the first hit, but the South Tower had been the first to fall. He’d thought that when the North Tower fell, it had toppled over. He imagined he’d survived because most of the building had fallen away from him. He wasn’t ready for the truth, for what that horrific footage would reveal.
It wasn’t a building falling over. They were two buildings disintegrating , with forces inside so great that the exterior shell, all concrete, peeled away like a banana. He sat there in awe, not understanding. It couldn’t have been possible for him to live through what he was watching . It’s just…not possible. He shook his head again and again. How could I have survived a twenty-story or more fall at that velocity? Twenty stories! How did I survive the remaining 90 or 100 floors of concrete, steel, wood, pipe, electricity, glass, furniture, appliances, fixtures, computers, mechanical equipment, and so on collapsing on top of me, somehow passing me by?
To a logical-thinking structural engineer, it didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t been found under the rubble, but on top of it, looking up at that blue sky. It was as if he’d been the last piece to fall. His parents had raised him Catholic, and he believed in God. He’d prayed at the time of what he thought would be his death. He’d never believed much in miracles, but the questions looming in his head couldn’t possibly be answered by logic of any sort. Quickly figuring the odds of his survival, given all the parameters, he came up with something akin to one in one billion. It was all so far beyond him, why he was still alive; it was simply too much to think about.
A plane had hit the Pentagon, in Washington DC. Another plane had gone down in a cornfield in Pennsylvania. He watched as the horrible pictures, the smoking wreckage, played over and over. His throat tightened with anger, and his hands clenched uncontrollably. There was nothing anyone could have done to protect
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