The date is September 11, 2001. It was a beautiful fall morning—so nice, in fact, that you actually stopped to take notice.

My daily weekday commute from Marlboro, NJ into Lower Manhattan was uneventful. Entering 2 WTC, I rode the elevator to the 84th floor where, at the time, I was employed as an Information Technology Manager for a brokerage firm called Euro Brokers. Opening and entering my office at 8:00, I checked my voicemail and then responded to overnight emails. Nothing pressing was happening that day. So far…

At about 8:43, I received a phone call from one of the brokers saying he was experiencing a problem with his computer. After listening to him explain the symptoms, I believed it might have been a network issue and went into the data center to investigate. While in the data center, I noticed the lights flicker—unaware that, at that very moment, a jet plane had just crashed into the sister building across from us at 1 WTC. I didn’t hear anything because of the loud AC units that cool the room.

When lights flicker, it is not a good sign for an IT person. Usually, it means loss of power, which causes PC workstations to reboot and can result in loss of business. Little did I realize that we were soon to have life-altering problems.

I walked out to our trading floor and saw large groups of co-workers gathering by the north side windows, screaming that a bomb had just exploded across from us in 1 WTC. When I looked out the windows, I saw flames and papers coming from the upper floors across from us. It was a surreal sight—all the papers swirling and hanging in the air, close enough that you could almost read what was printed on the pages.

At that time, I was trying to call my co-workers from our IT group on our two-way radios and was not receiving a response, only to find out later they had evacuated down the stairs after hearing and seeing the earlier explosion.

I then returned to my office and phoned home to my wife, Christina, to tell her that if she was watching television, I was okay and not to worry about me. I then went across from my office to the windows where I once again continued to watch the papers and flames coming out of 1 WTC.

Around this time, I spoke with our facility manager, Steven Chucknick, who was watching CNN on the television and reporting that a small plane had flown into 1 WTC. The Port Authority emergency public address system then broadcast: “A plane has accidentally crashed into 1 WTC. 2 WTC is secure. Please stay inside.”

I went back to the window along with another co-worker, Barry Livingston, and we were looking down to see if we could spot the wreckage or any debris from the small plane. We later learned we were looking at where the jet parts and burning fuel exited the building.

About this time, people started jumping from 1 WTC to escape the flames—an image that still haunts my memories to this very day.

I returned to the trading floor to find a few brokers remaining and saw one of the firm’s partners, Brian Clark. I spoke with Brian and told him I had seen people jumping from the other building. Brian and I went to the window where more people were continuing to jump to their deaths. Both of us turned away in disbelief at what we were witnessing. I told Brian I was considering going downstairs. We parted, and I returned to my office.

On my way, I met another co-worker, Liz Holmes, who was watching the people jumping to their deaths and crying uncontrollably. I told her to go home. She walked by me, and I assumed that she was leaving.

When I returned to my desk, I had received several AOL instant messages from friends asking if I was okay. I responded to all, saying, “Yes.”

The Port Authority emergency public address system was now announcing, “If you wish to leave, you can.” I was starting to feel uncomfortable and concerned for my safety. I spoke again with Steve Chucknick and told him I was going downstairs and would return later if allowed to re-enter the building.

The time was now around 9:00. Leaving our space, I was unsure whether to take the elevator or the stairs. I headed for the elevator, pushed the hallway call button—which lit—and after waiting a few moments, I was surprised to see the elevator arrive. So, I stepped in.

At this exact time, the second hijacked plane crashed into my building, striking floors below me—78 through 84, with the 84th being my floor. The impact threw me first into the left wall, hitting my head, then the right wall, landing on the floor on my hands and knees, all the while seeing the flames shoot around the elevator cab and feeling the heat. The building leaned over with the momentum of the plane and then righted itself.

The elevator was now dark and beginning to fill with smoke. I got up from my hands and knees, then jumped from the elevator before the doors could close, risking being trapped. I now headed for the nearest emergency stairway, which was Exit A.

The hallway was dark, and the lighting fixtures were hanging from the ceiling. Reaching Stairway A, I opened the door to find it unlit and filled with smoke. I started running down the stairs, following the white glow tape on the handrails and steps. When I arrived a few flights down, I was shocked to discover that the stairs ended and I was in total darkness.

I groped along the wall, found a door handle, and was relieved to find it wasn’t locked. When it opened, I saw light coming from the opening. This was another tenant’s space. Upon entering, I heard someone yell, “Do not go down that staircase—use this one!”

I walked quickly to where I thought I heard the voice coming from and passed a woman who was bleeding about the face and being helped by two men. Otherwise, she appeared okay.

I then passed a co-worker, Janice Brooks, who was standing on the side. I asked her if she was all right, but I do not remember her response. I then started toward and down the emergency staircase. I was moving quickly and passed people on the staircase who were lining up single-file on the right-hand side.

I then turned a corner and saw a woman and man standing on the steps in front of a wall that had fallen in from the plane's impact and explosion, blocking the way. They said to me, “We cannot pass.” I did not even acknowledge them. I just bent down, got my hands under the wall, and lifted. The wall rose up one or two feet and came to rest on the banister—just enough for us to crawl under.

I continued down to the next floor, where a smaller portion of a wall had fallen and blocked the stairs. I jumped from the stairs on top of the wall, rolled over onto the landing, and continued heading down.

Further down, I ran into Peter Rodgers, a co-worker whom I was about to pass. He stopped me and said, “We should stay together.” I remember responding, “Okay—but you’ll have to keep up with me.”

About this time, I switched my two-way radio to the channel our facilities/communications group used. I heard Jerry Banks, who worked as a security guard and had earlier helped people down after the first tower was hit. He was now outside calling Dave Vera. Dave, a co-worker and fire warden, was still upstairs, telling Jerry there was a lot of smoke on the floor, people were hurt, and to send help.

I reached Jerry on the radio and asked if he had seen Charlie, whom I worked with—and who is also my brother-in-law. He responded that he had seen Charlie leave the building earlier.

At the time, I was surprised we didn’t see many people in the stairway. But thinking back, many must have left after the first plane struck the north tower.

When we reached the 30th floor, my legs were shaking uncontrollably, and I was concerned I would collapse—but I kept going. When we reached the lower floors, almost at the bottom, there was a procession of firemen heading up the stairs. I think about them often—did all or any of them make it out?

Once we exited the stairway, Port Authority police and security personnel were there to direct us out of the building. We exited on Church Street by Borders bookstore. You had to cross the street quickly—debris was falling from the damaged buildings.

As we were leaving, I saw another co-worker, Anthony DeBlase, running past us with his bag over his head. As we walked up Fulton Street alongside the church cemetery, Peter stopped and started to look up at the building. I grabbed him and said, “Let’s keep moving before something falls on us.”

We continued to Broadway, then turned left up to Park Row, stopping in front of J&R Electronics, where a group of Euro Brokers co-workers was gathering. At this point, Peter and I separated.

I then sat down on the curb to regain my strength before I collapsed. I heard someone saying they were going to gather at the Beekman Bar to see if anyone was missing. I stopped in a deli on Beekman Street to purchase a bottle of water. It was here that I saw for the first time the images on TV of the towers engulfed in flames. I caught a reflection of myself in the store window—I was covered from head to toe with soot and ash.

I then walked to the barbershop where I normally get my haircut. When I entered the door, Antonella, the owner of the shop, hugged me and then helped me settle into one of the barber chairs while another barber wiped me down with wet, cold towels.

I was now asking if I could use the phone to call my wife. Unable to reach her, I called my mother in Brooklyn and told her I was okay and to please call home for me. While resting, I would listen to the two-way radio and could still hear Dave Vera saying his situation was grim and pleading for someone to help. Jerry responded that help was on the way.

It was then I heard another co-worker, Pat McGuire, on the two-way radio say, “If help doesn’t arrive soon, it’ll be too late.”

The time was now almost 10:00. I then decided I would leave Manhattan and walk over the Brooklyn Bridge to go see my wife’s cousin, Joe Pellegrino, who owned a video store on Henry Street.

As I was preparing to leave, walking toward the front door, we heard a deafening rumble that sounded just like a jet plane flying overhead. People in the street were screaming that a plane was about to crash. I walked into the back of the barbershop until the noise stopped.

We then learned that the South Tower—my building—had fallen. I also noticed that I no longer heard Dave on the two-way radio. I thanked Antonella for taking care of me and told her I was leaving.

I headed toward South Street, and when I reached the corner, a massive crowd of people was rushing toward me. To avoid getting trampled, I ran ahead of them down Nassau Street, stopping in front of Pace University and came to rest on a parked car.

I then spotted a tremendous dust and debris cloud from the collapsed tower coming toward me. I knew I didn’t have the energy to make it to the bridge before getting caught in the cloud. Instead, I ran into the Pace University building—just in time—as the cloud grayed out the sun behind me.

Security people directed us to the rear of the building where we took refuge in a stairwell with students and others. Two of the students started discussing whether to leave the building and run for the bridge. I warned them not to—that we had no idea what the dust contained, and it could be harmful.

I then heard Jerry Banks on the two-way radio calling for another one of our co-workers, Jose Marrero, or anyone else. After no one responded to him, I answered and told him to “get away from the area and go home.”

After 20 minutes or so, the dust began to settle and the sun started to return. I removed my shirt and cut the tail off with my pocketknife to make a dust mask for my face. The businessman I had been speaking with did the same with his T-shirt. We wished each other good luck and exited the building, going our separate ways.

I began walking toward the bridge and stopped by a group of policemen who were handing out surgical masks. I took one to replace my shirt tail and was directed to the shortest way to the bridge walkway.

I was walking slowly over the Brooklyn Bridge, once again trying to call my wife by cell phone—with no success. I was able to call her cousin Joe and asked him to try to contact my wife and let her know I was okay.

The time now was 10:28. As I was approaching the Manhattan-side tower of the bridge, I again heard another rumble—just like before—and the North Tower started to fall. I looked for a moment but then turned away—I didn’t want to watch—and then started to run, but I couldn’t.

After exiting the bridge on the Brooklyn side, I was walking past the Red Cross building where an ATF agent carrying a shotgun was gesturing for people to move to the other side of the street—they were getting too close.

I continued on my walk to Joe’s store, which took another couple of minutes. Arriving at the store, which was closed, Joe let me in. I hugged him—and I broke down to cry for the first time. I just sat on a box against the wall and cried.

Joe sent one of his employees to buy water for me. I started watching CNN on the television, and they kept replaying the plane crashing into my building—and then the buildings falling. I asked Joe to call my wife. He couldn’t reach her, but he did reach my sister-in-law, Stacey. While I was still on the line, Stacey was able to use another phone to contact my wife and tell her I was okay.

I lost 61 co-workers that day.

“We will never forget.”