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Falling Man

Chapter One

It was not a street anymore but a world, a time and space of
falling ash and near night. He was walking north through rubble and
mud and there were people running past holding towels to their
faces or jackets over their heads. They had handkerchiefs pressed
to their mouths. They had shoes in their hands, a woman with a shoe
in each hand, running past him. They ran and fell, some of them,
confused and ungainly, with debris coming down around them, and
there were people taking shelter under cars.

The roar was still in the air, the buckling rumble of the fall.
This was the world now. Smoke and ash came rolling down streets and
turning corners, busting around corners, seismic tides of smoke,
with office paper flashing past, standard sheets with cutting edge,
skimming, whipping past, otherworldly things in the morning

He wore a suit and carried a briefcase. There was glass in his hair
and face, marbled bolls of blood and light. He walked past a
Breakfast Special sign and they went running by, city cops and
security guards running, hands pressed down on gun butts to keep
the weapons steady.

Things inside were distant and still, where he was supposed to be.
It happened everywhere around him, a car half buried in debris,
windows smashed and noises coming out, radio voices scratching at
the wreckage. He saw people shedding water as they ran, clothes and
bodies drenched from sprinkler systems. There were shoes discarded
in the street, handbags and laptops, a man seated on the sidewalk
coughing up blood. Paper cups went bouncing oddly by.

The world was this as well, figures in windows a thousand feet up,
dropping into free space, and the stink of fuel fire, and the
steady rip of sirens in the air. The noise lay everywhere they ran,
stratified sound collecting around them, and he walked away from it
and into it at the same time.

There was something else then, outside all this, not belonging to
this, aloft. He watched it coming down. A shirt came down out of
the high smoke, a shirt lifted and drifting in the scant light and
then falling again, down toward the river.

They ran and then they stopped, some of them, standing there
swaying, trying to draw breath out of the burning air, and the
fitful cries of disbelief, curses and lost shouts, and the paper
massed in the air, contracts, resumés blowing by, intact
snatches of business, quick in the wind.

He kept on walking. There were the runners who'd stopped and others
veering into sidestreets. Some were walking backwards, looking into
the core of it, all those writhing lives back there, and things
kept falling, scorched objects trailing lines of fire.

He saw two women sobbing in their reverse march, looking past him,
both in running shorts, faces in collapse.

He saw members of the tai chi group from the park nearby, standing
with hands extended at roughly chest level, elbows bent, as if all
of this, themselves included, might be placed in a state of

Someone came out of a diner and tried to hand him a bottle of
water. It was a woman wearing a dust mask and a baseball cap and
she withdrew the bottle and twisted off the top and then thrust it
toward him again. He put down the briefcase to take it, barely
aware that he wasn't using his left arm, that he'd had to put down
the briefcase before he could take the bottle. Three police vans
came veering into the street and sped downtown, sirens sounding. He
closed his eyes and drank, feeling the water pass into his body
taking dust and soot down with it. She was looking at him. She said
something he didn't hear and he handed back the bottle and picked
up the briefcase. There was an aftertaste of blood in the long
draft of water.

He started walking again. A supermarket cart stood upright and
empty. There was a woman behind it, facing him, with police tape
wrapped around her head and face, yellow caution tape that marks
the limits of a crime scene. Her eyes were thin white ripples in
the bright mask and she gripped the handle of the cart and stood
there, looking into the smoke.

In time he heard the sound of the second fall. He crossed Canal
Street and began to see things, somehow, differently. Things did
not seem charged in the usual ways, the cobbled street, the
cast-iron buildings. There was something critically missing from
the things around him. They were unfinished, whatever that means.
They were unseen, whatever that means, shop windows, loading
platforms, paint-sprayed walls. Maybe this is what things look like
when there is no one here to see them.

He heard the sound of the second fall, or felt it in the trembling
air, the north tower coming down, a soft awe of voices in the
distance. That was him coming down, the north tower.

The sky was lighter here and he could breathe more easily. There
were others behind him, thousands, filling the middle distance, a
mass in near formation, people walking out of the smoke. He kept
going until he had to stop. It hit him quickly, the knowledge that
he couldn't go any farther.

He tried to tell himself he was alive but the idea was too obscure
to take hold. There were no taxis and little traffic of any kind
and then an old panel truck appeared, Electrical Contractor, Long
Island City, and it pulled alongside and the driver leaned toward
the window on the passenger's side and examined what he saw, a man
scaled in ash, in pulverized matter, and asked him where he wanted
to go. It wasn't until he got in the truck and shut the door that
he understood where he'd been going all along.

Falling Man
by by Don DeLillo

  • Genres: Fiction
  • paperback: 272 pages
  • Publisher: Scribner
  • ISBN-10: 1416546065
  • ISBN-13: 9781416546061