Non-Assigned Predestined Seating

What was it about the first meeting in that room that made me pick that seat? I knew I wanted to be in good earshot of my boss leading the meeting. But then, not so close I seemed like some kind of authority figure, or even that I’m someone to pay any attention to (I’m shy that way). I also knew I had to face the window for emergency zoneouts and weather checks.

Now, after years of meeting with the same people, it would cause confusion, questions, and possibly gossip if I were to change that seat. Sure, sometimes I pick the chair to the left—but that’s my only indulgence in predestined meetin’ seatin’.

I sometimes wonder (see ‘zoneouts’, above), what if I decided one morning to take the cop’s seat, over on the corner with his back to the windows [where no one can see the porn on his  crackberry]? I can be fairly certain he’d tell, not ask, me to move.

He did that once to another agency flunky, despite the fact that that particular flunky has “director” is in his title. The flunky relocated without even a shrug. (And we wonder why the NYPD has such inflated egos. Guns, not the officers, command a lot of compliance.) But what would the cop have done in the face of resistance—throw a tantrum? Tattle? Put a bullet in him?

Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anybody but the cop make someone move from his non-assigned-but-still-predestined seat. Everyone else is just totally predictable and never strays from their lily pads.

The reasons for our return to the same seats is part of the collective subconscious. It returns us to a familiar perspective. There we can avoid the distractions of new views and pay better attention to what’s going on. It also instills complacency, a sense of community in which each of us knows our place. It also reflects our inherent agreeability, routine, and muscle memory.

In the room where the meeting is held, the seating also is hierarchical, with “regulars” around the table and “others” back in the additional-chair rows. The Others include both non-regulars and the men who wish to talk as little as possible. They mumble their answers and never offer information that’s not specifically asked for. Con Ed reps are always in the back rows.

Government People are Addicted to Crack…berries

So maybe we’re all a little guilty of it. A meeting is droning on and on, and you’re wondering why you were even invited, so your phone creeps out for a quick e-mail check. Next thing you know your boss’ boss is repeating your name to get you to snap out of your crackberry den while you’re texting about dinner plans.

Smartphones: The New Heroin.

In my construction meetings this happens every day, and the culprits are surprising. Almost always it’s the ‘higher ups’ with their noses buried in their Blackberries, nimbly wailing on those miniscule keys like their lives depended on it. Do they think it makes them look important? Are they driven to the crackberry by the dullness of the meeting or is it legit?

But more than the executive director, I always wonder what that NYPD sergeant is tapping out. Surely he’d say it was some highly confidential criminal-management communiqué. But when the meeting leader starts repeating his name, the sarge can barely look away. Obviously he’s looking at porn.

Most amusingly, I’ve seen a representative from an integral city agency typing on his crackberry WHILE GIVING A PRESENTATION. Damn that must be an important message. Probably something about a traffic signal going out, or a bicyclist struck by a wilding Access-a-Ride driver (‘driver’ is a loose term; ‘kamikaze’ is more fitting). No wait, they don’t take immediate action about such things….

Regardless, the cacophony of teeny ticking keys gives me bountiful food for speculation. The most consistently recurring thought: What did people do before ‘smart’ phones numbed their brains?

Community of a Bored One

There are contingents of local citizens that comprise New York City’s community boards. NYC.gov says about them:

“Community Boards have an important advisory role in dealing with land use and zoning matters, the City budget, municipal service delivery, and many other matters relating to their communities’ welfare.”

For around eight years now, I’ve been attending the meetings of Manhattan’s Community Board 1 and its various committees. The World Trade Center committee is the biggie, of course. It’s the place where the Port Authority, MTA, NYPD, LMDC, and all kinds of other agencies and project leaders come to get credit for keeping the downtown “stakeholders” (buzzword!) in the loop.

True, it’s a raging river of information about all construction work, big and small. I know this especially because presenters usually go through their projects in great detail as if discussing it for the very first time. (e.g. “Here is a diagram of the World Trade Center site. These are the streets that it borders.”)  And as such, the forum also serves as a tepid pool of redundancy that comes at the hands of a few CB members more committed to trying to sound smart and control the forum than actually respecting fellow attendees’ time.

For instance, one member who has, mercifully, recently moved out of town, used to pose the same question to every presenter: “Will there be benches in the [concourse, station, lobby, platform, etc.]?”

Only, he wouldn’t just ask it simply and then listen to the answer—which by the way, usually was something like “We’re just now drawing up the plans for the substructure, and procuring structural steel, so we won’t have the details of how the space will be designed for at least another 18 months.”   

No, this guy would ask it, then rephrase it (“Because there are people with packages who may be tired and need to rest… will there be benches there?”), then re-rephrase it (“Often times I walk through the [concourse, lobby, station, hallway, daycare center], and I might be a little tired, or have an injury…so will there be benches there?”).

Usually he’d follow up by explaining why it’s important to have benches wherever we humans choose to walk. Sometimes he’d follow up with a question about whether or not there would be public restrooms, and what their capacity and accessibility would be.

Then there are the members who bury a simple question, like “Is the project on budget?,” with a lengthy introduction to the question. “As we all know, local residents here and in other areas of the city have had to endure delays on projects because of changing budgets and…[insert 250 more words].”

My favorite, though, is a tie between two incidents that occur nearly every meeting:

1. The thirtysomething guy who gives the impression that he’s a youthful retired firefighter (though I think he’s really just the fire marshal in his condo or something, so he gets to wear a whistle every now and then), who always notes something about how everyone in Tribeca is still breathing 100% contaminated air, and/or infers that the city is somehow neglecting to remedy the ailments of the entire CB1 population.

2. The genius who has his cell phone turned on near his microphone, so we all get to enjoy the rousing electric feedback every 30 seconds or so.  But at least it helps keep us awake.

Did I mention the next meeting is tonight?

How I Got Here, or, Cubicle Without Shackles

I moved to New York City a shy country girl…OK, no, but when you come from a smaller city New York makes everywhere else seem like hillbilly country.  My first job was a potent cubicle culture. People kept their heads down, darting from desk to bathroom lest we be stopped by a supervisor and asked to turn our attentions from the riveting paperwork that otherwise awaited.

Getting used to Gotham was an adjustment, but I broke onto the scene with the joie de vivre of an ex-con with a stolen Cadillac. I was a true buff, a geek who dove into books about city history and the subway system and walked around gazing up at vertical architectural details. I delighted in my time off, rapturously absorbing and observing my new home.

One day at work, our big PR company won a big new an account: the City of New York. They initially put another mindless worker in charge of writing about anything relevant to life below Houston Street…and then three weeks letter she turned in her notice, hanging up her cubi-shackles to open a B&B in Maine. No I’m not kidding.

Suddenly, the beat was mine. For the shiny ‘showcase’ account and new website, hardly a single topic was off limits. The city—specifically the southern tip of the city, where the city really was born—was mine to cover however I liked. History, art, road rebuilding, skyscrapers, businesses, transportation, personalities, events, Tribeca, the Seaport, Chinatown—all mine!

In October 2002 I found myself traversing the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge, interviewing the city’s top bridge inspector. We reached the top of the eastern tower, wearing harnesses that were no longer attached to anything, and there was the city and harbor splayed out before me.

The cubicle that contained me had become a springboard, and I landed on top of the world’s greatest bridge.

Backhoe tours Broadway

If only I could get this level of special attention fighting traffic outside City Hall

Fat Man and A Little Applause

I’ve been going to two of the same weekly meetings for going on six years now. It’s purpose is to keep the stakeholders (buzz word!), utilities, agencies and other CMs (construction managers) abreast of the haps. So have a bunch of “hardhats”—that is, construction workers who represent their various projects, often attending direct from the work zone donning plastic helmets, neon vests and crusty steel-toe boots.

They are a special treat to be around. They are big lugs, mostly all sexist, and tend to have sharp B&T accents (bridge and tunnel—i.e. Long Island and New Jersey commuters). Sample:

Hardhat:                   Whaddyou mean I gotta reapplye?

Permit Lady:            When yowah permits aren’t pict up wid’in twendy-fowah howahs, they  awtomatickly expiya, so yoo hafta reapplye. Or tell yowah expedeitah* to do a better job!  [insert group laugh]

*Expeditors are hired hands who deal with city agencies and their sundry aggravations.

As a woman, I’m in the severe minority. I spend a lot of my meeting time zoning out, sometimes counting sun-faded tattoos, or comparing how many men have bald spots vs. facial hair. (Are they compensating?)

One of my favorite characters was a guy named Vito**. He tipped the scales around 350 lbs—impressive for someone 5’5”. He was pure entertainment and edification. He always wore a worn green satin baseball jacket that hugged his stout torso like an eggshell.

Whereas I am quite reserved in this setting, Vito never shied from piping up. He reported on the minutiae of his green (buzz word!) luxury tower with pride, ease and logic, his vocal cords stuffed into his puffy neck. He somehow brought mirth to this band of coordinated misfits.

Eventually his luxury condo project topped out and the interior fit-out went on auto pilot…and then Vito stopped showing up. I sometimes wistfully pondered him in my zoneouts, wondering if he’d moved onto to greener or grayer pastures in Bergen County or maybe somewhere off the LIRR.

One day in the meeting, Gary, our pointed leader, was going down the list of projects and got to Vito’s. A voice across the table chimed in—a regular, raspy, mirthful voice.

Gary:           I’m sorry—who are you?

Vito:            Vito

Gary:          Vito?

Vito:            Yeah.

Gary:          You lost a little weight, huh?

Vito:            Yeah about uh-hunerd-an-fifty pounds.

Vito, as he was inexplicably prone to do in the meetings, stood up. In his white button-down and tie he was unrecognizable. A whole new man.

[spontaneous group applause]

Spontaneous applause! It broke out from the likes of 30 hardhats (and two women).

I realized that then that talking about the $33 billion in construction projects around the World Trade Center—reporting their progress, openly eavesdropping on their dilemmas and arguments—made a bunch of construction hacks its own little family.

**Pseudonyms used for the drama of it all.

Lower Manhattan...Blues

I sing the body blue. 

It was September 11, 2002, when the new website launched. Its purpose: To bang the drum loudly and get people back downtown after the terrorist attacks. I was new in town -- a one-year New York rookie. I was a trivial PR hack in a mega PR firm, and this was a shiny new "showcase" account for us.

I had no idea what I was doing.

Lower Manhattan sings the blues

My first assignment, in hindsight, was one of the most substantial opportunities I could have gotten. I was to interview the head of capital construction at a major public authority. It was specially arranged by a colleague/client who knew the man personally, and so she attended the interview. She herself went on to an appointment as a city commissioner.

I’d been a student of journalism since the 7th grade, when my piece on jazzy earrings ran in the Hamilton Middle School paper.  But the PR biz had worn down my natural research-then-write ability. My cutting style was now a dull blade.

I sat down with this VIP in his corner office—this uber professional that a Times would have spun into a font of revelation about the whole of New York City—and sat there stammering, drawing a blank on a good opening question. 

The future commissioner jumped in. My initial resentment towards her mere presence then pushy interjections quickly gave way to relief that she was ready with both the hard-hitting and colorful questions that would make my Q&A later earn praise.

Later when I listened to the interview I recorded, I heard my voice only about four times. Two of those times where opening and closing salutations.

I was lucky. I didn’t realize how much so, even with the herald of this auspicious beginning

The next week I volunteered for the construction and transportation beat. I was to cover World Trade Center rebuilding, as well as the other many dozens of projects springing up all over downtown as the cash cow of Liberty Bonds were dispersed to hungry private developers and public agencies.

Now, every time I interview some rebuilding bigwig, I conjure that first Q&A, and imagine what questions I wished I’d asked.