Last Call

On this eve of September 11th, I'm sharing a short story I wrote called "Last Call."

I worked on the 70th floor of the South Tower from 1997-1999, passing through the 44th floor sky lobby every day to catch the second set of elevators. Though I wasn't there that day, this place holds deep personal memories. This story imagines four young professionals spending their last normal evening together in a café beneath the World Trade Center on September 10, 2001.

It's about friendship, truth, and those final moments before everything changed. I'm sharing it not for promotion, but as a form of remembrance—for all those who didn't make it home that day, and for the world we all lost.

Content note: The story deals with 9/11 and ends at the moment of impact.

Feel free to read and share if it resonates with you. Sometimes stories help us process what words alone cannot.

Last Call

 

By Erik Bilicki

 

“One more round,” Jim said, fingers drumming a restless beat on the counter. His voice usually carried the confidence of a man who balanced Wall Street ledgers; tonight it sounded thin. The words echoed through the Commuter Café, our nightly refuge buried beneath the World Trade Center. Above the bar, the Coca-Cola clock blinked: 09-10-01. Just another date - though not for long.

Monday nights never changed. The PATH train thudded through the station just beyond the wall, steady as a metronome, while our laughter bounced around the café‘s low ceiling and tiled walls. Down here, tucked below the mall and the plaza, time felt sealed off from the city above. But something was off. David kept shifting in his seat, glancing at his watch with the restless energy of a man expecting something.

“Last one already?” Reedy asked, grinning. His accent stretched each word into the space between us. Under the dim light, his thinning hair seemed almost transparent. “Can’t handle tomorrow’s board meeting, mate?”

Jim tightened his grip on his beer. “Board meeting’s the least of it. Just want a clear head.” The words hung there, brittle.

I nudged David. “What about you? Mets game keeping you distracted? Or are you finally ready to admit you never played college ball?”

David’s laugh came hollow. “Baseball’s not on my mind.” He hesitated, then: “Look, I need to tell you something. After tonight, I might be gone awhile. Maybe a long while.”

Our table fell quiet.

“Gone where?” Reedy asked. His smile slipped.

“Work,” David said. “The real kind. The one I never talk about. Government stuff. Security.” He shook his head before we could press. “I can’t say more. Just... remember tonight. Remember us like this.”

Jim leaned forward. “You’re scaring us.”

“Don’t be. Just... remember.”

The silence stretched until Reedy coughed into it. “Well, that’s bloody ominous.” He lifted his can but his hand shook. “Speaking of terrifying - my folks land tomorrow. First trip overseas. First time seeing the life I’ve supposedly built.”

“Supposedly?” I asked.

Reedy barked a laugh. “They think I’m some big-shot marketing exec. Truth? I share a studio with two guys in Queens. This café‘s as fancy as it gets.” His voice cracked. “Six years of letters home, telling them how brilliant America is, how well I’m doing. What do I tell them? ’Sorry, Mum, dream’s a little harder than I said‘?”

Jim stared into his beer. “Try explaining you’re about to lose everything.” His voice was flat. “SEC’s on us. Some overseas account mess. I signed papers I barely read. My name’s all over it. Even if I’m cleared, I’m done. Five years building a reputation, gone. And my sister’s wedding - fifteen grand I promised to help with. Money I don’t have.”

I rubbed at my label, debating. “Since we’re confessing...I asked Madeline to dinner tonight.”

Reedy perked up. “Finally! And?”

“She said yes. To tell me she’s engaged. To her ex. The one she never really left.” I swallowed. “Twenty-three months of coffee breaks and elevator rides, thinking maybe she liked me. Turns out I was just the friend she vented to.”

David’s pager buzzed against his belt. He unclipped it, glanced at the display, and his face went pale. He clipped it back without a word.

He stood abruptly. “I have to go. Early morning.” He tossed down too much cash. “Listen. Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever comes after, remember tonight. Jim, you’ll get through this. Reedy, your parents just want to see you. And you,” he met my eyes, “Madeline’s not it. Someone else will be.”

He gripped each of our shoulders, then vanished through the door. The bell chimed his exit.

Reedy exhaled. “That was either sweet or damn ominous.”

We sat there, his empty chair like a hole in the circle.

Jim finally raised his can. “Screw it. Tomorrow’s coming whether we’re ready or not. Right now, we’re here. We’re alive. That counts.”

“To real friends and real problems,” Reedy said.

“To surviving what’s next,” I added.

We clinked cans. For a moment, the camaraderie returned. But the space David left behind stayed cold.

As we paid our tabs, the Coca-Cola clock flickered: 09-11-01. None of us said a word, though a shiver passed between us.

Later, we walked out through the concourse, past shuttered shops and darkened escalators, until the glow of the city hit us at street level. We traded small jokes - Reedy’s disastrous cooking, Jim’s sister's demand for doves at the wedding, and my novel that I’d never finish. Normal things. But the air felt charged, different.

The city hummed as always, but the sound carried a sharp edge, like something coiled beneath it. We parted ways with awkward promises of tomorrow.

At dawn, I thought of David. Of Jim’s fear. Of Reedy’s parents on their plane. Of my empty apartment. I considered calling in sick, meeting the guys for breakfast. Routine won instead.

Shower. Train. Elevator to the 44th floor. Coffee in hand.

At 8:46, I was staring out the window, thinking about David’s goodbye, when the first plane hit the North Tower.

The glass rattled. Coffee spilled across my desk. My world went silent.