A week in New York

Monday morning, Times Square, waiting for the No. 9 train, I see Gary from my office.

"Going to the Peabodies?" he asks.

"No, but I'd like to," I say.

By noon, I am dead center of the Waldorf-Astoria Grand Ballroom at the Oscars of broadcast journalism. After the ceremony, I meet Charlayne Hunter-Gault, the first black person admitted to the University of Georgia, and now the chronicler of post-apartheid South Africa. I tell her she is my hero.

"You're kidding," she says. I am not.

Later that evening, I meet another black woman. Her name is Connie. She's 32. She is begging me to buy her a hamburger. I say how about pizza from Mimi's. They have takeout. Connie shakes her head no and grins.

"No teeth," she says. I buy her Chinese.

Wednesday morning in Greenwich Village, I'm trying to find a cab. I'm supposed to be at the Tribeca Grill at 9 a.m., but I can't find the damn thing. I ask a girl with speckled hair, nose studs and thick, black-framed glasses for directions. She waves in the general vicinity of the eastern hemisphere. I arrive in time to hear an executive talk about spending $200 million to get more people to watch his TV programs.

I'm thinking if he bought Connie a TV and place to put it, she'd probably watch his programs.

Back at the office, I call Michael to see if he wants to have dinner that night. We agree on a little Chinese place over on 3rd Avenue around 84th. I get there an hour late and he's still not there. I wait about 20 minutes before I go ahead and eat. On the way home, I stop at a grocery store for soap. He sees me through the window. We both had dinner at Chinese restaurants a block apart.

Five-thirty Thursday morning, Michael's driver is laying on the door buzzer. I stand back while he flies through the room getting dressed and then hurries out the door. Afterward, I go to Central Park to take a lap around the reservoir. The giant, Christmas tree-shaped blooms of the horeschestnuts are letting go. Thousands of tiny, red-throated white flowers fall like snowflakes with every breeze.

Later on at work, I interview an executive over the phone about a deal he just made. He tells me very little. Everything having to do with money is supposed to be a great big secret, sort of like the family alcoholic. Everybody knows, but nobody talks. I finally ask if he's going to a certain reception that night. He says yes. I tell him I'll see him there.

"What will you be wearing?" he asks.

"A black jacket, a catsuit and boots with four-inch heels," I say.

He stutters, which is useful, if not quotable.

Friday morning, I take an early train. I am reading the Wall Street Journal when a round-faced Hispanic man falls slowly at my feet. His eyes are wide and glassy. A black man across from me asks if he is drunk or sick. We can't tell at first, but then spittle begins to bubble out of the man's lips.

"Seizure," three of us say in unison. I drop to my knee and take the man's pulse while the black man cradles his head. I yell for a conductor, who arrives just as the stricken man begins to regain his composure. He does not know he is epileptic.

I leave the No. 9 train at 14th Street, pick up a cup of black decaf at the corner market, and head up to the office.

Monday, May 24, 1999

Copyright 2010 by Deborah McAdams. All Rights Reserved. For Reprint Rights, click here.