When the planes flew into The World Trade Center 23 years ago on this date, I was pretty close to the horror show that played out that day. I was living in New York City on 16th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
I’ve heard it said that anyone that was in New York City on September 11th, 2001 and the weeks that followed could instantly claim the prestigious title of “being a New Yorker” and I wholeheartedly agree. Before that, the unwritten rule was that you had to live in the city for at least ten years before you could refer to yourself as a “New Yorker.” September 11th changed that and so many other things in that city.
I have many memories of that day and night with a wide range of emotions sliced into every one of them. One specific one is a memory that I incorporated into part of a Marty Monologues show a few years ago and I thought that since today is the 23rd anniversary of that horrific day and night, I’d write it up and share it with you for today’s blog post.
And here it is.
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The Angry Little Asian Guy In The Loneliest All-Night Deli In NYC - A 9/11 Memory
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On September 11th, 2001, as two planes ripped through The World Trade Center, I was trying to get to sleep (I worked third shift back then and went to bed around eight in the morning) but my phone machine kept clicking and waking me up.
Finally I got up and heard some scary-ass messages from family and friends all wanting to know if I was okay. I called a friend and he told me what had happened.
I ended up walking down to the rubble that was once The World Trade Center and got as close as I could and then I just wanted to desperately get the fuck out of there. All of a sudden I just felt completely lost.
I’m pretty sure I went into shock.
It was a surreal day and I wandered into a couple delis and drank beer at communal lunch tables while CNN was doing endless reporting about the atrocity that had just happened in New York City.
I didn’t even think about going into work as day wore into evening. It was like reality had stopped and we were all living in a minute by minute nightmare. Nothing seemed real anymore. My schedule went right out of the window with no thought about tomorrow. After what I had seen that day in the city I loved so dearly, I thought that there may not be a tomorrow, so why the fuck worry or think about it.
I ended up that evening having a few beers at one of my favorite bars in Greenwich Village, The Stoned Crow. It was usually a lively and fun place, but on this bleak evening it was just myself, two other guys at the bar and the bartender. Nobody was talking except to say, “I’ll take another beer.” And of course CNN was on the TV blathering about the nightmarish day and night in New York City.
I finally had enough and decided to go back home. As I was walking up 6th Avenue, I remembered I only had a couple of beers in my refrigerator. There was an all-night deli on my way home and I used to stop in there after a night at The Stoned Crow to get a six pack for a nightcap or three.
I decided I’d stop in and grab a six pack of beer to try and numb the painful day and evening I had just endured.
Before I continue this memory, you need to know the back story of this lonely all-night deli that I used to stop at on my way home from The Stoned Crow.
The Back Story Of The Lonely All-Night Deli
As I mentioned, I was a regular at The Stoned Crow, so I stopped into this deli to buy beer frequently on my way home. And the weird thing is it was always empty in there and there would be the same guy behind the counter.
He was a short, little Asian man, probably in his late 60’s. He always had a huge scowl on his face and when I walked in, the scowl got angrier and he would look at me like he wanted to rip my head off and pour red-hot oil down my neck.
The same thing always happened with every visit to this place.
I’d walk to the beer cooler, grab a six pack of 16 ounce Budweisers and walk to the counter where he would be standing there, all five feet of him, with the angriest scowl and face in the world.
I’d set the beer on the counter, look at him and he would just be standing there with his little hands on his little hips looking like any minute he was going to start growling like the most demented mountain lion in the jungle.
After an awkward moment of silence, I’d always say, “I want to buy this beer.”
He would retort with an angry, “Bah!” and then hit the cash register as hard as his little fingers could attack that machine and in the angriest of all tones, yell at me, “$7.75!”
I would then hand him a ten or twenty dollar bill, he would grab my change out of the cash register and throw it on the counter. Many times the quarter would bounce down to the ground.
As I would gather my change up, I’d say, “Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you?”
That would really set him off and he would scream at me: “You take your beer and you get outta here, NOW!”
Then I’d reply back, “Can you put the beer in a bag?”
Then the scowl really turned monstrous looking, he would shove the beer into a bag and slide it across the counter while screaming, “Take your beer and you get outta here, NOW! NOW! NOW!”
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” I would say while grabbing the beer and leaving while he was still screaming for me to get out.
A variation of this same scenario played out pretty much the same way every fucking time I went in there. Every. Fucking. Time. It was really nerve-rattling and so uncomfortable and awkward.
A couple times I went there with a friend and the little Asian man was rude to us, but didn’t yell at me. He only went into full angry-ass mode when it was just he and I all alone in there. It was so fucking weird and strange.
I used to tell people about it and they’d always say, “Why don’t you just go to some other place else on your way home? There’s plenty of deli’s on 6th Avenue.”
I could never answer that question and I often wondered the same thing. I was obsessed with this place. It certainly wasn’t fun and I was always filled with dread walking in there knowing what an angry confrontational event it would turn into.
It was like some twisted and dark Groundhog Day episode for me and a therapist could probably spend his or her entire career analyzing my obsession with the angry little Asian man in the loneliest all-night deli in New York City. It both bothered and amazed me equally and it always made me wonder about my mental health.
Okay, back to the evening of September 11, 2001
I walked into the deli and of course it was empty. My eyes shot over to the counter and there stood the little Asian man. But he looked so different that evening. There was no scowl on his face, his mouth was shut and his arms were on the counter. He slightly nodded at me as I entered and I nodded back.
I walked over to the beer cooler, got my six pack and took the beer up to the counter. He had already rung the beer up by the time I got there and he said in a gentle, borderline sweet tone, “That’ll be $7.75.”
I pulled a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket, he took it, got me my change and held the bills and quarter over the counter until I extended my left hand and he put the bills and the quarter in my hand.
Then he took the six pack, put it in a bag and rolled the top of the bag into a make-shift handle, so I could easily carry it.
I started to grab the bag and he put his hand on top of mine and he said in gentle and caring tones, “You be safe out there, okay?”
I just nodded because I was on the verge of breaking down and crying.
I took the beer, got out onto 6th Avenue and started bawling like a baby with a severe case of diaper rash. All the emotion from the day and evening poured out after the angry little Asian man showed kindness and compassion to me on this crazy-ass evening. I truly felt like I was going nuts as I was crying my eyes out on 6th Avenue in New York City.
I walked back to my apartment, plopped on my couch, opened up a can of beer and looked at the clock. It was a little after midnight. The day was finally over.
I remember looking up at my ceiling and saying out loud, “What a weird fucking day.” I drank the rest of the beer and finally passed the fuck out.
Post September 11th
It was pretty grim in New York after September 11th. Nobody was smiling on the streets, there was this weird smell in the air from the collapsed buildings and the bodies that were crushed beneath it. This once vibrant and lively city felt like it was an unending wake before a funeral and in a weird way that’s exactly what it was.
Fuck.
All through October I was a nervous fucking wreck thinking something else was going to happen. It was super-scary riding the subway and I wondered if I’d ever shake the manic depression that clung to every fiber of me like I was covered in Saran Wrap and Super Glue.
Finally in November things started to slowly get better. On the second week of November I remember walking to work at about two in the afternoon to fill in for someone on the second shift. A cab was parked in the middle of the road at the corner of 23rd and 6th and the cabbie was fighting in the street with some guy. After a couple minutes cops showed up and broke it up and arrested both of them. One of them called on a radio to have the cab towed away.
There was a woman standing next to me and I turned and said to her, “Looks like things are getting back to normal!”
She laughed and said she was thinking the same exact thing.
That night I got out of work early and I was in a pretty good mood for the first time since September 11th went down. I decided to go to the Stoned Crow and realized I hadn’t been there since the bleak and dark evening of September 11th.
I went to the tavern and it was quite different from my last visit on that horrific evening of September 11th. The jukebox was cranking, people were laughing and talking and I saw some familiar faces that I joined in conversation with and had a lot fun for the first time in months.
On the way home I passed by the lonely all-night deli. I didn’t need any beer, but I just had to go inside, remembering the change in the little Asian man on September 11th. I wanted to see what he was like after all these weeks had passed since September 11th.
I went in, it was empty of course and there was the little Asian man behind the counter. The scowl was back on his face and that made me smirk a little. That caused him to shoot me a real dirty look.
I went and got my beer and put it on the counter. He continued to scowl at me and we had our usual awkward moment of silence.
“I want to buy this beer,” I told him.
That was met by the familiar, “Bah!” the violent ringing of the register and him screaming, “$7.75!”
I gave him a ten dollar bill and of course he threw the change at me and all of a sudden, out of the blue, I just started laughing hysterically and I couldn’t stop. I was clutching my change and was literally doubled over with laughter. I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed that hard in my life before or after.
This totally enraged him and for once I didn’t have to ask to put the beer in a bag. He threw it in a bag, shoved it at me and screamed, “You take your beer and you get outta here, now. NOW! NOW!”
I was still howling with laughter and he just continued screaming and he seemed crazier and filled with more rage and anger than I had ever seen in him in all of my stops in there.
I grabbed the beer as he was yelling at the top of his lungs for me to get out and I stumbled out on to 6th Avenue laughing like a complete and utter madman.
I knew right then and there at that specific moment that everything was going to be okay. A sense of relief washed over me like a comforting, warm shower.
September 11th was finally over for me. It was just a bad memory. Nothing more and nothing less.
Postscript
I never went back to the loneliest NYC all-night deli again. I walked by it hundreds if not thousands of times through the years but I didn’t want to tarnish that last, joyous memory of the deportation of September 11th from my life.
On one of my visits back to New York City in the summer of 2019, I walked by and it was no longer a deli, it was some sort of weird organic salad restaurant that I felt was an embarrassment to the city.
I walked in and a woman approached me and asked if she could seat me.
“Nah,” I replied, “I just wanted to see if an old friend of mine was in here and it looks like he’s not. I guess he moved on like I did.”
She looked kind of strangely at me and I just walked out the door and back out to 6th Avenue and headed towards Bleecker Street.
Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to the angry little Asian man. I also wonder if he ever thinks of me from time to time.
I really should look into getting back into therapy.
Related Post: The Stoned Crow.