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.