New York City in the late eighties was a mix of crime, poverty, wealth, and an intense focus on work. Women in suits and sneakers were everywhere, people getting into limousines, and people sleeping on grates and in the parks. It was noisy and dirty, and if you found yourself walking across Morningside Park after dark, a NYC cop would say, “You looking to get killed, lady?”
Read MoreUnemployment is weird, especially in a city like New York, where everyone seems to be working, from the CEOs getting out of their limousines to the street vendors to regular people with standard jobs. As the weeks passed, I was aware my need for a routine meant I had to invent one. Since I no longer had the money for a gym, I began to run in Central Park, which was just a few blocks from my apartment. I went to more AA meetings, always a good thing and started taking marathon walks from my apartment on 69th and Broadway south to the World Trade Center.
Read MoreAt first, it was almost a relief. Harriet’s treatment of others, especially a chubby senior editor who was embarrassingly eager to be friends, was cruel. Commanded to find a dozen copies of a recent bestseller to give to dinner guests, Barbara would show up at her apartment with these books and never be invited to stay for dinner. My rage expressed itself in several ways, all of them dumb. I cracked a Tiffany teacup and saucer I had given her for Christmas. I took all the mail that had accumulated and threw it away. I subscribed her to several pornographic magazines and filled in her address. And then I left.
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