The Falling Man

Leaving the house, Marine Corps veteran Berry Bongino kissed his wife, Terry, and daughter, Tessa, goodbye. Until they meet again.

As the proud manager of The Windows of the World restaurant, Berry was often the first to arrive at work. This sunny September morning was no exception. 

Like the Energizer Bunny, he scurried from one department to the next - overseeing deliveries, checking the kitchen’s readiness, ensuring the waiter staff looked professional, and that the main dining room was clean and orderly.

On this particular Tuesday, at 8 a.m. sharp, Berry personally opened the front doors for the breakfast crowd, greeting each customer as they entered. The dress code required jackets for men and was strictly enforced - a man who arrived with a reservation without a coat was seated at the bar. The restaurant also offered jackets which were loaned to the patrons so they could eat in the main dining room.

The Black piano player, whose real name was actually Sam, began his opening repertoire with, "As Time Goes By."

Half an hour later, Berry made his rounds through the dining room's occupied tables. He excelled as a people person—mingling with the patrons was his favorite part of the job. At 8:45 a.m., he met a family of three at the tables nearest the panorama windows, which allowed guests to look out at the breathtaking Manhattan skyline from 107 Floors above.

"Hello, folks. I'm Berry, the restaurant manager. Are you enjoying your meals?"

While Berry chatted with the parents, their young son's face was plastered against the window, looking down far below to the sidewalk, and at the pedestrians and cars.  

"Daddy, all the people look like ants from up here."

"That's nice, Bobby."

Something in the distance caught Bobby's eye. "There's a plane coming this way. Cool."

"That's great, son."

"Oh, wow. It's getting really, really close! ‘A-mer-i-can Air-lines.’ Look, Daddy! You can even see the pilots' faces!"

"Huh? Bobby, what are you babbling--"

The plane slammed at full speed into Floors 93 through 99 of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, instantly killing everyone onboard the aircraft.

The Windows of the World restaurant shook with a mighty jolt, knocking everyone to the deck. All the windows blew out from the force of the concussion, instantly blasting Bobby out of the building. The air pressure sucked the tables, chairs, Bobby's parents, and all the diners who were near the windows, out into the clear blue sky. 

Berry grabbed and held onto a nearby pole with all his strength until the air pressure stabilized. Thick, black smoke could be seen through the blasted window panes, billowing up from the floors below. The acrid stench of smoke and gasoline stung his nose and eyes. 

Disoriented, Berry struggled to his feet. Gusts of howling wind and panicked screams assailed his ears.  

“Everyone, listen to me!” Berry shouted. “We need to evacuate as soon as possible. Don’t use the elevators - they could be fire-traps! I need everyone to move to the north fire exit behind me. There’s a stairwell that’ll take us down–”

“No!” interrupted Paco, the head chef, “We should wait here until emergency rescue crews arrive!” He took a white tablecloth and waved it through the broken window panes to signal for help. 

Berry said, “We’re on the 107th Floor! We just got hit by a plane - there’s no telling how much damage it caused to the building. No ladders can reach us, and any rescue attempt must come from the stairwell.”

“I agree with Paco,” Sam the piano player said. “Let’s wait for the fire department. And I believe there’s rescue choppers that can airlift people to safety. Maybe we should try to get to the helo-pad on the roof, instead.” 

Some survivors murmured in agreement. A woman in a business suit stomped her heel, saying, “We’re wasting time! Are we staying or going?”

“Those in favor of escaping down the stairs, follow me!” yelled Berry. A dozen patrons and staff, about one-third of the survivors on the restaurant floor, fled with Berry.

Berry’s group scrambled down eight flights of stairs, each flight hotter and more smoke-filled than the previous one. 

On the 99th Floor, twisted metal debris and collapsed cinder blocks barred their passage. A steel fire exit lay bent halfway open. Beyond the door, they glimpsed a flaming part of the plane wedged inside that floor. The businesswoman fainted from the oppressive heat. As Berry carried her back up the eight flights, the rest of the survivors walked almost in a trance as they realized how impossible their situation was.

Returning to the restaurant, Berry’s group collapsed in exhaustion.  

The heat revived Berry but his clothes were drenched with sweat. The heated air from downstairs’s oncoming fire was becoming unbearable - the restaurant was already reaching temperatures in excess of 130 degrees.

Berry looked around the unoccupied restaurant. Through the heat shimmer, he spotted Paco across the dining room, twenty yards away. Berry shouted, “Paco, where is everyone?”

Sitting on a short stool outside the kitchen's swinging saloon doors, Paco was chugging a half-empty bottle of Tequila.

“They all leave,” he pointed groggily to the shattered window panes. "You were right, pendejo—no chance for rescue. Doors to roof are locked. We all going to die. So, people did only thing they could– choose between getting burned alive … or jump. If jump, you fly through air like bird for about ten seconds, and then SPLAT!” he stomped his left boot hard against the tiled floor, “ just like that! No worries, no pain.”

“I’ll never go like that!” Berry said, thumping a fist against his chest for emphasis. “I've survived the Gulf War, and I'll survive this, too! As long as there’s breath in my body, there’s still hope!”

“I not going like that either, pendejo. Only one way for me to go!" Paco stood shakily to his feet and sang offkey, ‘Ring the bell, sucker, school's back in - it's hammer time!"

Paco swung the empty Tequila bottle over his shoulder and behind him. It swished through the wooden saloon doors and into the kitchen, breaking against the metal ovens. The spark from the impact was enough to ignite a gas explosion, instantly killing Paco and hurtling Berry backward toward the shattered window panes.

At the last second, Berry reached out and grabbed the window's vertical metal grille in desperation. He screamed as the broken shards of glass on the grille bit deeply into his hands and fingers, ripping the flesh to shreds. Once the blast had passed, Berry dropped to his knees in agony. He looked up to see half the restaurant in flames from the gas explosion.

“Fuck me,” he gasped.

Berry had had a foolish but daring plan to fashion a makeshift parachute out of tablecloths, but his injured hands dashed that idea. Plus, the gas explosion’s fire meant time was up. Grudgingly, his own hope was fading fast.

As Berry knelt helplessly by the window sill, another massive jolt suddenly shook the building. Surprised and off-balance, Berry fell out the window. As his body twisted through the air, falling upside-down, he viewed the cause of the building’s sudden jolt - a second plane was slamming into the South Tower of the World Trade Center! 

Madness! he thought. The world’s gone completely mad!

As Berry Bongino plummeted headfirst to his death, he closed his eyes, praying for his wife, Terry, and daughter, Tessa. He bade them goodbye one last time. Until they meet again.

 ***

It is thought that at least 200 people fell or jumped to their deaths from the North Tower of the World Trade Center on 9/11. The identity of the most iconic photograph of that fateful day - a man plummeting headfirst to the ground from the burning North Tower - has never been officially confirmed. The stranger, unknown even today, was dubbed by the press as simply, "The Falling Man."

As with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, The Falling Man - now forever suspended in history - represents an innocent casualty in a terrible and endless war.