“Dude, your building is on fire.”
So said my roommate as he tried to rile me out of bed, that Tuesday morning. I rolled over and yelled, “Fuck off, I’ll go in when I go in.”
See, I had been laid off from my design firm in a hostile takeover on Friday, September 7, and on 9-11 we were suppose to be cleaning out our desks. Feeling no urgency to make the day easier for the assholes that just bought us out for our clients, I was sleeping in.
“No seriously, my dad just called, your building was hit by a plane.”
This got me out of bed in a shot, a chance to see an aeronautical disaster does not come along every day, and as a historian I wanted to see just one.