Musings Index>1992 in the World Trade Center

From October 1991 to June 1992, I worked for a company called Guy Carpenter, the largest reinsurance brokerage in the world. It didn't matter that I knew squat about reinsurance. I did know all too well the general ledger system that Guy Carpenter was implementing globally. They needed help. I needed another year's salary to finance grad school into which I had already been accepted for the following year.

My cube was on the 52nd floor of the south tower of the World Trade Center. I felt special working there. Most of my friends and people I met knew as little about reinsurance as did I. When they asked, "Where do you work?" I answered, "The World Trade Center," knowing they were expecting a company name. But really, what else would a distant-suburb girl say? I mean, it's the WORLD TRADE CENTER--the most prominent buildings in the most prominent city in the World.

The concourse mall, which subsequently became a destination location, was always filled shoulder-to-shoulder, with bustling and sometimes rude commuters, homeless, interlopers, tourists, and building worker-bees. During the day, the floors literally buzzed vibrations of activity but, at night it was eerily quiet. Departing late at night, I'd brandish my keys as potential weapons descending down the floors to the vacant subway station.

From my desk I had an incredible view south-west gazing upon the Statue of Liberty with industrial then green New Jersey beyond. Friends liked to meet me for lunch to get a glimpse of my view then take advantage of a special pass I had to the observation deck.

But the best perk while working for Guy Carpenter was my boss, Sanford Gilson, who miraculously survived the first critical then the second devastating World Trade Center bombings. This is for Sandy.

Carpe Diem Swinging Swingle

(The following is an excerpt from a work entitled "Cubemates" which I have in development.)

In the early '90s, I reported to and sat next to a divorced Jewish tennis player who shared custody of his pre-teen girl. In his mid-40s, Sandy Gilson had the charm of Sinatra without the stature, yet armed with incredibly blue eyes handsomely framed by laugh lines. He could melt resent and anger with his forgive-me-smile and a self-deprivating joke.

Sandy was well-liked, worked the company's politics but, didn’t do much work. He openly admitted that "work" was what I was there for. Working with him was sometimes trying, especially when I was gazing at the stars under half-power lights the nights of the days he had spent hours on the phone making tennis dates and schmoozing the ladies. But there really wasn't much he could do to help speed the project along. Instead Sandy was the go-to guy for office parties and he was tapped into the cake-at-lunch network, always appearing with a generous piece for me.

I finished my project with Sandy in June 1992 when I left Guy Carpenter for travel followed by grad school. At the time he was casually dating several women, most of whom lived in his swinging divorcee New Jersey tennis community.

When the World Trade Center was bombed the following Spring, I tried to contact him. I was worried after watching TV footage of oxygen-mask-donning office workers who had walked down literally hundreds of emergency stair flights.

I tried the office first. Then his mobile phone. Then his home. I finally reached him the day after the terrorist attack.

"Hel-loo?" Sandy answered very upbeat.

"Sandy. It’s Les. Are you alright?" I responded with too much drama.

"Les! How are ya?!"

"Never mind me. How are you? The bombing. The office. Are you OK?"

"Oh, that. Yeah, I’m fine. How are ya, how’s school?"

"Sandy, what are you doing home? I mean, how is every…"

"Les, I’m getting married today! So I wasn’t in the office yesterday. It’s going to be crazy for a few weeks but I’ll be on my honeymoon, so who cares?"

"Getting married?! To whom?!"

"Oh, a woman you never heard about. She’s new. Great gal."

"Wait. When I last spoke with you, you weren’t dating anyone seriously. Who is she and what’s her name, so I don’t have to say ‘she’ anymore?"

"A great gal, Susan, from the complex. You’d like her."

"Well Sand, I guess it’s a good omen that your wedding caused you to be out of the office when it was blown up."

"I sure hope so. So tell me, how are you?"

With that, we spent 30 minutes together, laughing about his impromptu nuptials, my love life motivating an eight-hour weekend commute to see my NYC-based boyfriend, and reminiscing. Not another word was said about the bombing. It was too serious of a subject for such a happy day.

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