The neon window sign of the pawn shop contained exactly three words, all glowing in bright orange capital letters.
Guns. Guitars. Ammo.
I was there for the guitars.
This was in Memphis, Tennessee where one of my college roommates' family lived. Jim was my first guitar teacher, showing me open chords on borrowed guitars. What better place than the “home of the blues” to buy my first axe?
We went to a rough part of town and into the seediest shop we could find hoping to find an instrument with some history. Some grit. A backstory in which the previous owner - a blues legend - pawned it for two cartons of cigarettes and a pint of whiskey in desperation.
A guitar with some stories in it.
What I ended up with was a gently used acoustic. Probably abandoned by some fifteen year old who got bored with taking lessons.
In any case, I was playing this very guitar while sitting on the edge of my bed in Brooklyn. Trying to steal a few moments of practice before heading out for my late morning commute into Manhattan and the advertising job I had waiting for me there.
As I fingerpicked my last chord and was getting set to return the guitar to its stand, I heard what I was sure was an incredible crash on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway - a major local road that was only a few blocks away.
“Holy shit,” I actually said out loud. “Truck must have flipped over.”
I popped on my Vans, slung my messenger bag across my shoulder and headed toward the subway.
Something felt a bit eerie on the walk to the train. I couldn’t put my finger on it but about a block away from the entrance I saw a group of three older guys silently huddled next to a radio of all things, their ears turned towards the speaker.
But as my ride on the F train through lower Manhattan and up Sixth Avenue progressed, people started to talk.
If you are not from New York City I feel the need to tell you that people do not talk to each other on the subway. Even in those days prior to smartphones you either read a book or newspaper, listened to music on a CD player or stared blankly at the ads promoting Manhattan Mini Storage or Joseph A. Banks suits that lined the car.
We had just passed the Delancey stop when I first heard that an airplane had hit one of the Twin Towers. I immediately put together that that was the noise I heard from my apartment. We had a straight shot view across the harbor towards lower Manhattan from our living room windows. I just never thought to look out for them before leaving for work.
And while this sounded crazy and intense, it also didn’t sound dire. Sure, this was an emergency but we had no idea that this was going to be the defining event of our young adult lives.
As I got out of the train at 23rd and 6th as I always did (and, still do!) I looked down 6th Avenue. You used to be able to see The Twin Towers when you looked down 6th. They sat at the south end of the island like an anchor to the entire city. Smoke was pouring out from very high up.
“How does a plane not see the towers?” I whispered to myself as I turned left and headed to the office.
By the time I arrived a small group had gathered in my boss's office. He was the only one with a television. And moments later we saw the second plane hit in real time and immediately knew we were fucked.
I was truly one of the lucky ones. I didn’t really know anyone who died or even worked in the towers. I was able to safely stay at work, collect my new wife from her office a few hours later when they resumed subway service and was able to head back home.
Sure, our neighborhood was covered with a layer of ash and dust that blew across the harbor. And that smell. The smell of burning jet fuel that I’ll never be able to get out of my nose.
But we were home and safe and together.
But six days later, when everyone went back to work, the city I came back to wasn’t the same. None of us were. The New York we had run through so freely in the 90s suddenly felt heavier. Subways. Elevators. Crowds. They carried an edge of anxiety that never fully went away.
And yet, in those early days, something else appeared too: connection. Strangers talked on the subway. Neighbors checked in on one another. For a brief moment, this massive, messy city moved as one.
Somewhere along the way, we lost that. The ash cleared, the years passed, and instead of pulling together, we drifted apart. Not necessarily as New Yorkers but certainly as Americans.
Today, “Never Forget” scrolls by on Instagram like a holiday greeting. Arguments online about who was actually to blame and how it actually happened drown out the memory of how people actually showed up for each other. We didn’t forget the day. But we forgot the lesson.
That’s why, for me, New York is still one of the five “people” who shape me. Real New Yorkers don’t forget. They endure. They keep showing up.
And that’s why The Fort will always carry “NYC” in its name. No matter where we open up our doors. Because this city gave us our grit, our perspective, and our community. It taught us that when you show up for yourself, for each other you get stronger.
It's a lesson we could all be reminded of these days.
Because that’s what we stand for. That’s why we’re here.
There are just some things I can't get enough of.
French toast sticks. The streaming television series The Bear. Those Instagram pages that just show best friends reuniting after one of the besties moved or went to college or whatever.
Perhaps, for you, the thing you can't get enough of is my writing. If that's the case, you should probably discuss with your therapist.
But since getting an emergency appointment might take a few days, please allow me to be a bad influence by providing even more of my writing in the meantime.
If you head over to SubStack you can subscribe to my page there and binge read new articles that I have not yet published in the weekly blog here. These tend to be more training focused but with the same dated pop culture references and deep self doubt that is the hallmark of my style.
Everything there is for free and I just posted a new piece that not only reveals my high school yearbook quote but also gives you a list of what you need to focus on to make progress in the gym.
Just head HERE (dantrink.substack.com) and you'll find it all. Thank you for your continued support.