My over-sized book publishing cubicle with a view of Madison Avenue has been replaced with a pod-like desk in a sea of marketing people with a huge view of the west side over my shoulder.
The sun strikes across the two-story room around 4:30 and the a/c kicks on. I lived and worked on the east side for so long, I forgot about sunsets. New York ones are quizzical and variate block to block, building to building, floor to floor. Construction site to construction site.
I’m fixated on being on the other side of the island. I’m projecting, sure. Magazine publishing and Book publishing have nothing to do with eachother. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t have the desk space to spread out the advanced pages of next week’s issue and go at them with a highlighter. I asked the assistant to order me my favorite blue felt tip pens. She thinks I’m crazy, and that’s fine. I feel too clean leaving this building without navy smudges on my wrists (read: chin, cheeks).
The office feels like a dorm room of one hundred 20-somethings, sharing iTunes playlists, cramming organic salads in the over-stuffed fridge, making plans for karaoke night, feigning vomit noises, leaving a sinkful of hand-painted coffee mugs.
It is yet to be determined if anyone appreciates the sunset.