One look at this breath-taking photograph by Dennis O’Brien and I’m a kid again, just out of college, dreaming of working in a dazzling Manhattan high-rise like the ones you see here.
It’s a stupid dream, but there it is - I want to be twenty stories up in a cool building with great views to inspire my work. That’s how it goes in the movies, right?
As a typical English major, I have no idea of what kind of work I can get, but at least I know what kind of office I’d like.
Well, dreams take detours. A friend gets me an interview at the CBS Broadcast Center on West 57th Street - not a high-rise, by any means - and there I am, in the personnel office, answering questions I can no longer remember.
But I must have said something right, because from there I’m sent for a physical exam, which consists of a doctor listening to my heart for ten seconds and asking me to extend my bare arms.
What the hell? I do as I’m told, and then the doctor turns my hands palms-up to examine my forearms.
And it hits me: He’s looking for track marks. This is the Seventies, and a lot of people are on the spike, and the last thing they want on the payroll is a junkie.
I pass the physical, and the job is mine - security guard! Hardly a dream career, but I’m assured that after six months I’ll be eligible for other jobs in the company.
Take it, they say. This is an exciting place! Television! News programs, soap operas…It’s all so exciting, and you’ll be in on the ground floor!
Whenever someone’s about to pay you poorly, they talk about excitement instead of money.
But they’re not kidding about that ground floor business. That’s where I’m stationed - in the lobby, wearing a jacket and tie, checking the I.D. cards of everybody coming into the building.
Except for Walter Cronkite, the silver-haired anchorman of the Evening News. The most trusted man in America doesn’t have to show his I.D.
He is royalty.
He’s been everywhere, done everything. There’s a glow around him, like a halo, and when he leaves for the night we have to to follow him outside to take down the license plate of the car he gets into, in case he gets kidnapped. No joke! He is the company’s franchise!
One day he walks in carrying his tennis gear, having just come off the court.
“How’d you do, Mr. Cronkite?” he is asked.
He smiles. “Split sets!” he says, in a voice as deep and resonant as I imagine God the Father’s would be.
It’s an honor to keep Walter Cronkite safe but otherwise it’s dull work, watching other people come and go while I sit there. After three months I just can’t take it anymore, and I quit. The personnel director can’t believe it.
“Why are you leaving?” she asks.
“Thing is,” I say, “I keep having nightmares about Mr. Cronkite getting kidnapped on my shift.”
She doesn’t think it’s funny, but she wishes me well, and that’s that. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but damn it, it’s going to be exciting! I’m young, I’m single, and there’s a great big world out there to conquer! Walter Cronkite did it, and so can I!
And some day, by God, I’ll work in a high-rise!
Thirty years go by.
In that time I’ve been a day laborer, a house painter, a New York Post reporter, a novelist, a screenwriter and finally a TV producer with Inside Edition. I’ve still never worked in a high-rise but I’ve had all the excitement I can stand, and one day there’s a big announcement at work:
We’re moving to a new office! Bigger spaces, better equipment!
And when we get there I fall down laughing, because our new work space is in a building like the ones in Dennis O’Brien’s photograph. My dream to work in a high-rise has finally come true, long after it’s stopped being my dream.
But that’s not all I’m laughing about. Our new office building is on West 57th Street, and its long shadow falls across the lobby where I once sat, checking I.D. cards and making sure Walter Cronkite didn’t get kidnapped.
I’ve conquered the world, all right. First job to last job, separated by nothing but a two-way street and a Greek with a doughnut cart.
Somewhere, I suspect Walter Cronkite is laughing, too. A deep, resonant laugh.
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