The Crazy New York Post Woman
Roy Gilbert, MBA2
Issue date: 10/1/01 Section: Perspectives
- Page 1 of 1
Let me tell you about my summer in New York City.
Every morning, I left the way-downtown apartment that I shared with Kent Steffes and Mike Zinser to walk to work at Merrill Lynch. Kent and I, due for work at 9am sharp, left each day at 9:10 for the two-block stroll to the World Financial Center.
We walked past an old church and its historic cemetery, past the subway stops and City Hall, and through the World Trade Center plaza. But first, we’d see the Crazy New York Post Woman.
“Twenty-five cents for a New York Post! Twenty-five cents for a New York Post! Twenty-five cents for a New York Post!” She’d belt it out in a brassy, Broadway voice, wearing a sparkly hat and bizarre sunglasses. She may have been insane; her fervor for the Post was at least frightening. Kent and I made many other unprintable lyrics set to her music – but we appreciated her weirdness, lending credence to my claim that everyone who lived on Manhattan was warped by the experience.
One Tuesday, Kent and I managed to leave a little early and saw the Crazy New York Post Woman in a different mood. Somber and subdued, she offered passers-by a Wall Street Journal – no song, no hat. Kent walked right up to her and said, “What happened to ‘Twenty-five cents for the New York Post?’”
“The Post hasn’t arrived yet,” she answered, looking at us if we had just asked her what the two really tall towers behind her were.
And what stunning towers they were. Even after weeks of walking the same route, I could never help looking up at the World Trade Center. They were (the past tense is so tragic) staggeringly tall, seeming to bend toward each other in the distance. They just didn’t seem physically possible.
At 9 am on any workday, the plaza was filled with people going to work: brokers and bankers, janitors, security guards, and the bakers at the Krispy Kreme store under WTC 7. Sometimes, we’d duck into the PATH station mall and work our way through the waves of commuters using the subways; other times, we’d walk by the mirrored windows of the day-care center to check our ties and wonder how bankers had babies with their hours. After work, there was often a concert between the towers; hundreds of people would show up to dance and enjoy salsa or jazz.
Sometimes, I snuck out from work to the three-level Borders bookstore next to the Krispy Kreme under 7 WTC.
It’s all gone now. My co-workers in the World Financial Center seem to have all escaped. But the towers, the courtyard, the bridge over the West Side Highway (which I insisted was the Joe DiMaggio Highway all summer long) – destroyed in a ruthless, aberrant act. The basement is a tomb; the courtyard is erased; I have nightmares about the day-care center.
While I shook with rage watching the glass fall from the towers on CNN, my first thought was that the Crazy New York Post Woman wasn’t singing yet as the planes hit. I pray that she survived.
Every morning, I left the way-downtown apartment that I shared with Kent Steffes and Mike Zinser to walk to work at Merrill Lynch. Kent and I, due for work at 9am sharp, left each day at 9:10 for the two-block stroll to the World Financial Center.
We walked past an old church and its historic cemetery, past the subway stops and City Hall, and through the World Trade Center plaza. But first, we’d see the Crazy New York Post Woman.
“Twenty-five cents for a New York Post! Twenty-five cents for a New York Post! Twenty-five cents for a New York Post!” She’d belt it out in a brassy, Broadway voice, wearing a sparkly hat and bizarre sunglasses. She may have been insane; her fervor for the Post was at least frightening. Kent and I made many other unprintable lyrics set to her music – but we appreciated her weirdness, lending credence to my claim that everyone who lived on Manhattan was warped by the experience.
One Tuesday, Kent and I managed to leave a little early and saw the Crazy New York Post Woman in a different mood. Somber and subdued, she offered passers-by a Wall Street Journal – no song, no hat. Kent walked right up to her and said, “What happened to ‘Twenty-five cents for the New York Post?’”
“The Post hasn’t arrived yet,” she answered, looking at us if we had just asked her what the two really tall towers behind her were.
And what stunning towers they were. Even after weeks of walking the same route, I could never help looking up at the World Trade Center. They were (the past tense is so tragic) staggeringly tall, seeming to bend toward each other in the distance. They just didn’t seem physically possible.
At 9 am on any workday, the plaza was filled with people going to work: brokers and bankers, janitors, security guards, and the bakers at the Krispy Kreme store under WTC 7. Sometimes, we’d duck into the PATH station mall and work our way through the waves of commuters using the subways; other times, we’d walk by the mirrored windows of the day-care center to check our ties and wonder how bankers had babies with their hours. After work, there was often a concert between the towers; hundreds of people would show up to dance and enjoy salsa or jazz.
Sometimes, I snuck out from work to the three-level Borders bookstore next to the Krispy Kreme under 7 WTC.
It’s all gone now. My co-workers in the World Financial Center seem to have all escaped. But the towers, the courtyard, the bridge over the West Side Highway (which I insisted was the Joe DiMaggio Highway all summer long) – destroyed in a ruthless, aberrant act. The basement is a tomb; the courtyard is erased; I have nightmares about the day-care center.
While I shook with rage watching the glass fall from the towers on CNN, my first thought was that the Crazy New York Post Woman wasn’t singing yet as the planes hit. I pray that she survived.