Pablo Ortiz

R. D. Kushner
March 11, 2001

There is still a phone number programmed into my cellular phone for the Tenant Project Management Office on the 88th Floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. I called it again last week to hear the busy signal, and to imagine a phone off the hook in a busy office perched over one-thousand feet in the air. I thought of that nondescript office with the maroon carpet and the tacky old, gray, 1980's-era fabric-paneled office cubicles. The height of these cubicles and the circuitous routes through this "modern," open office space screened the magnificent view so efficiently that, had you not remembered the long elevator ride, you would not have believed that you were standing so far from the surface of the Earth.

With a little patience, and a good sense of direction, you could make your way through the maze of corporate office furniture to a truly magnificent view; a view so breathtaking, that it invoked that odd human instinct which makes the mouth fall agape involuntarily. From this height, midtown loomed like an oasis of crystallized forms; the Empire State Building gleaming brilliantly like a king on a giant chess board. The rooftops of 50 and 60 story buildings, gathered around under the watchful gaze of those two towers, were humbled like small children standing shyly under the massive grace of an assuming parent. The altitude was staggering; and from this floor the whole length of Manhattan could be taken in as one deep breath.

copyright © 2002, the author

Within the labyrinth of cubicles were the many men and women, who were part of the massive bureaucracy which all architects are required to deal with in order to build new projects in the towers. I would be lying if I said that the bureaucracy was perfectly managed and efficient. It was not; and I dreaded the numerous meetings and drawing submissions which were required for the approval of my designs. But the people there were very pleasant, and I always brought my digital camera to admire the view.

My primary contact at the Tenant Management Office would often come down to the lobby to meet me; that is, he would come down to meet me after I called him on that now useless number that is still programmed into my cellular phone. That was the system we had set up when the project required our consultations. I would call him, and if he had the time [which he almost always made] he would come down to the lobby and escort me up. With this simple gesture he provided access through the security checkpoint at the elevator banks and relieved me of having to wait on the long security line for an identification card. He would greet me with a smile, and a warm handshake; and then we would talk a little about the Knicks, the projects he used to work on when he was a young architect in Caesar Pelli's office, and always about his wife who was in a hospital in Boston. Together, we rode the massive elevator that shook and shuddered as we rushed skyward.

He would always graciously introduce me to his family of co-workers who, along with himself, were responsible for reviewing and approving all the new tenant work in the building. On several occasions, he introduced me to a gentleman named Pablo Ortiz, a tall man with a crew cut and a salt and pepper goatee. Pablo was in his mid forties, and he wore silver, round framed glasses and spoke with a slight New Yorker's accent. In the spring of 2000, I worked with Pablo on a small project on the 90th Floor of the North Tower. Today I saw him on this list: "Port Authority Supplemental Employees Lost on September 11, 2001." As I scanned the list of unknown lives, his name leapt from the page and I had to swallow hard to suppress the pressure that builds up when the body tells the mind that it's emotional response will not be kept at bay.

Until today, I had not known the fate of some of those professionals I had visited in their tower in the sky. Until today, I had only known the people who died as the faces on those "missing" posters that were posted all around the city in the days following September 11th. Like many other Americans I had also been exposed to long lists of the "missing," and had endured countless hours in front of the television listening to the waxing and then waning of what I hoped was a four digit hyperbole used to describe an incalculable loss. Up until just a few weeks ago, some of the posters with the faces of the dead still existed on the corner of 27th Street and Park Avenue South, where they had been sheltered from the elements by some scaffolding that predated the notorious September events. From time to time, I used to visit them on my way to work. I looked into their smiling faces; but I did not smile back.

copyright © 2002, the author

Today the face I saw was not separate from me, it was within my reach, and tangible as an artifact of the missing. Today, that face is in my mind, and it is attached to my memories of the smiling face of Pablo Ortiz, a person I barely knew; and his presence has become an epilogue to my grieving.