by Corey Mitchell
Where were you on September 11, 2001?
I was in my apartment in West Hollywood, California, with my late wife Lisa. Our phone rang before 7:00 a.m., never a good sign.
Having just kicked a 15-year smoking habit only 13 days prior, I was not in a happy frame of mind. I picked the phone up, mumbled "Hello?", and heard my mother's voice on the other end of the line.
Something must be wrong with my dad I thought to myself. He had been sick for a number of years and I was never sure when I would get The Call.
"Honey, have you seen the TV this morning?" my usually gregarious mom asked. She sounded confused and hesitant.
I told her I had not. Lisa was in the shower getting ready for work, so I knew she hadn't either.
"Apparently, two planes crashed into the World Trade Center," my mom informed me.
Of course, I was discombobulated and did not register exactly what she had just told me. "What'd you say, mom?"
"Two planes crashed into the World Trade Center buildings and it's all over the news."
Suddenly, I snapped to. I asked if it was an accident. My mom wasn't sure. I took the cordless phone with me into our living room, flipped on the television set to one of the 24-cable channel news stations, and could not believe my eyes.
"Someone did that on purpose," I told her. "That's no accident. Someone came to finish the job they started back in '93," referring to the underground garage bombing in the WTC nearly eight years earlier.
This did not reassure my mother in any way. I could tell by the tone of her voice she was nervous. She also was none too excited to have her baby boy living 1,300 miles away in the second largest city in the country. Possibly the second biggest target as well.
I attempted to comfort my mother by telling her we were doing fine and that I needed to tell Lisa, who used to live and work near the WTC, since she may have had friends working in the towers. I thanked my mom, told her not to worry, and that I would get back with her later.
I heard the water in the shower being turned off. I opened the door, steam poured out, and I called out for Lisa, "Baby, can you come here?"
"What's wrong?" she queried as she wrapped a towel around her body.
I told her what had happened.
She stood calmly and said nothing. We both walked back into the living room to watch the developing story on television. Lisa stood in front of the set, chewing on the end of her thumb, almost dumbfounded. It had been more than nine years since she left New York, so she was not sure if she might have friends, acquaintances, or business associates in the towers.
"I used to go down to the plaza [in between the towers] almost everyday for lunch and to listen to a jazz band," she recalled. "And now this."
Soon thereafter, I remember watching footage of smoke billowing out from the Pentagon and knowing we were in a full-blown world of shit. Then, Lisa and I watched in awe as the towers began to collapse. A tear trickled from Lisa's eye, however, she was determined to go about her day as if nothing happened. She was obviously in shock.
"I have to go to work," she declared as if it were suddenly a normal day in our lives.
"Honey, you're not going anywhere," I informed her. She was extremely independent and shrugged me off. "No, I have to go to work." I let her know that probably no one in L.A. would be going to work today. We then discussed the possibility of our own city being the next in line for an attack.
Ironically, I had spoken with my friend, Dennis McDougal, about a month before about terrorist attacks in the City of Angels. We both agreed that L.A. did not have any memorable landmarks that could double as a gathering point for thousands of potentials casualties, so it would probably be something on a much less visible scale. We agreed that a terrorist attack in L.A. would involve some type of poisons or chemicals in the drinking water. A Chinatown meets Outbreak scenario, if you will. Thankfully, that scenario never came to fruition.
After I convinced Lisa to call her boss and tell him she would not be coming in, I suddenly bolted from our apartment. I told Lisa I was going to head over to Borders book store and buy some books on terrorism, Islam, and Osama bin Laden. I have no idea how I knew he was involved, but somehow, I did. In retrospect, the trip to the bookstore was eerily reminiscent of the opening sequence of 28 Days Later when the protagonist wanders around Piccadilly Circus in London after a "rage" virus outbreak with nary another human in sight.
Hollywood was literally empty. The only people I recall seeing were a couple in the upstairs window of a sushi bar...of course.
Otherwise, Los Angeles was dead.
I spent the next week in front of the television set, furiously videotaping every bit of news about the attacks as was humanly possible. I wanted as much documented information as I could get so I could show my future offspring. At twenty-plus tapes, I still have more than 160 hours of original coverage of the single worst criminal act in United States history. I hope I don't have to show it to my daughter, Emma, but I have a feeling, sooner rather than later, she's going to ask me about 9-11, and I will be ready. Maybe.
Three weeks later, my first book, Hollywood Death Scenes, was released. I didn't care. Hell, I had listed New York as the subject of my next Death Scenes book. Needless to say, I was less than thrilled about the prospect.
Two weeks after that, I boarded a flight for the first time since the attacks to go on my first book tour. Two months later I was in the hospital for the first time in my life having suffered from caffeine intoxication. Paramedics and doctors stopped my heart from beating three times. That was followed by a series of extreme panic attacks.
Five months later, just shy of my second wedding anniversary, my wife, Lisa, died unexpectedly at the age of 38.
September 11, 2001 - April 28, 2002 : the worst 7 1/2 months of my life. About the only positive thing I took away from it all is that I managed to never smoke another cigarette again.
Not much of a consolation.
I hope you can share your 9-11 experience with me.
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by Corey Mitchell
