By Andrew Schulman
I moved to Manhattan in 1975, a young classical guitarist seeking a music career in the big city. Breaking into the concert field being hard to do, I saw playing background music, known to musicians as "clubdates", as a preferable alternative to driving a cab. After two years playing the "rabbit circuit", which is what we called the vegetarian restaurants in Greenwich Village, I landed my first truly professional job, playing five nights a week at 'The Cellar in the Sky' at Windows on the World, the famous restaurant on the 107th floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
There were two incarnations of Windows, pre-1993 bombing and post. The original version was very elegant with it's famous Hall of Mirrors, Au D'Ouverie with sushi bar and jazz trio, main dining room with spectacular views, and the room I played, the 'Cellar'. Seating in the 'Cellar' was limited to thirty, and the tab for five courses of gourmet food and six courses of wine was an amazing $35 per person! The staff of four wore white dinner jackets and the clientele that first year was replete with the rich and famous.
After a year of this I decided to move to the Pacific Northwest and live the natural life. I landed a position as guitar teacher at Pacific Lutheran University and helped rebuild an old farmhouse in 'Puget Sound Country'. However, the call of the city was strong and I returned to New York in 1981. From that time until last July I played many 'Special Events' at Windows, another twenty years of those gorgeous views and the privilege of playing music for citizens from all four corners of the globe.
Of course, in 1993 terrorists made their first attempt to topple the World Trade Center, and failed. Windows was shut down for several years, and when it re-opened it was a different place, reflecting the new times. Not as elegant as the original yet it gradually developed its own savoir faire, and of course the views were still unequalled in the realm of man-made creations. My favorite room to play was the Manhattan Suite, big enough for twenty people. When I walked in the waiters would smile because my appearance meant that they would not have hours of blasting DJ music. My chair was in a corner of the room fifteen feet from floor to ceiling windows with a northward view of all of Manhattan. Looking over and slightly down on the Empire State Building I was practically compelled to play New York music; Gershwin, Ellington and of course, 'Strawberry Fields Forever'. I loved it.
And then along came September 11th.
After the attack the first thing I thought about was the people I knew, the waiters and busboys, the managers, the people downstairs greeting the arrivals, all the different people that I encountered over those two and a half decades at Windows. So far I know of three people that didn't make it out, and there must be many more that.
My next thought was the realization that every visit I made to the 107th floor was accompanied by two basic emotions. The first was joy, the joy of being at and part of such a special place. The second was fear; when I looked out those windows and saw small planes flying below me, and when I felt the swaying of the building on stormy nights and heard the creaking sounds that emanated from within the walls I always felt somewhat unsafe, vulnerable.
Two memories will stay with me forever. The headwaiter, or Captain as he was called, was Pepe from Portugal. A handsome silver haired man in his forties, he taught me a great lesson. In my first four weeks there I played with great passion every moment and my reward from Captain Pepe was a glass of superb red wine midway through each evening. However, after a month I began to lag. People were talking after all and I felt that I couldn't, or didn't need to constantly maintain my intense level of playing. Observing this Pepe walked over to me and, taking away my glass of wine with great elan, he said, "Andresito, if you do not play with feeling...no wine!" I responded with a virtuosic Spanish number, the wine was returned with a smile, and I've played with all my heart and soul ever since. There is no medical term for the fear of losing wine privileges, but that condition has its benefits. At least for me it did.
The second memory had to do with the busboy in the Cellar, Muhammad. A Palestinian who'd lived much of his life in Jordan, he was short, thin and moved with great energy. With an ever-present smile he would always call me, the Jewish guitarist from Long Island, 'Cousin Andrew'. He would flash that smile and say, "You know, we are cousins!"
That was the other lost view of September 11th, lost by the men who murdered thousands of people and destroyed two great buildings; that we are all part of one family and that we should treat each other accordingly, with respect, and compassion.