I was 41. I was a partner in a neighborhood bistro, and we were cash strapped at the time from doing a major remodel. To pay my bills, I was working as a cocktail server in a popular bar, 2 double shifts in a row Sundays and Mondays til late night (they closed at 4am, then did cleaning/restock/sales reports til 6).
At 1pm on 9/11, I arrived at the bistro to continue building a wine bar and booths for the new expansion in a vacant retail space next door, that we'd built a big entryway into. I was tired and still sleepy, and was confused to see that a small TV was set up on a table in the dining area, surrounded by a small crowd of people staring at it. It was obvious something important was happening from everyone's faces, and since the bistro did not normally have a TV in it. I watched quietly, not wanting to seem foolish, since few customers knew what my work/sleep schedule was like. When the video repeat of the first tower being hit showed, I felt that floating sensation in the gut that you get when you are about to arrive after a fast elevator ride.
It ended up being the best/worst/busiest/quietest day in the bistro's history. Everyone in the neighborhood eventually either came there, or to the pub two blocks away. Both places were packed, because nobody wanted to stay at home alone watching the news. I watched an hour of the news when I arrived, but had no choice but to go work on the remodel project. It was good to have something to focus on, and having no choice but to do it. It helped keep my grief and rage tamped down. Occasionally, a person or two would come in there to sit and cry in relative privacy. It was eerie how quiet the bistro was, even though it was packed with people. Like a funeral service, and it was like a very somber wake, everyone getting quietly numb with drink.
