Rolex watch (a graduation gift from Daddy), and Mother’s white pearl necklace and matching earrings—I don’t even remember getting dressed. And while I may be ready for work, I am not quite readied for life. Particularly not the life I may find after this day.
The thought of taking the A train to Rockefeller Center is more of an intrusion than I can handle on this particular morning. So instead, I call a local gypsy cab, since Yellow Cabs aren’t as readily found cruising the streets of Harlem. The dispatcher answers in a deep, husky Dominican accent and then, in a loud, booming voice, assures me that the cab will arrive in fifteen minutes.
As I wait, I stare out of my big bay window. The glorious vision of my elderly neighbors’ flower boxes fills my eyes with tears, and my vision blurs as I lose sight of Garrett and me together, filling flower boxes at that age. I quickly remind myself that I cannot cry. I cannot afford to have swollen eyes on the six o’clock news. No time for any kind of emotional baggage today. I have ignored all signs up to this point. One more day won’t hurt.
The harsh blast of the gypsy cab’s horn startles me back into reality. The impatient cab driver lays on his horn again and again. I curse him as I grab my Coach leather satchel and reporter’s notebook and dash out the door. Whatever I am feeling—whatever I am going through—it will have to wait; it’s time to put on my game face and get to work.
I double-lock our front door and dash down the stairs. I am shocked when I see what looks like a souped-up pimp-mobile waiting on the street before me. I am almost embarrassed to ride to work in this shiny-rimmed, baby blue, horn-blaring vehicle. The driver, with a big, thick black mustache, ducks his head below the gaudy white tassels dangling from his side window and looks up at me with a glare of impatience.
I slip down the steps and into his big car. It smells like Opium perfume.
The cabby barrels down the avenue in a mad, reckless race to beat the lights. Between the earsplitting blasts of salsa music and his loud radio transmissions in Spanish, I can barely hear myself think. The gypsy cab plows its way downtown, dodging potholes and early-morning pedestrians. I look out of the smudged window and see New York City carrying on her business as usual.
With a quick turn, the cabby makes a dramatic swerve up to the curb of 30 Rockefeller Plaza and screeches to a halt underneath the awning. The cabby has the nerve to overcharge me, but I am too distraught to argue, and I let him slide this time. He hands me a makeshift business card—as if I’d call his lame ass again. I grab my stuff and slide out of the cab.
I make my way through the revolving door and to the elevator that will take me to the fourth-floor newsroom. An overly nice security guard, clad in his gray uniform, greets me at the elevator bank with his usual big smile and a warm “Good morning!”
I wonder if he can tell my heart is broken.
The newsroom is bustling this bright spring morning as reporters congregate around the assignment desk, hungry for a meaty assignment. Tom Mack, the grouchy assignment editor, is busy barking out marching orders to crews scattered around the city, gathering news.
I grab a New York Times , the Post , the Daily News , and a USA Today and slip into my cubicle, hoping to dodge Tom’s hawk eye. He probably has one of those dreadful rookie assignments cooked up for me—another hospital teddy bear drive? Another Good Samaritan award? Or another subway delay? The big, juicy lead stories of murder, mayhem, scandals, and politics are usually saved for the news veterans or Tom’s favorites. Today, I am neither.
It seems it’ll take an act of God for a big story to finally land in my lap. The only lead story consuming me today seems to be that of my own life.
Who else knows about this? What will I do? When did it start? Where do I turn? Why didn’t I speak up when I got the first
The thought of taking the A train to Rockefeller Center is more of an intrusion than I can handle on this particular morning. So instead, I call a local gypsy cab, since Yellow Cabs aren’t as readily found cruising the streets of Harlem. The dispatcher answers in a deep, husky Dominican accent and then, in a loud, booming voice, assures me that the cab will arrive in fifteen minutes.
As I wait, I stare out of my big bay window. The glorious vision of my elderly neighbors’ flower boxes fills my eyes with tears, and my vision blurs as I lose sight of Garrett and me together, filling flower boxes at that age. I quickly remind myself that I cannot cry. I cannot afford to have swollen eyes on the six o’clock news. No time for any kind of emotional baggage today. I have ignored all signs up to this point. One more day won’t hurt.
The harsh blast of the gypsy cab’s horn startles me back into reality. The impatient cab driver lays on his horn again and again. I curse him as I grab my Coach leather satchel and reporter’s notebook and dash out the door. Whatever I am feeling—whatever I am going through—it will have to wait; it’s time to put on my game face and get to work.
I double-lock our front door and dash down the stairs. I am shocked when I see what looks like a souped-up pimp-mobile waiting on the street before me. I am almost embarrassed to ride to work in this shiny-rimmed, baby blue, horn-blaring vehicle. The driver, with a big, thick black mustache, ducks his head below the gaudy white tassels dangling from his side window and looks up at me with a glare of impatience.
I slip down the steps and into his big car. It smells like Opium perfume.
The cabby barrels down the avenue in a mad, reckless race to beat the lights. Between the earsplitting blasts of salsa music and his loud radio transmissions in Spanish, I can barely hear myself think. The gypsy cab plows its way downtown, dodging potholes and early-morning pedestrians. I look out of the smudged window and see New York City carrying on her business as usual.
With a quick turn, the cabby makes a dramatic swerve up to the curb of 30 Rockefeller Plaza and screeches to a halt underneath the awning. The cabby has the nerve to overcharge me, but I am too distraught to argue, and I let him slide this time. He hands me a makeshift business card—as if I’d call his lame ass again. I grab my stuff and slide out of the cab.
I make my way through the revolving door and to the elevator that will take me to the fourth-floor newsroom. An overly nice security guard, clad in his gray uniform, greets me at the elevator bank with his usual big smile and a warm “Good morning!”
I wonder if he can tell my heart is broken.
The newsroom is bustling this bright spring morning as reporters congregate around the assignment desk, hungry for a meaty assignment. Tom Mack, the grouchy assignment editor, is busy barking out marching orders to crews scattered around the city, gathering news.
I grab a New York Times , the Post , the Daily News , and a USA Today and slip into my cubicle, hoping to dodge Tom’s hawk eye. He probably has one of those dreadful rookie assignments cooked up for me—another hospital teddy bear drive? Another Good Samaritan award? Or another subway delay? The big, juicy lead stories of murder, mayhem, scandals, and politics are usually saved for the news veterans or Tom’s favorites. Today, I am neither.
It seems it’ll take an act of God for a big story to finally land in my lap. The only lead story consuming me today seems to be that of my own life.
Who else knows about this? What will I do? When did it start? Where do I turn? Why didn’t I speak up when I got the first
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