On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was on a Long Island Rail Road train, waiting to pull out of Penn Station. I was sipping take-out coffee and going through page proofs for that week’s Village Voice (dated September 18).
This Tuesday morning train to the suburbs, a reverse commute, was never crowded. Then two women got on, obviously upset, saying that a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers, and it was on fire. Oh my god, that’s awful, I thought. I knew that back in 1945, a B-25 bomber had hit the
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