Glory Days

That was the skyline of downtown Manhattan in 1978 – the jagged maw that grinned at me from across the harbor while I studied literature and partied too hard at Wagner College on Staten Island. In the forefront, those saber-toothed towers glistened in the sunlight and sparkled at night, and even though the glittering metropolis overall called to me, the World Trade Center (WTC) would prove to be a significant point of my destiny. 

In my sophomore year, after the novelty of college beer blasts wore off, I transferred to New York University and raised the stakes. I got a studio apartment in Chelsea which meant I had to pay rent so I also needed a job. The opportunity to waitress in the Market Bar & Dining Room in the concourse of the WTC came from my boyfriend at the time. Phil’s family had been connected to the Twin Towers since before the Port Authority (P.A.) opened the doors there in 1973. His dad was a P.A. policeman whose claim to fame was escorting Philippe Petite into custody after his death-defying high wire walk between the Towers in 1974. In fact, Monsieur Petite was photographed balancing Phil’s dad’s hat on his nose for the cover of the NY Times. Phil’s mom was a medical professional for the P.A. and Phil was a waiter in the three-star dining room, the classy restaurant behind the raucous Market Bar. 

All the food concessions for the Trade Center were owned by International Hilton Company (Inhilco) and so none were in competition with each other but rather had varying degrees of refinement. Windows on the World on the 107th floor of Building One was the fanciest of the venues and the highest grossing restaurant in the world. The Market Dining Room on the ground floor was a distant second but chi-chi enough to only have waiters. The Market Bar was a booze and burger joint revolving around two large rectangular bars that catered to commuters. It also featured table service with waitresses and Phil tried to get me a job there. At first, the management rejected the idea based on nepotism. But, as Fate would have it, a time card with my name on it magically appeared in the rack by the time clock in the kitchen, and Phil just happened to spot it when he punched in. The bar management couldn’t refute a dictate coming down from the Inhilco offices on high, and reluctantly gave me a chance.

Why did I stay there so long? Sometimes, depending on my mood/hangover, that question and the ever-present Towers haunted me. They were always there, looming, wherever I went in Chelsea, in the Village, downtown… I felt as if I were being held captive by a pair of blockheaded giants. Other times, I was in awe of their pyramid power and felt honored to work there. There was a high voltage energy about the WTC that was so dynamic, so breathtaking, so magnetic, and, perhaps, sacred, that one monumental tower was not enough to contain it. And the bar, a classic hub for human drama, was endlessly and insidiously entertaining. Then, of course, there was the money.

When I was initially hired, the uniform was a tight black t-shirt and a flimsy black mini-skirt with a slit up the left thigh. My dignity was preserved by a black apron with deep pockets, plus we were so incredibly busy that there was no time to feel the breeze on my exposed leg. From 4:00 to 8:00 PM every weekday, upwards of 50,000 commuters coursed through the concourse to make their way home, and the Market Bar was situated near the escalators to the New Jersey PATH trains. Every weekday evening, the crowd was 5 to 6 deep at both bars. We, the waitresses, were like linebackers muscling our way through the crowd with our full trays of drinks. It was insane. I still have nightmares. I loved it. I met so many incredible people there.

The regular patrons of the Market Bar were the gladiators and rogues of the financial district – the men and women brokers from the commodities exchange (COMEX). They worked hard, played hard, and most of them remembered where they came from so they tipped big. They were loud, colorful, and caring. They chatted with us, flirted with us, respected us, and parted the crowds to help us work.  

Besides the commodities brokers, there were lots of other colorful characters that passed through. There were bookies and gamblers, diamond dealers, con men wanted by Interpol, dreamers and schemers, legit financiers and masters of the universe types, celebrities, Elvis impersonators, iron workers, office workers, retail workers, and tourists from all over the world. I also met new age spiritual teachers there. 

Then there was the staff, invariably the most colorful characters of all. Management, chef and kitchen crew, back of the house, front of the house, busboys, wait staff, hostesses, everyone had towering ambitions. Everyone was climbing up out of some hardship, fleeing something, or chasing some dream. They were artists, musicians, writers, gamblers, entrepreneurs launching start-ups or their own restaurants; and like the customers, everyone worked hard, played hard, and cared a lot. 

The women I worked with were some of the gutsiest and big-hearted people I’ve known. They were forthright and direct. They were just as quick to smack a grabby barfly across the face as they were to give a needy person the shirt off their back. They had a strength and street smarts I’d never encountered before in CT and didn’t have myself, so they were protective, though not coddling of me, and ultimately helped to thicken my skin. Yet, they also covered my tables when I fell apart which was often in the beginning. And, as the years rolled by, they were there to celebrate my high times like graduation and my engagement to Phil, and consoled me during the hard times like breaking that engagement and the various heartbreak debacles that ensued. They supported me through my wayward adulting process – my personal roaring 20’s – until I could fly straight enough to leave that cozy though chaotic nest. 

In 1988, I left the Market Bar for a 9:00-5:00 gig in midtown where the Twin Towers weren’t always looming overhead. Still, I could see them as I walked south on Fifth Avenue and often chose to walk home just so I could. As time passed, I gradually lost touch with most everyone I knew from downtown except that a couple of waitresses showed up at my wedding to surprise me, and a few years later a group of them surprised me again with a baby shower. The Market Bar and Dining Room closed sometime in the 90’s and everyone moved on. Then I moved to the suburbs.

When the second plane hit and the black smoked poured out of dark gaping holes and the gargantuan 110 story glass and steel structures imploded and Tower Two then Tower One crumbled to the ground, I collapsed on my living room floor. It was as though all my stories – my memories of extraordinary people and events – had disintegrated in a surreal cloud of ash and dark smoke.

Eventually, I got up and got going to locate loved ones, friends and relatives, and to join in whatever aid and relief measures were possible. Slowly, slowly the numbness subsided, the grieving began and the healing of individuals, families, and communities progressed.

After the first anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, the core group of women I worked with, my friends, the waitresses at the Market Bar, gathered together to mourn. We shared our experiences of where we had been that day, who had perished, who had miraculously survived, and how we had coped with catastrophic loss. Then we reminisced about our glory days in that magnificent place and, together, we breathed life back into our stories.