A 9/11 Tribute…

On the morning of 9/11/2001, many of us now working at SA-24 were still at SA-1 (State Annex 1) downtown. My first inkling that something was going on was just before 9am when I heard a commotion at the front of our office where the TV was always playing tuned to CNN. Just moments after I started watching the anchors talking about what was then assumed to be an accident, the second plane slammed into the WTC. There was no doubt at that time that this was not an accident. We were glued to CNN, watching all the reports. What I never realized (and could not know) was that a good friend of mine was rushing to the scene to help and that it would cost him his life.

SA-1, while very close to the Potomac River and not that far from the Pentagon, has very good walls and insulating glass. We neither saw, heard, or felt the impact of the plane hitting the Pentagon and our first awareness of the event was plumes of black smoke rising from the south and CNN announcing that yet another plane had hit the Pentagon.

None of us moved far from that TV set as things just got worse and worse. We watched live as each tower fell and then saw the first reports showing the damage at the Pentagon. On the street, we could see people walking (and in some cases running) toward the bridges in their efforts to leave the city. The streets were jammed with cars, especially after all the Government Offices were closed and people were told to go home. Nearly everyone had left, but considering the massive traffic jam outside, I decided to wait until things had calmed down and the streets were cleared.

I watched the reports now of United Flight 93 that had crashed in Pennsylvania on route to DC. I felt numb with the shock and horror of the events of the last few hours and couldn’t understand how something like this could happen, how so many things could go wrong so quickly.

It wasn’t long before the reports became repetitive. Just showing the video that was immediately available and the talking heads began to blather about things that could not be confirmed or were obviously untrue.

By 1pm, the street traffic was back to a manageable level and I walked out of the building toward where my car was parked. Normally while I drive to or from work, I’m listening to the radio for either entertainment or news and traffic. That day, I left it off. I didn’t want to hear anymore about the rising death toll, the rumors and innuendo about what had happened, or who was responsible. I just wanted to get home to my family.

By the time I got home, my wife had already picked up the kids. I walked in the door and hugged them all. My older son Guy Jr was confused about the events and wanted me to give him the answers. He asked again and again about what had happened and I finally snapped at him telling him to be quiet. I wasn’t angry with him, or myself. I just didn’t have any words or explanations to give him. An act like this doesn’t have rational reasons. No political agenda or cause is worth a deliberate attempt to kill or maim as many civilians as possible.

By the time I went to bed that night, I just wanted it to be over. Answers and emotional healing over such a brutal and barbaric act could start tomorrow. I soon found out that my personal involvement with the attacks were going to be more than just the revulsion that most people felt, it would soon have a name to go with it as well.

In 1982, I was living in Columbus, Ohio. For those that know the city, I lived in a townhouse behind the Chevy dealership at Route 3 and Morse Road. Right down the street from me was the Northland Mall, and inside that mall was a TGIFriday/ Chilli’s type of bar/restaurant that I used to go to sometimes after work. Almost every time I went, the same guy was tending bar. Nothing special or different about him, just some guy.

We talked about sports or whatever while I had my drink and that was about as far as our friendship went. Flash-forward a few years and I’m now working for a large government contractor spending most of my time overseas. I did however need a place to keep my stuff for the month or so in-between trips and the guy that maintained our database was looking to get something other than the efficiency apartment he had. So he, another friend Daryl, and I got a townhouse in Springfield, Virginia. It took awhile, but we finally made the connection between him and I in Ohio and we marveled at such a weird coincidence that we would meet up again hundreds of miles away at the same job. My friend’s name was Jeff Simpson.

He was from Newport News, Virginia and thought he could play piano (he could, just not very well). We had a lot in common and when I was in the States we spent many a night killing each other in various video games. He introduced me to two girls that I had long-term relationships with (both did not end well, so I threatened to beat him to a pulp if he ever tried again) and a few years went by. He eventually met a girl named Dianne and within a few more years got married. Naturally he left the townhouse and we got other roommates and life went on. I met my wife Tracey and in short order we both had families, my two sons, Guy Jr and Peter, and Jeff’s triplet’s (two daughters and a son). We would get the families together at holidays and such (mostly centered on the 4th of July where we would shoot off fireworks at his in-law’s house) and talk and lie about good times in the past.

Jeff was very good at what he did and found himself working for Oracle and managing a few contracts in the New York area. He became an EMT for the Dumfries/ Triangle Fire Station and somehow managed to juggle his job, his family, working as an EMT, and being a softball coach.

On the morning of 9/11, he and a co-worker were working in New York. They came out of their hotel into the chaos that must have reigned in South Manhattan. His co-worker turned away for a second and when he looked back, Jeff was gone. There are no eyewitness accounts of where Jeff went, what he did, or what he went through after that, but I would guess that once he found out what was going on, he left to go help at the Twin Towers. He didn’t stop to think about his family or friends, just that people needed his help. His body was found over a month later in the rubble that remained.

Time heals all wounds I suppose and we have all moved on. Dianne has since remarried and I no longer hear from her. Not surprising I suppose. I’m yet another reminder of her loss and she has three children to raise. I wish her the best and hope she has found happiness in her new life. I sorry to say that I don’t think about Jeff much anymore, but every 9/11, the pain and tragedy of that day hits home once more and I remember that I’ll never see my friend again.

None of you reading this knew him of course, but on the next anniversary of this terrible day, please stop for a moment and remember the heroics and self-sacrifice of not only the brave men and women who gave their lives in the line of duty that day, but of one man who didn’t have to be there. Who went into the face of danger to help those who needed it, and paid for it with his life. My friend, Jeff Simpson