It started to drizzle when I approached 48th St. and Park Ave. I glanced at my watch under the raincoat sleeve. It was 6:45 pm. I had 15 minutes to spare, but I didn’t care if it was raining or not, as the wait would make $15 for me. I liked the idea of being paid by the hour, not the word.
Over this past week, I had interviewed 12 senior executives of an investment bank. Out of them, everyone was white, 11 were middle-aged, nine were men, and seven graduated from Harvard. None of them, however, were honest or interesting.
I didn’t need to talk to all of them. By Wednesday, I was able to draw the map of the Harvard campus, recite the bank’s mission, and convince myself how planting trees and reducing the use of office paper could make sense as its sustainability efforts.
I could tell it was a Friday evening without looking at my watch. On any previous day, a flock of white-collared people in down vests would be slowly moving to Grand Central. From there, they would take their trains to places where houses were bigger, sidewalks were nonexistent, and cars were almost as big as subway trains. Tonight, though, the flock was moving faster. And their destination was closer – a network of Irish-style pubs, the likes of which one could never find in Ireland. Here, no one cared about the authenticity. Manhattan is a universe unto itself, where every creation feels real.
I was about to talk to one more person. For the first time this week, I was actually looking forward to an interview. First, this one did not take place in a glass meeting room where the same-looking secretary was serving me coffee from a capsule machine that I was sick of already. Second, James Richter was supposed to be different from other SVPs (Senior Vice Presidents, an acronym I was hoping to forget once my job was done) that I met.
At least, his biography was different. While preparing for the meeting, I learned that James grew up on the West Coast and even played in a psychedelic rock band in the 1960s. So, I was hoping to add some personal touch to the interviews I was working on for the bank’s corporate magazine.
At 7 pm sharp, a tall, lean man in his late seventies appeared at the doors of the office building. Though a white collar peeked out at his neck, James was dressed casually in an old-school heavy sweater, blue jeans, and brown loafers. He looked more like a liberal arts professor than an SVP. Behind his rimless glasses, his eyes crinkled with a smile – a touch ironic, somewhat wild but undeniably kind.
“Nick? Nice to meet you,” he approached me for a handshake. “I know a great bar a few blocks away. Hope it’s not too busy and we can talk there.”
As we walked under the rain, I took note of the way he moved. While he was walking fast like a true New Yorker, his flow was gracious and effortless, despite his age. Like a dancer, he was weaving through the city crowds without seeming rushed.
Soon, we approached an unmarked grey door with no sign indicating a bar. I wondered how I had never noticed this place, despite walking by dozens of times.
“Please forgive me. I need to make a quick call,” he took out a cigarette case from his back pocket and lit up a thin brown cigarillo. “Why don’t you go inside, get a drink, and make yourself comfortable? Say you are expecting James Richter. It shouldn’t take long,”
Judging by the size of his cigarillo, I had at least 20 minutes to spare. $20 and a free drink, not bad.
I pushed the door and entered a narrow, dark hallway. “Another dull speakeasy,” was my first thought. Fifteen years ago, they might have been fun, but today, it’s just another way to overcharge you for a mediocre drink.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realised that all the panels were mirrors. I touched the walls with both hands and moved ahead slowly until I reached another door.
The next room was small but very bright. The entire scene was seemingly cut out from an old B-movie. Three waitresses were dressed in lingerie sets with stockings, a velvet robe, and a boa. They looked like they were siblings, and I could only distinguish them by the colour of their clothes and hair. The blonde was wearing a blue set, the redhead was wearing purple, and the brunette was wearing red.
Behind the women, there was a small mirror-panelled bar. The only other object in the room was a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. A soft tune was playing, but it was hard to imagine that anyone could be dancing in this tiny place.
“Is anyone expecting you?” the blonde asked, which was odd as the entire place looked empty.
“James… I mean, Mr Richter is outside and told me to wait for him here,” I responded.
“Of course,” said the blonde. “Let us show you to his booth.”
She pushed one of the panels, and we entered another dark hallway. Before my eyes were able to adjust, she opened a door on the left and let me into a warmly lit room. Inside, there were two velvet chairs with a round brass table between them, and a smaller disco ball gently rotating.
“What can I get for you?” she asked.
“Surprise me,” the setting put me in a playful mood. I instantly regretted my choice of words as I recalled that my roommate – a bartender – said that bar staff are annoyed to hear this phrase, and it could often mean a bad surprise.
Born by the ocean, never could swim
Raised on the land, never could walk
The song was gently playing over the speakers. I decided to use the time to draft some additional questions for James about his transition from California youth during the Summer of Love to an executive position at a Manhattan investment bank. Would it be rude to put it this way? Instead, I could ask him how his youth ideals translated into his current job. He might start talking about the bank’s sustainability efforts, but probably that’s what the magazine audience wants to hear about anyway.
“There you go, hope you enjoy it,” this time, it was the purple-dressed redhead who placed a glass on the table. Her voice sounded exactly the same as the blonde’s.
The pale blue liquid smelled floral and citrusy. I instantly recognised the drink as Aviation. My roommate would have been proud of me.
Was learning the rules of the wrong game
Until neon whispers called my name
The drink tasted great, but there were some ingredients I could not recognise. It could be hibiscus or maybe something similar. My mind started to drift away. The dim light, velvet furniture, mysterious waitresses, songs from the 1960s – all this put me into a relaxed state.
Should I ask James which instrument he played in the band? Even if I don’t include this in my interview, I am curious to find out. Is he still friends with some famous musicians or artists?
Feet in the grass, mind in the sky
We are gliding six miles high
The seat was soft but not exactly comfortable, as it made me sit upright. The window view was changing rapidly. We passed a deserted area with giant boulders that looked as if they had just stopped rolling a second ago. Now, we entered a forest with oaks lined along the curvy road. The trees grew bigger – not taller but wider. They grew so wide that our bus would be able to pass through a tunnel cut in their trunks.
“Sequoias are so calming. They always make me sleepy. I feel like I am visiting my grandma as a child again,” a girl with bright red hair sitting next to me said.
The curvy road straightened up, and we were now climbing a hill, going up and up towards the crowns of these magnificent trees.
I painted you in watercolours, you are the one
You caught a great wave, and then it was gone
The people on the bus were singing along by now. They played instruments too. My neighbour from a seat behind – a tall guy in glasses – was playing an electric guitar with no amplifier in sight. I also noticed two acoustic guitars, two flutes, a violin, and several tambourines.
You asked, “When are we gonna go back?”
I said, “Baby, we never have left”
I joined them in singing, and line after line of the lyrics were coming out of my mouth as if I knew the song by heart, even though I had never heard it before.
Feet in the grass, mind in the sky
We are gliding six miles high
As we moved to the chorus, the bus was ascending beyond the trees and beyond the road.
They buy tickets to places just to be gone
Build houses of glass, but still feel alone
Soon, the giant trees below looked tiny. I saw the doll houses with swimming pools of blue. Toy cars were moving along the designated lines. Small dots of people were moving slower and slower.
I smile at the way they lost what they never had
‘Cause I can be everywhere, all at once, inside my head
Looking up, I saw the stars. At first tiny, they were growing bigger. The plane seemed to be closer to the billion-year-old stars than the world existing below on Earth.
Feet in the grass, mind in the sky
We are gliding six miles high
“The crew will take the last order of drinks now, and soon we will start preparing the plane for landing at JFK airport,” a female voice said over the radio. “We hope you enjoyed the trip.”
“Would you like another one?” a female voice next to me said.
I looked around. The seat in front of me was still empty. The brunette in red was holding my empty glass. The disco ball was still.
“I need to find Mr Richter,” I mumbled on my way out of the room. I went through the hallway, the bar room where two other waitresses were standing side by side, then another hallway.
James was standing at the corner where I left him. He had almost finished his cigarillo.
“Any additional questions?” he asked, and I shook my head.
“I couldn’t tell my story better than you saw it,” he smiled, and I nodded.
