Safe
by Jill Dalton

Today is one of those glorious, early fall New York City days. The sky is the shade of blue painters paint and poets describe. The sun gleams, and the temperature is a crisp sixty-three degrees when I leave my apartment. My call time is 8 a.m. at Silver Cup East Studios in Hunters Point, Queens. To reach the studio I need to take two trains, so I leave at seven to allow plenty of time. This way I can pick up my breakfast before checking in.

By the time I arrive at the studio, two of my fellow actor friends, Ina and Philippe, are already busy getting their breakfasts from the craft service truck. I opt for a simple bowl of oatmeal with cranberries. Philippe piles his plate high with eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, fruit, a bagel, juice, and coffee. “I came for provisions,” he proclaims. Philippe, thin as a rail, obviously has the metabolism of a hummingbird. I’m so jealous. Where does he put this stuff?

Once in holding (the room where background players are kept when not needed on set), I check in with Alexa, the PA (production assistant) in charge of us. I take my voucher (this is how we’re paid), find a seat, and begin filling in the form with my name, date, Social Security number, number of dependents, the title of the show: The Education of Max Bickford, producer: 20th Century Fox, two changes, 8 a.m. start time. Just another day in TV land.

Around 8:30 a.m. we’re called to set and head downstairs to the stage, where the AD (assistant director) begins placing the background actors to run the scene with second team (the actors who stand in for the leads). These run-throughs allow the tech crew to set and practice their camera moves and check lighting and background action before bringing in the principal actors.

Most days I stand in for Molly Regan, who plays Richard Dreyfuss’s secretary at the school. I also double as a professor, and in this scene my action is to stand in the hallway and converse with my friend and fellow faux professor, Philippe. We finish a run-through when Ron Holcomb, one of the executive producers, stops the rehearsal and calls everyone together. He informs us, “America is under attack. The World Trade Center and the Pentagon have been hit.” Philippe and I exchange confused glances. I assume Ron’s talking about the scene. I find this odd but hey, we’re a new show; perhaps we need ratings.

Ron continues, “We’ve called hotels in the area, but they don’t have enough rooms, so everyone can stay here at the studio. There’s plenty of food and water. You can sleep in the dressing rooms and hallways if need be.” Now I’m not sure what to think. Ron continues, “TVs are on in all the dressing rooms—feel free to watch them. That’s all for now. We’re not shooting any more today. Thank you. We’ll keep you safe.”

Philippe and I bolt upstairs to find a TV, where corporate media replays the planes crashing into the World Trade Center on a continuous loop. After observing the footage, I say aloud to the people in the dressing room:

"Those aren’t American pilots flying those planes." I explain that most pilots are retired military, and if they encountered a problem, they wouldn’t fly into a building or the Pentagon. They’re trained to take the plane down.

"How do you know?" someone asks.

I shrug. "I grew up in the military. I’m an army brat."

One of the towers collapses. Unable to believe what I’m seeing, I say, "The second tower’s coming down too. I’m going outside." Philippe follows, and from the parking lot we have a perfect view of the remaining World Trade Tower. To my horror, the second tower begins its descent until it, too, disappears into dust. In stunned disbelief, detached from the situation like I’m viewing a cataclysmic event from someplace else, tears involuntarily pour down my face. A couple of people gasp. I’m dumbstruck.

At that moment my illusions about who we are in the world shatter. My mind races. This is either the end times or WWIII. My father used to work at the Pentagon, and I’m going to die in a parking lot in Queens? How can this be possible? This is America. We’re the greatest country in the world. Right? I live in New York City, the best city in the world. Right? I mean, right? We have the most powerful military in the world. So how did this happen? I turn to Philippe. "I refuse to die in a parking lot in Queens. I’m going home. What about you?"

"I’m staying right here."

"You sure?"

"I’m sure."

Back inside the studio I find Ina, who also lives on the Upper West Side, and we decide to make the trek to Manhattan together. One of the company vans drops us off at the 59th Street Bridge. The bridge is packed with thousands of people leaving the city, making their way home—row after row of people walking streams across the bridge like a scene out of a disaster movie, like zombies in an apocalypse. Their blank, shell-shocked faces. Their vacant eyes cast downward. Not a word is spoken. This complete and total silence is so eerie, incongruent with the city’s usual din.

A police officer standing on the far railing yells, “No one’s allowed in the city. No one’s allowed in the city.” Ina and I ignore the officer, who might as well be barking into the void. We turn to each other and, without saying a word, fall in behind the single-file line with the rest of the people ignoring the police officer swimming against the flow toward the skyline of New York City.

Are the attacks over? Will they continue? As we make our way across the bridge, my legs involuntarily move as I put one foot in front of the other. Slowly I turn my head to the left, and I’m overwhelmed by the sight of the now smoldering rubble where the towers used to be. The smoke from the buildings and the burning steel and flesh stings my nostrils. I pray for this country, and the people in the World Trade Center, and their families. My dad fought in three wars. He served under General Patton in WWII, defeated the Nazis. He fought in Korea and was in military intelligence, Saigon. He spent his entire life defending this country, and I say to whoever did this, If my father was alive, he’d kick your ass.

Even though time appears to be irrelevant, like some artificial construct, I’m curious about how much time has passed. Once across the bridge, still engulfed in silence, we walk the long crosstown blocks until we reach Central Park, where we begin seeing people covered in ash from the towers who’ve walked all the way uptown from lower Manhattan. Their expressions lifeless behind empty eyes. No words—only silence.

Once out of the park, we travel up Columbus Avenue. The streets are filled with people sitting in bars, listening to radios, and desperately trying to use their cell phones, which don’t appear to be working. I live alone. My family lives in other parts of the country—a sister in California, a brother and sister in South Carolina, an aunt, uncle, and cousins in North Carolina—so I figure phone calls can wait until I’m home.

I somehow find myself back inside my apartment. Numb, I sit on my bed and stare at nothing. Somewhere in the distance, a faint ringing sound. I wonder what that strange noise might be. The sound slowly registers. Oh, a phone? My landline? I answer with trepidation, "Hello?"

"Jill!?" the overly cheery man asks.

"Uh, yes?" I try to place the voice.

"Hi, my name’s Cardi?"

This name is foreign to me. What kind of name is that? After a pause the cheery, somewhat desperate voice scurries on. "I’m married to Lynne and I work at ABC-TV, but I live in New Jersey, and the trains are shut down, and I don’t want to sleep in my office, and Lynne told me to call you because you live in the neighborhood, and..."

In my altered state, I can’t make sense of anything he’s saying. Is he speaking Swahili? I refocus my attention, take a pencil and a notepad, and slowly ask, like I’m addressing a five-year-old, "I’m sorry…could you give me your name again?"

"Cardi."

"...How do you spell that?"

"C-A-R-D-I. Cardi."

I write the letters down. "...Who are you married to...?"

"Lynne."

"Lynne?"

I reach into the Rolodex of my brain. Lynne... Um... Yes, I’m acquainted with a few Lynnes... Actress Lynne, she’s not married. Lynne? Lynne? Still nothing until, like a computer file being downloaded, a thought registers. "Lynne, yes, of course, Lynne." Lynne, the actress/top real estate person in New Jersey, sponsored my solo play at the Ensemble Studio Theatre, Lynne.

"Sorry, I’m a little discombobulated."

"So, Jill, I’m wondering if I can stay with you tonight since I’m trapped in the city?"

To my surprise, my disembodied voice says, "Oh, sure, but I live in a one-bedroom. You can sleep on my couch if you don’t mind."

"Fine." He sounds grateful and relieved.

"Well, give me an hour. I walked home from Queens. I need to shower—"

"Of course," he replies, cutting me off. "I’ll be there in an hour."

The truth is I don’t want anyone to stay with me. Like an injured animal, I want to curl up into a ball and lick my wounds. On autopilot, still in a stupor, I methodically shower, clean the bathroom, and make sure the house is straightened up and presentable for company. I pull out clean towels and sheets and place them on the arm of the couch.

Cardi arrives, right on time, obviously shaken. This makes perfect sense considering the circumstances and given the fact he’s stuck in the city with no way to get home to his wife and children. That evening Cardi takes me to a lovely dinner at a fancy restaurant, which seems ridiculous under the circumstances. This restaurant is less than two blocks from my apartment, but I’d never been here as this place is way too pricey. The tables are covered in white linen tablecloths with crystal goblets and heavy silverware. The restaurant is packed with yuppies pretending nothing’s happened and nothing’s changed. Their chatter climbs upward and fills the incredibly high ceiling. Cardi and I eat wild Alaskan salmon and sip Chardonnay.

Cardi’s much more freaked out than I am. Strangely I’m amazingly calm and Zen-like. Perhaps eleven years of meditation have paid off. Plus, growing up in the military, we were always personally dealing with some sort of national or international crisis. I’m comforted by the fact that I can reassure Cardi, "Don’t worry. We’re fine." I’m also glad I’m not alone and happy to share my home with him.

The following morning when I open my eyes, I think, Oh, thank God, what a horrible dream. The fog clears, the light of day reaches my consciousness, and I’m confronted with the fact that this—this wasn’t a dream—this is real. Again the deafening silence. My apartment is uncommonly still. Cardi’s gone but I didn’t hear him leave.

Colin Powell’s daughter lives in my building. She’s a fellow actress and army brat. One afternoon about a week or so after the 9/11 attacks, riding up in the elevator, an incredibly earnest, hyper-thin young man with perfect posture, wearing a Men in Black-type suit and black wraparound shades, is standing next to me. I’m wondering, Who is this guy? I’ve never seen him before. Who’s he kidding? He’s so pretentious. Pretending he’s in a spy movie—right out of Central Casting. Spare me.

Unable to resist, I turn to him. "When Colin Powell’s daughter leaves, I’m leaving too."

The young man turns to me and, without cracking a smile, replies, "Yes, when you see us leave, you should leave."

He’s wearing an earpiece. Oh shit, he's a Secret Service guy.

"Don’t you feel safe now?" he asks.

"No. How old are you? Twelve?"

"Gee, thanks," he chuckles as he steps off the elevator.

"Thanks," I call after him. "I’ll keep my eyes peeled."

Several of my friends are having difficultly sleeping. Not me. I’m sleeping peacefully through the night as the black van with the black-tinted windows is parked across the street from my building 24/7.

There are no car horns, no sirens, no traffic, construction, jackhammers, alarms, street music, noisy neighbors, or nightclubs for six months. Only silence. Sadness envelops the city. We’re all grieving. New York City is mourning.

My phone is also silent. I won’t be traveling to Queens anytime soon as film and TV production has shut down across New York City, which means I have no work and no money. Through an actor friend I discover FEMA is helping New Yorkers who’ve been adversely affected by the disaster. I dial the number and the kind, compassionate voice on the other end of the line says he’ll send me forms to fill out. I hang up the phone, and then, like the rest of New York, I sit and wait.