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The sidewalk in front of 384 Broadway is just about a half mile north of Ground Zero. It’s also where, if you happened to have walked past the raging flares of New York police security checkpoints at 12:01 last Sunday morning, you would have found an orderly line of men and women—mostly men—dressed in ultra-marathoner’s gear, spelunker’s headlights, and loaded paramilitary backpacks.
Some cradled kettle bells and coils of heavy duty fire hose. They’d all signed won’t-sue-if-we-perish death waivers. Each had his or her duct-taped bricks. Now they were lying nose to heel on the Broadway sidewalk, counting off pushups.
Soon a small crowd gathers—bemused couples on dates, bewildered late night shoppers, a nonplused Nigerian street vendor of belts and purses, cat-calling office coworkers, their shirt tails untucked after a seven-hour happy hour. An art director in chunky glasses and jazz shoes Facebooks his iPhoned Hipstamatic with the phototag: “WTF? 9-11: OMG.” A cosmo-stained twentysomething in dancing clothes pivots on a wobbly high heel and squints in confusion. “What is this?” she asks. “Sort of 9/11 thing?”
