But Lucas hadn’t yet adjusted to these so-called media hours. Everyone in this elevator bank worked in magazines, which meant they didn’t arrive until at least 10:00 A.M. He rarely shared the car with anyone else. He loved how the tap of his ID commanded the security bar to swing down and simultaneously summon the elevator. Though only a fact-checker-an invertebrate on the media food chain-he thrilled to enter One World Trade’s echoing lobby each morning. It reminded Lucas of a batter at the plate, pointing to the outfield.Ī cynical person would have been embarrassed by such grandiose thoughts. The building’s spire pierced the impossible blue, seemed to stab straight through the sun. To be here, finally, in New York, working inside that gleaming scepter of polished glass. He loved the commute, August heat be damned. For a month now, he’d been making this trip alongside the tourists and suits, the Truthers and Staten Island émigrés. Just shy of 9:00 A.M., his underarms already brackish, Lucas emerged from the Chambers Street subway and joined the throng of pedestrians converging on One World Trade.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |