At the northern end is Sparrows Point, once home to the mighty Bethlehem Steel Mill, once the world's largest operating factory and now the site of Amazon, Home Depot, and Under Armor distribution centers. On the other side, Curtis Bay, home to a number of ancient chemical factories, including the paint company Mr. Alvarez remembers, had to close the bridge because the white clouds were so thick. I remember that it wasn't there.
Tens of thousands of Baltimoreans lived and worked in these areas, Alvarez said.
The six missing people were part of this tradition in Baltimore, and were members of a construction crew that had been working through the night to fill holes in the bridge.
As the morning dawned and scores of government cars and trucks moved past the collapse site, some of the people who knew the bridge best were forced to inspect it from afar.
They gathered on a freeway embankment across from the Dollar General to see the broken bridge. People in the crowd whispered conspiracy theories, expressed concerns about going to work and seeing doctors, and were confused as to how this could have happened.
Others just remembered.
“When I got my license in 1975, the only way to get back and forth was through tunnels,” said James Metzger, 66, retired from the auto industry.
Metzger said he looked out the window at the high school not far from where he was standing and saw a bridge being built. Around that time, he was meeting a girl who lived across the street. The bridge, like everything else, had a romantic meaning.
One day in 1977, Metzger said, his father, a truck driver, was returning home from work and happened upon the bridge's ribbon cutting. He said his father had met the governor and he even kept part of the ribbon. The bridge has been a part of their lives ever since.
Until Tuesday morning, when Mr. Metzger's current girlfriend called him. “She was on her way to her job,” he said. “She said, 'I see police cars and helicopters,' and the key bridge was gone.”