It was twenty years ago today ... that I needed to find a new place to go for work.
The company had a number of disaster recovery sites in the suburbs, but we were given strict, repeated orders not to go there unless we were officially notified to do so. There were a limited number of desks and computers at the site; they were reserved for people with the most critical jobs.
With no other clear option available, I made daily treks to the Midtown building where I had worked from 1995-99. On any given day, I would see quite a few empty desks, but empty didn’t necessarily mean available.
In order to log in, I would have to restart the computer at the desk. In those days, people working remotely connected to a running desktop PC. If you rebooted a PC while someone was connected to it, you would terminate their connection. Many desks had “do not reboot” signs pasted on the computer monitors. I tried to avoid touching any machine that seemed as though it might be active.
One day, the manager from a team that I didn’t know walked over and chastised me for using one of “their desks.” My response was polite bewilderment. You’re seriously going to complain about me trying to find an empty desk when my office was destroyed and I had no designated seat at a DR location? Apparently, for the first three days after the attack, a group of traders took over the floor. This left this particular manager feeling vulnerable. I assured her that I would be respectful with their gear.
Over the next 6-8 weeks, the company leased new space out in Jersey and set up more emergency work stations. After two months of foraging for a desk every day, I was directed to report to a bland box of a building in a suburban office park. They had reserved a desk for me there. It was convenient, but dull. I hated going there, even though it wasn’t far from home.
I missed the city. I missed the crowded avenues and the snarled traffic. I missed stopping for a moment of reflection at the makeshift shrines at the firehouses. I missed the look of shock and sadness on the faces of every person that I passed on the sidewalk, the pitiful look in their eyes as you and they wondered silently whether the person on the other end of that glance had lost someone. That was the first question that you asked when you talked to anyone. “Is your family okay?”
The answer was usually yes, but everyone knew someone. Every person in the city was impacted in some way. We felt each other’s grief. It was constant. It was heavy. It was inescapable.