By Jared Chausow
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Behind the glass counter at the Boss Café on Bleecker Street, the orderly tubs of sesame-studded falafel, tabouleh, chopped salad, and stuffed grape leaves contrast with the strange tension in the air outside, symbolized by the plume of smoke and ash still visible directly to the south. Just before noon, a line of customers has begun to assemble, attracted by the sight and smell of somersaulting rotisserie chickens. Proprietor Jamal Kayas has tacked a scrawled "Help Wanted" sign in the window, and he readily discusses his staffing problems in the wake of the disaster. "I live across the street, but most of my delivery guys come from Jersey and can't get here." He has a couple of assistants working in the store, and each has a harrowing account of long waits on inbound subway trains from Queens, ending in an overland trek from 34th Street. Jamal is glad to have them but laments, "If I can't make deliveries, I can't make any money."
All the police stations downtown are barricaded, and right next to the Hudson Street portal of the Sixth Precinct station on West 10th Street sits Woodland Grocery, a favorite retreat of cops for sandwiches and steaming cups of coffee. A woman in a jogging outfit rummages forlornly for milk in an empty cooler, and the shopkeeper, who will identify himself only by his nickname of Vick, recounts how he's carried loaves of bread and several cartons of milk from his home in Queens so he can at least make sandwiches and lighten coffee. He has no milk to sell, since delivery trucks are not allowed south of 14th Street. When there's a lull, he will send his assistant northward to search for luncheon meat, since critical supplies of baloney and salami are running out. I wait as the line recedes, and then ask him his feelings about the Trade Center attack.
"I came over here in 1982," he says, "and I've never seen anything like it. Back home in India, I never saw anything like that. I'm a Sikh from the Punjab, I'm not a Muslim. But everyone with dark skin has to be afraid. People who wear a turban are attacked. There's a rumor that a few cab drivers have already been pulled from their cars and killed." I press for more details, but he doesn't have any. He continues, "I've told my wife and son in Queens to stay inside. Don't leave the house." He makes another sale, asking the customer, "Are you old enough to buy those cigarettes?" then turns to me and says, "I usually have cabs lined up outside, I sell lots of things to cab drivers. Now there are none here. They're afraid to go outside."
It's not too surprising that convenience stores and cafés are open on this day, but as I wander down Bleecker a good number of the tourist stalls are open, too. At First Gift there's a hubbub, and as I crane my neck to see over the heads, I realize the crowd is thronging a metal rack of postcards. Those that feature the World Trade Center as the centerpiece of the downtown skyline are moving rapidly, and when I talk to the clerk, Kang In, she confides that she's running out of stock and doesn't expect the supply to hold out beyond this afternoon. She notes that WTC posters are going less quickly; it seems a postcard is the perfect commemoration of the way the city used to be.
At the cybercafé Escape, the proprietors are too busy to speak with me, and, anyway, the Korean clerk suggests that he doesn't know enough English to be interviewed. Patrons are lined up three deep to send Internet messages to loved ones assuring them that they're still alive. By noon, the streets are beginning to be mobbed, partly with people purposefully heading downtown to try to get back to their apartments, partly with strollers who, sprung from work, are enjoying an almost festive ramble. Parents are leading their children and carrying babies toward Houston Street, where a much more serious cordon weeds out people who don't have absolute proof they live south of there. I see people rummaging for electric bills in their pockets, anything that will prove they live further downtown as lines of skeptical Nassau County cops look on. The wind shifts, and a thin haze drifts north of Houston Street for the first time, bringing with it an acrid stench like burning plastic. Pedestrians pause to put handkerchiefs to their mouths and press onward.