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[This Just In]

ON THE STREET
Apocalypse now?

BY CHRIS WRIGHT

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 10:30 a.m. — The last words I hear as I leave the office: " I know the world’s coming to an end, but we still have to ship the newspaper. " The rest of Boston, meanwhile, seems to have shuddered — literally shuddered — to a halt. The thing is, at this point we just don’t know. We have no idea what to expect.

Out on the street, you hear a million rumors: the White House got hit. They crashed a plane into Camp David. The Air Force has been dispatched to shoot down an airliner that won’t make radio contact. This is war, people say. This is war.

It seems too pretty a day to face the Apocalypse. The sky is flawless, the sun glares with July-like intensity. At first, you’d think the crowds milling around on Boylston Street were here to enjoy summer’s swan song. But most of these people are evacuees from the Prudential and John Hancock buildings. No one is discussing the weather.

" This is going to make the Oklahoma bombing look like a convenience-store hold-up. "

" This is the most catastrophic thing to happen to America since the bombing of Pearl Harbor. "

" I felt a hollow pit in the bottom of my stomach. "

" I feel scared. "

" I’m angry. "

" I’m sad. "

" I just want to go home and hug my kids. "

Nearby, a crowd has gathered around a truck with its doors open and its radio on. " America, " the announcer says, " is under attack. " The people look shocked, disbelieving.

Not everyone, though, is going to let all this interfere with business. Inside the Prudential shopping mall, three well-dressed guys sip coffee at one of the food court’s tables. " We’re finishing a meeting, " says Gillette employee Ted Lloyd, which draws wry chuckles from his co-workers. Laughter means something at times like this — it says you’re alive. It says you’re not beaten.

Outside in Copley Square, an equally sedate Don Farnon is eating a banana. Farnon insists he has no qualms about sitting in the shadow of the Hancock — surely a potential terrorist target. " God has already been good to me, " he says. Last weekend, Farnon stayed at the World Trade Center Marriott. Three of his friends are there now. He has no idea if they are alive. " They wanted me to go with them, " he says, then pauses mid-sentence. Farnon isn’t really sedate — he is paralyzed by shock. " I see people running to and fro, " he says, " and I don’t know where they’re going. "

Farnon isn’t kidding. The traffic downtown is appalling — 10 rush hours rolled into one. The sidewalks are crammed so tight you can hardly breathe. And everyone, it seems, is speaking into a cell phone. Even so, things are unnaturally quiet. At one point, there is a noise like the roar of an airplane, and everyone looks, startled, up to the sky — the sound was the cooling system of a truck.

At South Station, the situation is even worse. People seem harried, frantic. In the midst of the streaming crowds, Bruce Comenitz stands stock-still. He has been like this for over an hour. " I’m just standing here contemplating what’s going on, " he says. " Our lives have changed forever. "

By noon, an eerie calm has settled over the city. The bars, meanwhile, are doing a roaring trade. At the 21st Amendment, across from the State House, people sit packed at the bar and watch events unfold on TV. " Let’s go back to the 1300s, " says one guy. " Public beheadings. " Mostly, though, people watch in silence. Over and over, the jetliner flies into the World Trade Center. Over and over, the tower collapses. We all know that these images will be with us forever. You’ve never seen so many straight faces, so many down-turned eyes.

But the Apocalypse didn’t arrive — at least not here, at least not today. Sparrows fuss and flutter on Boston Common. Squirrels chase each other. The flowers display their gaudy colors. People stroll along the pathways, lounge around on the grass. You’d hardly know that America was on the brink of the unthinkable.

By mid-afternoon, the TV trucks have left Boylston Street. People file in and out of the Star Market. A skateboarder does leaps and scrapes in front of the Pru. A construction worker sweeps dust into a little heap. Meanwhile, on the Common, the statue of George Washington stands facing the Comm Ave mall. The general’s head is turned left toward the Hancock Tower, as if watching, waiting for something else to happen.

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Issue Date: September 11, 2001






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