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Authors: Megan McCafferty
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musicians. It’s pretty grungy now, but is already being touted as “the
new
Williamsburg.” I hope the hype isn’t for real because you can’t swing a trucker hat in the
old
Williamsburg without hitting an annoying unwashed hipster in a JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY T-shirt.
While I was in school, I rarely ventured below 110th Street. This is very sad, but true. A combination of too much work and too little money was partly to blame. But I think the biggest reason I rarely left Morningside Heights is because I was too overwhelmed by the everythingness of the city. Sometimes I’d wander the streets searching for my day’s purpose. I’d stroll past the run-down café where the nutty aroma of coffee poured out of French doors flung open wide; past the gated park square nestled between uptown and downtown traffic where outdoor opera singers perfected their soaring laments for spare change; past the neighborhood’s most unfortunate denizens and their sidewalk piles of woebegone wares—cowboy boots with scuffed toes and worn-down, triangular heels; record players with broken, duct-taped arms; out-of-print novels with pages as delicate as moths’ wings . . . I’d walk all over the neighborhood, but no matter where I went, I always had this left-out feeling, like there was something better going on very nearby, if only I knew about it. I’d eventually just head back to my dorm, flagellating myself for having done nothing special with my time. I hoped that being an intern at
True
would give me insider’s knowledge, if only for a month.
I had no trouble finding the HQ because the word
True
is graffitied all over the exposed brick wall on the side of the building. I got there at 10:02 A.M., paranoid about how those two minutes would negatively affect their first impression of me. It was irrelevant because no one was there.
For the first minute, I peeped around the office, calling out “Hello? Hello? Anyone here?” as if I were in a marooned-on-a-desert-island movie.
It didn’t take long to conduct my search. The small room was divided up into eight tangerine plastic cubicles. Like dorm rooms (except those inhabited by Math majors because, as a rule, Math majors do not decorate), the cubes were outfitted with objects reflecting the cheesy interests of their occupants:
Charles in Charge
bobblehead dolls,
Tiger Beat
pinups of the cast of
The Outsiders,
a limited-edition Handi-Capable Cabbage Patch Kid with leg braces, and so on. Though the kitsch dated mostly from the eighties, the overall aesthetics of the
True
office harkened back a few years earlier. Think a suburban basement circa 1976, with faux-wood paneling on the walls, shag rugs and beanbag chairs in the color fondly known as vomit green and, appropriately, the orange hue of that sawdusty stuff used by elementary school janitors to soak up puke puddles.
I sat myself down on one of the suede dish chairs and waited.
At 10:03, I stayed cool, figuring that there was a reasonable explanation. The trains must be running slow.
At 10:10, I read the e-mail I’d been sent, confirming that it did indeed instruct me to arrive at 10 A.M. on July 1.
At 10:13, I reread it.
At 10:15, I started to think that maybe everyone had taken an early Fourth of July holiday.
At 10:23, I convinced myself that I’d somehow wandered onto the wrong floor. So I went to each lower floor and asked the first person I saw where
True
magazine was located. They all said the fourth floor, which is where I came from, and where I returned to find that no one had arrived in my absence.
At 10:28, I re-reread my e-mail.
At 10:37, I contemplated my options. I could try to call the phone numbers I’d used to call
True
in the past, but that didn’t make any sense because I was the only one in the office who could pick up the phone when it rang. I could salvage my dignity and leave. Or I could stay put.
At 10:46, I was thoroughly convinced I was being Punk’d.
At 10:59, I decided that if no one showed
new
Williamsburg.” I hope the hype isn’t for real because you can’t swing a trucker hat in the
old
Williamsburg without hitting an annoying unwashed hipster in a JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY T-shirt.
While I was in school, I rarely ventured below 110th Street. This is very sad, but true. A combination of too much work and too little money was partly to blame. But I think the biggest reason I rarely left Morningside Heights is because I was too overwhelmed by the everythingness of the city. Sometimes I’d wander the streets searching for my day’s purpose. I’d stroll past the run-down café where the nutty aroma of coffee poured out of French doors flung open wide; past the gated park square nestled between uptown and downtown traffic where outdoor opera singers perfected their soaring laments for spare change; past the neighborhood’s most unfortunate denizens and their sidewalk piles of woebegone wares—cowboy boots with scuffed toes and worn-down, triangular heels; record players with broken, duct-taped arms; out-of-print novels with pages as delicate as moths’ wings . . . I’d walk all over the neighborhood, but no matter where I went, I always had this left-out feeling, like there was something better going on very nearby, if only I knew about it. I’d eventually just head back to my dorm, flagellating myself for having done nothing special with my time. I hoped that being an intern at
True
would give me insider’s knowledge, if only for a month.
I had no trouble finding the HQ because the word
True
is graffitied all over the exposed brick wall on the side of the building. I got there at 10:02 A.M., paranoid about how those two minutes would negatively affect their first impression of me. It was irrelevant because no one was there.
For the first minute, I peeped around the office, calling out “Hello? Hello? Anyone here?” as if I were in a marooned-on-a-desert-island movie.
It didn’t take long to conduct my search. The small room was divided up into eight tangerine plastic cubicles. Like dorm rooms (except those inhabited by Math majors because, as a rule, Math majors do not decorate), the cubes were outfitted with objects reflecting the cheesy interests of their occupants:
Charles in Charge
bobblehead dolls,
Tiger Beat
pinups of the cast of
The Outsiders,
a limited-edition Handi-Capable Cabbage Patch Kid with leg braces, and so on. Though the kitsch dated mostly from the eighties, the overall aesthetics of the
True
office harkened back a few years earlier. Think a suburban basement circa 1976, with faux-wood paneling on the walls, shag rugs and beanbag chairs in the color fondly known as vomit green and, appropriately, the orange hue of that sawdusty stuff used by elementary school janitors to soak up puke puddles.
I sat myself down on one of the suede dish chairs and waited.
At 10:03, I stayed cool, figuring that there was a reasonable explanation. The trains must be running slow.
At 10:10, I read the e-mail I’d been sent, confirming that it did indeed instruct me to arrive at 10 A.M. on July 1.
At 10:13, I reread it.
At 10:15, I started to think that maybe everyone had taken an early Fourth of July holiday.
At 10:23, I convinced myself that I’d somehow wandered onto the wrong floor. So I went to each lower floor and asked the first person I saw where
True
magazine was located. They all said the fourth floor, which is where I came from, and where I returned to find that no one had arrived in my absence.
At 10:28, I re-reread my e-mail.
At 10:37, I contemplated my options. I could try to call the phone numbers I’d used to call
True
in the past, but that didn’t make any sense because I was the only one in the office who could pick up the phone when it rang. I could salvage my dignity and leave. Or I could stay put.
At 10:46, I was thoroughly convinced I was being Punk’d.
At 10:59, I decided that if no one showed
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