I got to work in the Flatiron Building. It was just for two years when I was a measly editorial assistant for St. Martin’s Press right after college before I took off for graduate school. The elevators were infamously slow so you could never sneak in late really, which was okay, b/c I was early as a NJ commuter (they paid me $18,000 a year, so I lived with my parents). The elevators were hydraulically powered, so inevitably, you had to listen to someone cracking a joke that “someone flushed a toilet” whenever you were stranded in teh lobby. Inside, the 18th floor’s decor was kinda goofy, b/c the CEO’s wife was responsible for it, and you know how that goes. The power offices were indeed those weird corners, and I just love that building. The job, at the time, I loved less. At the time, I thought we were cheap labor, but looking back on it, it didn’t seem so bad. The mean bosses don’t seem so mean, and I met a lot of cool people my age who were similarly clueless as to what they wanted to do. I think back on funny moments when Keith Kahla, who is now some hot shot, had to show his hot shot boss how to use an ATM machine because he did not they existed. Or my old boss passing random notes to editors to tell them they were handsome. And now, I feel lucky that I got to work in publishing, b/c now I have to work for money. Ha Ha Ha!
But just look at that bizarre, beautiful shape of the first skyscraper in NYC.