I was in the office above my garage, working on as-built drawings of steel and concrete elevations for the Borgata Casino/Hotel being built here in Atlantic City. I do AutoCADD for my father's land surveying business, which is essentially working at home, so I went back to the house around 10:00 AM to refill my tea mug. As I walked in, my mother is standing raptly in front of the TV and tells me what happened. I can't say I recall the next sequence of events clearly. All I do know is that I sat on the couch for some time, too dizzy and nauseous to stand up. I had arrived in time to see the second plane hit, and I saw the collapse as well. My parents said that they had just met a young man who worked in the top floors of the WTC at a business function only scant weeks earlier. (He survived, we later learned.) I can only describe what I felt as an almost surreal detatchment, as if my body were still sitting in the room taking it all in while my mind was observing from beneath the frozen surface of a lake. I couldn't react, couldn't even comprehend how to react. Eventually, the shock and horror gave way to numbness, and I went back into the garage to get back to work, dealing with the situation by what I call "Shutting off my emotion chip" and just losing myself in the repetitive task of checking concrete elevations.
I had several friends in NYC, and I e-mailed them to make sure they were still alive. Thankfully, all were fine, one had even been in Florida at the time. Months later, I learned that I had a classmate from college killed in the massacre, a woman named Allison Wildman. The name was familiar, I was sure that I had a World History course with her Freshman year, but I was at a loss to put a face to the name, or say for certain that I had ever spoken to her. I can't put a name to the disquieting feeling that arises upon reflection that the question of whether or not I would have ever recognised her on the street has been made academic with such finality.