Seven years ago today, it really happened. Don't look away from it. You were there.
So was I. Groggy-eyed, I woke up in my L.A. studio apartment to a phone call from my good friend Kevin telling me that New York City was under attack. I turned on the TV just in time to catch the second jet fly into the South Tower.
What we watched over the next two hours changed all of our lives. I watched it with four friends, chasing substance abuse with alcohol. It was horrible. We didn't know if he we would be drafted. We didn't know if someone we knew died, or would die soon.
We experienced, us a continent away, the most salient knowledge of all who learn war: fear.
We were all very afraid.
All day in that smoky apartment, in between the arguments and the urgings to "Turn that fucking TV off!", the fates of those who leaped from the towers prowled our minds. They hang there still today, as if they never landed.
Esquire Magazine has a piece on those who fell, on how it changed us, and how they are the images least seen but most remembered from that tragic day.
Read it.
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