On 9/11, my office was on the corner of Broadway and 4th Street. Every day, my round-trip, six-block, same-side-of-the-street walk from the E Subway West 4th Street stop to my office went like this:
I would pass a police command station permanently parked outside of Washington Square Park by New York University. In the morning, there was always the same police officer—a graying man in his fifties, bopping up and down to music emanating from his mobile post. Sometimes it was Elvis or The Beach Boys; sometimes it was Frankie Valli.
On the way home at night, I would pass the command post just about the time that the morning and evening officers were changing shifts. The evening officer was in his mid-twenties, and his music of choice was The Police, which I found hilariously ironic.
I got to know their names—Officer Tommy in the morning and Officer Kevin in the evening. Kevin, the one in his 20s, would occasionally play Beatles music, and I would compliment him on his choice, sharing with him how I grew up on the Beatles. When Kevin started to play less Police and more Beatles, Tommy would tease Kevin and say that he was playing Beatles music for the “Madam Publisher.” Kevin had the cutest, impish side grin, and he reminded me so much of my son.
And then came 9/11. Following the horrific events of that day, our office building was government-mandated to shut down for a few days. My first day back into the city and back into my routine was a tough one.
The smell was unbearable, and I panicked at the thought of what it was. There were flyers everywhere—faces of hundreds of men and women affixed to telephone poles, fences, park benches, and trees. Many of the flyers covered the sidewalks and streets, and the pedestrians walked oh-so carefully to avoid stepping on the faces of the missing.
As I approached my half-block point from the mobile police station, the music was also missing. In the distance, I saw Officer Tommy running toward me, saying, “Thank God, you’re okay. I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought something had happened to you.” As he wrapped his arms around me, I felt awkward but also comforted.
Then he placed his hands on my shoulders, and through tears, said, “Kevin, the night cop—you know, the kid—he went to the World Trade Center to help that morning, and nobody has seen him since.” With his hands still on my shoulders, we stood there for a few seconds, both of us slightly embarrassed. “He was my kid’s age,” Officer Tommy continued. “And now he’s gone, just like that.”
Every day, we would catch up for a few minutes on my way to the office. He would go to Ground Zero most nights after his shift to help “bring his brothers home.” And he never played music again.
One morning, Tommy told me he was struggling. I told him that I found writing poetry to be good therapy, and that he should try it. “I’m no writer. I’m a New York City cop,” was his reply.
But he followed my suggestion and one morning handed me a poem about 9/11, which I immediately read when I got to my office. I was looking forward to seeing him that evening to tell him how talented he was and how his poem left me trembling.
But he wasn’t there that night, or the next morning, or the morning after that. At first, I thought maybe he was on vacation. But after a week had gone by, I asked the officer on duty, “Where’s Tommy?” And he answered, “He’s gone. He retired from the force. He couldn’t take the job no more.”
In Tommy’s honor, below is the 9/11 poem he gave me the last time I saw him. How terribly sad that I never got the chance to tell him what I thought about his stirring and poignant poem or to say a proper goodbye.
HONOR GUARD AT GROUND ZERO
By my friend, Police Officer Thomas Brennan from the 6th Precinct
Rake gently over our brother’s grave.
Speak softly where he sleeps.
His soul ascends
His spirit raised
Raised well above these ruins of death
He speaks to us
We stand erect
Amid the numbing breeze of winter’s breath
We salute our brother and raise our palms.
Raised well above our breast
Our palms outstretched
We crease our brows, our minds, our hearts.
Where underneath our brother lies
In sorrow, we salute him.
