We pulled right in front of the terminal and parked, which is what you do when you have press plates in New York City. He said that we should split up. He would go the traditional reporter's route, but because he knew he would get nothing that way, I was to become a victim's family member and get inside. He said, "You know this place. Go wander around." He wasn't exactly right, because no one can truly know it, but the nature of the building is such that wandering comes naturally. I walked inside next to a reporter and a cameraman from Channel 7. She was wearing a nice Ralph Lauren shirt and a jacket. I was very impressed. They were as lost as I was. As we continued to walk around, I heard the cameraman say "Oh, Swissair." I looked up and saw a sign pointing to the left. I followed it. I turned around a hundred yards later and they were not behind me anymore. I was alone. I called my mother and told her that she had possibly died in an airplane crash, let her know where I was, and that she might be receiving more strange-sounding phone calls from me. She wanted to know where my father was. I had no idea.

I walked into the Swissair ticketing area and picked up a timetable. There were no flights listed to Zurich. I'd misread the logos and picked up an Air Austria schedule. I finally found a timetable and put it in my back pocket. I then walked down to the Swissair gate and asked the agent if she had any information about the flight. She had no idea what I was talking about. I told her that a flight had gone down off the coast of Nova Scotia. She told me that she had been working and had no time to watch TV. She was more annoyed by my persistence than concerned about the plane crash.

A man with a French accent joined me. We walked together over to the ticket counter where there was another woman with a Swissair badge. The guy started to talk, but let me take over. I asked if there was any information on the flight.

No comment.
Do you know anything at all?
No comment.
Is there going to be somplace for family members to go?
No.
Ma. am, will you say anything at all?
No comment.
Okay, I understand all that. But what is your name?
No comment.

I turned back to the man and said that there was nothing that we were going to learn. One ticketing agent hadn't even heard, and the one that obviously had wasn. t commenting. He decided to leave. I asked him "Did you know someone on board?" He said, "Yes. Yes I do" loudly, threw his arms up in the air and walked down the concourse.  I didn't realize until hours later that I realized how insensitive I'd been: I should have said, "Do" not "Did".  At least I didn't say "No comment". I didn't see him again.

A black man in a white oxford who'd been watching stopped me. He asked me whom I was with. I told him that I wasn't with anyone. He asked a few questions that were transparent in motivation: he wanted an interview. To get rid of him, I told him that I was undercover with my father, who was with the Post. He introduced himself as being with the Daily News--the Enemy. I'd made a mistake, but he said that he knew that I wasn't a victim's family member because I looked like I was press. (The lie was transparent. He was trying to interview me.) He told me that it was likely that I would follow in my father's footsteps. I told him it was unlikely, but he disagreed. He smiled and we separated.

I went back to the gate where the woman was who knew nothing. Four others had gathered around and were talking about it. I asked if there was any information. They told me that the family members could gather in the Crown Room. One woman started asking questions. I told her that I was desperate for information. She told me that she didn't have any, but she understood what I was going through. She didn't have the slightest idea what I was going through, but in no way was she being dishonest. I told her that I wanted to stay out of the Crown Room for a while. I needed to call Mark. She was so understanding, she left me alone.

There were some officers standing at an intersection in the terminal and by lurking around them, I heard again that the victims. families would be in the Crown Room, and that the Press would be in the First Class Lounge, I think. I didn't bother paying attention to that, because I knew that Mark would find his own way there. I continued walking down the terminal and found the elevator to the Crown Room. I figured that since I was on the third floor of what I thought was a three-story building, the Crown Room would have to be down. I walked back towards the ticketing counter, but could not find stairs. I called Mark as I retraced my steps and told him about the Crown Room, but was getting close to the Cop Intersection again, so I said "I'm sorry, Dad. I don. t know anything about where she is right now, but I'm trying to find out. Just give me some time, OK? I. ll be back in touch when I know something about it." Mark acknowledged and hung up. Cops don't stop you when you. re talking on a cell phone and walking quickly. Mark doesn't chat while he's on the job.

I wanted to get down to the Crown Room but couldn't find a way downstairs. I walked three-quarters of the way around the building and saw an escalator down. I took it, and I immediately knew it was a mistake. At the other end was a one-way door. I found myself  at the baggage claim with no way back upstairs. I left the area, exited the building and tried to re-enter from an outside door. The guard told me that the building was closed until 5 AM. I tried to explain my situation to her, and she told me to enter via Gate 19, which was outside and across the street. There I was told to in out by Gate 2, which was down the sloped driveway to the front of the building. I tried calling Mark, but because I was under concrete, the signal faded. All I could do was yell that I would call when I had something as the signal broke up.

I caught up with a woman who was carrying a large camera. I asked who she was with, and I don't remember what she said. We walked inside some doors and ended up back at the same arrival area where I had started. We were told to take the elevator to the third floor. As we got into the elevator, she asked who I was. I said "Nobody," and she lost interest in me immediately. We got to the third floor and exited the elevator. It turned out that she was Francis from the Post and I met her again at a fire in Harlem a few months later.

Three security guards in baseball hats and brown shirts turned her away immediately. I told them that I'd been told to come to gate 2. They wanted to know by who. I had no idea. They asked who I was. I told them. They asked if I knew a victim. I said that I thought so. A woman came over, obviously superior in rank. She asked me the same questions. The guards asked me my occupation. I told them I was installer for a computer company and asked why I was being asked such insane questions. One of the guards said "because of something that I just heard" and asked me my name again. I told him. He asked to see my driver's license. That was an important transition point: my frustration with the confusing terminal architecture turned to panic at being caught. I was certain that the guy from the Daily News had turned me in.

The guard asked me my name again. I told him. He asked me the flight that I thought my relative was on. I said 1-0-3. Another guy said, "that's not even the right flight." I told the woman that I hadn't dropped my mother off myself, and she may have been on the later flight. My sister had dropped her off and  turned off the phone when she went to bed, so I had no way of knowing which flight my mother had been on. That was good enough for the woman. She told me to go to gate 14 and go to the Crown Room. They had to give me the directions three times, and all I remember was they said something about taking an up escalator. I sloped my arm upwards and said "up?" and they responded "up". Three times. I think I convinced them that I was insane, but the problem was that I wasn't acting. I have no idea where they told me to go.

I walked outside and saw a reporter that I later learned was from the Daily News say to the photographer that ignored me "they. ve got this building sealed and aren't letting anyone inside." As I walked around the building, I started to consider giving up. If they weren't letting anyone inside, they certainly wouldn't let me inside, and I was a mess. I was sure that none of those three security guys had believed me, but their supervisor overruled them. The only thing worse than getting caught was failure in the eyes of Mark. He. d given me something to do, and I didn't have anything else to do that evening. I have no idea why or how that single thought permeated through my panic.

I got to gate 14 with only one stop for directions. I told the three guards on duty at the door that I'd been told to go to the Crown Room. I took out my cell phone and keys and placed them on the X-ray machine and walked through. Someone wanted to check my pump, but I explained it was attached and didn't come off. I set off the alarm. They let me through anyway.

I got to the elevator for the Crown Room and there was a single old guard on duty. She told me that someone would be down shortly to escort me upstairs. The Someone came down and she asked him to escort me. He said that he was headed somewhere else. The guard told me to just get in the elevator and press the four button. I could have avoided 30 minutes of terror simply by jumping on that elevator when I had been there before and going up instead of taking a down escalator. I didn. t know there was a fourth floor in the Delta terminal. I never fly first class.

I entered the Crown Room and the girl standing there was as surprised to see me walk in as I was to see her. I used the confusion to ask to use the bathroom. When I got inside, I called Mark. "Hello, Darling. I'm in. What do you want me to do?" He replied "Get out. Get out now. Come back to the car immediately." He hung up the phone without even giving me the chance to say "But..."

In the two years that I. ve known him, my father has never raised his voice at me or given me an order. But this was his turf, and I quickly decided against questioning. I had followed orders and gotten in. If he wanted me out, that was good enough for me. I forgot to flush a toilet or run a sink to make it sound convincing, and I have no idea if anyone was listening at the door.

As I exited the bathroom, there were eight people standing there pretending not to be waiting for me to come out. I stood in a hallway that opened into the waiting room. There was a  bar on one side that was set up as a desk. It made the person behind it look tall. There was a policeman standing in front of the bar. I turned and looked inside the room. There was no one there but me. I was the first victim and I had to get out. I knew that the more that I said, the more likely I'd be tripped up in a lie.

-What's your name?
-Dave Sipley
I stared at the numbers on his lapels. With the support of the Giuliani administration, cops in New York have turned into first-rate jerks. Violent first-rate jerks. I got my license out of my back pocket before he could ask for it. My address on it says Syracuse, so I figured after the incident with the brownshirts that after seeing it, people would be less likely to assume I was a member of the New York press.
-Did you know someone on the flight?
-My mother. I think.
Damn. Trying to cover my ass and I gave them an opening.
-You think?
-Yes. My sister dropped her off at the airport tonight. I haven't been able to get ahold of her. Her phone is off the hook. She does that when she goes to bed.
That way the lie stays consistent in case security from the front of the terminal shows up. Since it was my second time saying it, I even believed myself. I knew I was in.
-Who sent you up here?
-I don't have any idea. Someone from the front of the building. Gate two.
It sounded good, and had the advantage of being true. I had to stop them from asking me questions. Time to take the offensive. I turned away from the officer and looked at the woman behind the bar.
-Look, I'm desperate for information. I can't find out anything. Do you know anything?
-No, we don't.
-Nothing at all.
-Is there any point in my even being here then?
Oops. The group took a step forward. Even though she and the cop were the only two talking to me, it looked like a scene in a play. The officer said
-IF you know someone on board, THIS is the place for you to be.
-Well, that's just it. I don't know that I know someone on board. I have to find my sister to find out.
As soon as that was out, I realized that someone would be grabbing a manifest. I kept going and quickly
-Look, this stress is doing terrible things to me. I'm a diabetic and I really need to get home and check my blood sugar. I really want to curl up in my bed and go to sleep. I'm tired. I'm . . .  Jesus, I can't do this. I've got to find my sister. I've just got to find my sister.
The woman behind the bar asked if I wanted a drink of water. I refused. I don't have any idea why, because I was extremely thirsty.
-I just want to go home. I really do.
-Well, that's up to you.
We started to walk to the elevator. Six people followed me like a chorus line. The police officer stepped forward. All the suspicion was gone from his voice. He was incredibly sympathetic.
-Look, there are a lot of things that are coming out in the press right now. Don't believe anything you hear. I don't have any idea where they're getting their information.
-Me either.
We both knew he was lying. He was just trying to give me hope. I was really touched. I pushed the elevator button
-Thank you. Thank you everyone. You've been extremely kind. I'm going to get my sister. Thank you for everything. Thank you.

The doors shut and I exhaled. The relief was temporary.  By the time the door opened, I was back into my frazzled state again, but security did not bother me at all as I left. As I walked around the ramp, I walked into a man with a big lens. I told him that I would tell him where everyone was if he would tell me where the press corps was. I pointed to the direction that I had come from, and he told me to keep going down the ramp. I rounded the corner to the front of the building. The car was gone.

I walked across the street to the parking lot. The entire departure area was filled with news vans. I called Mark. s cell phone and told him that the car was missing. I described to him where I was. He asked if I was standing by the stoplight. I looked up at the terminal and saw him silhouetted underneath the center of the saucer-like dome of the terminal. It was one ramp up from where the car had been previously parked. I started up the ramp. Halfway up I was stopped by another police officer and a man in plain clothes blocking my way up to the press corps. The cop asked if I was with the press. I said "not really." They both asked whom I worked for, and I responded mechanically, "Electronic Storage Corporation of Tulsa, Oklahoma." Again, the truth worked. They asked if I knew anyone on board. I said that I was there with one of the members of the press from the New York Post. If I'd said "Leave me alone, you vampires" loudly enough, I might have been crushed to death by reporters. The plainclothes guy was from the Times. He told me that I looked so messed up that they had both thought that I was someone to interview.

I walked up the ramp to Mark. He asked what I'd done and what I'd seen. I told him everything as quickly as possible. He had called me out so that I could get his co-worker Frankie inside. Frankie Edozien is extremely likable, gentle man from Nigeria. As we walked back up and around the ramp I briefed him. It was like a military mission. He wanted to know where the guards were, how many people were inside, which way to turn to get to the room and what I'd said to get inside.

I left him at the wrong gate because I was so busy talking that I forgot to take him to the next door down. The guard recognized me and I told him the routine so that she didn't have to. the entrance was at the next door down. I ripped open my Swiss Air timetable and wrote down my cell phone number. I told him to call me if he found anything out and that I would do the same, but I had to leave to go and find my sister. We separated, and I walked down the one ramp and back up the other to the press corps and started to calm down.

I told Mark what had happened and he introduced me to a TV reporter that was a friend of his. I told him what I'd seen of the Crown Room and he wrote it down. How do you describe a room that. s supposed to accommodate hundreds of transients a day, and yet still look sophisticated? There was a lot of wood on the wall and a lot of industrial-comfort stain-resistant furniture. There was a woman standing behind a bar and a lot of talking heads. But I couldn't remember details because I never had a second to observe them.

Mark introduced me to Lucy Yang from Channel 7. Lucy and I went way back together. We had walked into the terminal at the same time at the beginning of the evening. She looked surprised that I was related to Mark and warned me to take him only in very small doses. What do you say to that--the first dose of Mark that I'd ever gotten had doomed me for life. When I asked where she'd gone, she said that she and her partner had stopped and gone to the bathroom only to be escorted out of the building. Mark said that when he saw them come out without me, he started to worry.

About this time, I noticed Gigi Stone of New York One News. I wanted to get her phone number, but couldn't think of a way to do it. Frankie came back. He didn't get in but offered no explanation.  I called Margaret back and told her that I was out and hadn't been arrested. She. d gotten into the game like I had and wanted to speak to Mark.  There was no way that I was going to let that happen.

I reminded Mark that my story was still good and if I could find a sister I could get back in. He thought about it for a while and decided to keep me out. I remarked that it was harder to get out of the airport than to get in. He told me that was a sign that things were closing in around me. It was only then that he decided to tell me about  the woman for the Post that had gotten in to the victim. s family area for three days during the crash of TWA Flight 800. When she was finally caught, she was arrested and fired.

I talked to several more people and went back to the car to sit down. All the activity around the Swiss Counsel's arrival and interview had brought out three brown-shirted security guards, and I didn't really want to run into them.  I pulled out a box of donuts and started passing them around. An older reporter told me to save them for later because they. d be worth their weight in gold. I mostly did it to hang around the car. as Gigi Stone was giving her report, her cameraman was leaning on Mark. s car, and she was facing the driver's seat. Mark's car stands out in a crowd. It's a beaten up Accord which was recently assaulted along with him on a job in the Bronx. It. s a shade of gold-rust and has an upside-down Columbia sticker on the back window. And I was standing by it with a box of powdered donuts, a beacon  of the free press in the middle of the news vans.

The first reporter from the Daily News walked by and asked how I'd done. I told him that I'd gotten inside and asked about him. He said that he. d been caught trying to get into the room by the three brown-shirted guards. I told him that I'd thought he. d turned me in when they were giving me such a hard time. He smiled and said he hadn't. He may not have been lying, but I'll never believe him.

The Red Cross showed up. Mark said loudly "oh God. Not these idiots" as they were thronged by reporters. The Red Cross is a bunch of press whores. What were they capable of doing inside a building 500 miles from a plane crash? For that matter, what was the press doing standing outside a building 500 miles from a plane crash? What victim's family member would go to the airport at 12:30 AM? Mark had said at the beginning of the nigh that the press would be herded into a crowd and given no information at all. Anything real would be happening in Nova Scotia. Anything coming in to New York would be second-hand at best. The press was so desperate, they were looking for sound bites from the Red Cross.

Across the crowd I saw the woman who had met me inside and had been so genuinely concerned for me at the beginning of my adventure. I started to feel like a jerk. I'd done my bit. I'd fooled her and won. I had no idea what I would say if she saw me now. I put on one of Mark. s shirts and took off my glasses and walked over to him. He didn't ask me why, but did a double take when he saw me.

Mark was so put off by being stuck at the airport that he got in a fight with his editor, who had sent someone else up to Nova Scotia. He decided to leave and take me home so that I could make it to work the next day. He was also leaving to get away from the crowd and was angry enough to quit. He apologized to the cameramen that were leaning on his car. They told him to get a new one for next time because his was uncomfortable. We backed out of the parking lot and they all yelled to stop. We had nearly backed over Gigi Stone. I like to think she was standing there hoping to get a donut.

Mark was furious and threatening to quit his job. He called his editor back and yelled for a while. I. ve never seen him so mad before. There was so much tension on the phone that either he was going to quit or his boss was going to fire him. It was strange that he was feeling so much stress because nothing had happened. He hung up the phone and asked where we were. I told him that he had just gotten on the Belt Parkway East. He screamed FUCK and threw the phone down on the floor. As we exited the highway and got on the Belt Parkway West (actually Conduit Blvd, but it. s basically the same thing) he started to calm down. He told me that what I'd gone through was typical of a night. s work for him. The fact that I was the only one that had gotten through was also pretty typical for him. Just another night on his beat.

So we headed home. Neither of us had gotten any useful information  even though I'd gotten through security, and the next day. s papers were filled with wire-service quotes out of Nova Scotia. My blood sugar was 410, about four times normal, even though I'd hadn't eaten a single powdered donut. Mark had been right in predicting everything that would happen. Nothing happened. He spent the next two nights staking out the Ramada Inn parking lot, waiting for family members to emerge. No one ever did. It was a whole lot of running around with a net gain of zero. Just like a Seinfeld episode, except that all of its stars were dead.

No amount of running around that terminal would have saved any of those people. That's sad, but what's worse is that I pretended that I knew  one of them. People believed me and felt sorry for me. I was the only person to get through security specifically designed to keep people like me out, and my biggest concern was that I wanted to get fixed up with Gigi Stone. I rather enjoyed myself.

Everyone on the plane died. They're all dead. Talk about an anticlimax. I wish that it didn't have to end that way.
 
 
 

Here's what Marty had to say after reading this essay. As usual, he said more than I could with far fewer words:
The story is about the dynamics of disaster -- the impersonal, impassable airport is a great setting, almost a metaphor.  The faces swimming out of the chaos, a few, at some point, gaining familiarity.  Even fleeting intimacy.  But it is, as you say, surreal.  Until you come out of the bathroom.  Then it is real -- even though you are only playing a part, you are center stage.  Imagine how it was for the first person after you -- the true first family member.  You got to take your costume off; they will play the role for the rest of their lives.

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