Chapter 1: What's the Story?

I waited patiently in front of a bank of elevators and felt a chill, as if I were in a morgue.

One foot in front of the other.

That’s what I repeated to myself, rhythmically, as both an affirmation and a command. I needed to push through this, banish doubt, and eliminate options. I had to calm myself, quiet the inner chatter that radiated heat through my body. I was about to step into unknown territory—geographically, emotionally, culturally, and financially. Venturing north of 14^th Street shouldn’t be traumatic, a couple of stops on the subway. Still, it was another world of unbridled capitalism that I swore I would never muck around in.

It was 84 degrees at eight o’clock in the morning. The temperature was expected to climb into the upper 90s by early evening, with high humidity all day and into the night. It was day three of a heat wave, prompting the city to set up cooling stations for hordes of decompensating humans desperate for relief. As much as I willed myself to stay cool during the six-block walk through the grunge, and piled garbage, bombed out buildings, rats, and drug paraphernalia of the Lower East Side to the Astor Place subway station, beads of sweat formed on my forehead, dripped down my temples, and moistened my collar.

By the time I descended into the subway station, I could hardly breathe, and I was sweating in the familiar depths of dirt-blown hell. I struggled with intense heat and humidity, no matter what I wore, but this suit, made of “summer weight” wool, was suffocating. The tie around my neck felt like a noose.

I remained perfectly still, waiting for the subway, and was grateful for the rush of hot, dirty air as the train rumbled into the station. Blissfully, the air conditioning in the subway car was going full blast.

The subway was packed. Almost everyone had a newspaper in front of them, whether they were sitting or standing. There were businessmen on this subway. They looked sharp and confident, unfazed by their surroundings. Today, I was in disguise. I was one of them, suited up and ready to bite the ass off the bear, as the hotshot brokers on Wall Street said in the ‘80s. I reviewed David’s prompts in my mind to prepare for the upcoming interview. Say the words. Let them know you want it. Don’t be coy and don’t play hard to get. They need to see your eagerness. It was a mantra among everyone I knew. Never go north of 14th Street, where the East Village ended, and the world of compromise and conformity began. But here I was, a little embarrassed that I got so low that I had to debase myself in a suit and tie, and nervous about justifying my self-worth to strangers.

I switched to the Grand Central shuttle and then caught the F uptown, enjoying the frosty air conditioning of the newish subway car. By the time the train pulled into 56^th Street, I was as cool as a popsicle. That didn’t last. On the street, the heat blasted me, and I felt the familiar panic coming on. I wasn’t going to make it. I needed a plan B. I saw a Duane Reade drugstore, which I knew had the most reliable, powerful air conditioning in the city. As soon as I walked through the door and felt that arctic gust, I knew I would be saved.

After a while, I stopped sweating, and a chill set in. I re-entered the street and was blasted by the heat. I only had four blocks to go for relief.

Through the revolving door of my destination, I suddenly found myself in a perfectly controlled, chill environment. The lobby’s ceiling was so high that it felt like being inside a temple. The floor was shining marble, and the air conditioning was icy. Strange, elliptical artwork decorated the walls. Muffled chatter suggested meaningful conversations were underway. Shoes clicked on the marble floor. Sleek leather-like couches in the corners.

I sat alone on one of those couches, gazing out the tall windows at the endless stream of the passing parade on the sidewalk. I had half an hour until my interview with Myron Mandelbaum of Lew Gurwitz and Associates, the toughest, most connected PR agency in New York. The hardest part was over. I arrived without melting into a gibbering puddle. I straightened my tie, relaxed, and resolved to enjoy this. I had nothing, so I had nothing to lose, and at this moment, in this environment, in my new suit, I felt wealthy

I explored the lobby. This was the “other New York” my rich Aunt and Uncle luxuriated in. The only way to live in New York was to float above it; that was their belief. All it takes is money, that was my mother’s belief. In the corner was a sort of upscale mini food court, with a stand for fresh-cut flowers, three elevated chairs for shoeshines, a dark-skinned man waiting for the next customer, smiling and holding a cloth. There was a little coffee shop with bagels, Danish, and newspapers. This area of the lobby felt more humid. Real palm trees grew from a hole in the marble floor, towering up to the glass ceiling. Around the palm trees were patio tables and chairs, as if we were suddenly in a cabana club. Could they regulate the temperature to approximate a tropical climate in this segregated area, or was it my imagination daring to contemplate that I would have the means to take an actual Caribbean vacation if I landed this job?

I bought a coffee and a copy of The Wall Street Journal, the capitalist’s daily bible. Having that newspaper in my hand made me feel different, established. As I was leaving, the shoeshine man caught my eye, glanced down at my shoes, and back at me, and shook his head.

“Looks like you can use a shine,” he said.

I stepped onto the platform, eased into the leatherette chair, and rested my feet on the footrests. He adjusted my feet, folded the bottom of my trousers, and applied leather cleaner in a circular motion with a soft brush. He layered wax and conditioner, buffing between coats while I read the newspaper. It’s incredible how much tension an expert shoeshine can release. I had a high gloss on my Florsheim wingtips and a smile on my face. I was ready.

At the front of the lobby was a long, rectangular green stone desk. A man sat stoically behind it. Security, the sign said.

“I’m here to see Myron Mandelbaum,” I said to the man in uniform. The man looked at me blankly, as if he’d seen too many faces to bother remembering mine. He called up to someone, and I was okayed. “Stand behind the yellow line,” the man said, snapping my picture and handing me a sticker that read “Visitor,” with my fuzzy picture next to it. I affixed it to my suit jacket. I was officially a Visitor.

I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to look presentable. I waited patiently in front of a bank of elevators and felt a chill, as if I were in a morgue.

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Stay tuned for Chapter 2 from a novel called What’s the Story?

words words words website with all stories: markbrose.substack.com

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