As he rode, his calves burned; he had to get used to biking again – no more cabs. In any case, it was also the best way to see the city. As the cold air filled his lungs, he was again struck by how free he felt, how in sync with everything.
He manoeuvred his way through the busy streets, avoiding collisions with cabs and other bikers, and as he passed The Metropolitan Museum of Art, he felt a pang of guilt. Usually he gave a big donation every year; now, with this new career change, he wouldn't be able to.
He took out his camera and took a few quick shots of the steps. It was cold so there were relatively few people hanging out on them. In the summer, Greg loved to walk on the other side of the street and watch the tourist and art students piling in and out of the doors. He glanced up at the banner – advertising the highlight of a forthcoming gala evening in February. Greg stopped in his tracks. The gala …
As a patron of the museum he was always given two tickets, and Karen adored such events. Well, she was bound to be a little disappointed about missing it this time, but what was a fancy dinner compared to a lifelong dream?
Greg continued whistling a little under his breath.
He reached theNYTbuilding about half an hour later, chained his bike, and went inside. Rob was a writer for the travel section of the paper, and he and Greg had met when they were both attending Columbia. Jeff was the nearest thing Greg had to a brother and, no matter what was happening, they had always managed to stay in touch all these years. He gave his name at the reception desk and was motioned through metal detectors to the elevator bank.
Getting out of the elevator, he admired the office. It was a totally open space with no walls or cubicles. People worked side by side on long, deep desks while perched on rolling chairs. There were coffee and snack areas with fresh fruit in each of the four corners of the room. Multiple flat-screen TVs were scattered about, some on, some not. When Greg had first seen Rob’s office, he’d queried as to how he could work amongst such commotion, and his friend had taken him to one corner of the office and sat him down at one of the long desks. It was calm and quiet, the huge ceiling and expanse of the room basically sucked the noise up and out.
‘Pretty cool,’ Greg had said, thinking of his own depressing cubicle on Vesey Street. He’d always felt faintly jealous of Rob, who’d pursued his dream of writing, while Greg had followed in his father’s footsteps and gone into trading because he wasn't sure what he wanted to do, wasn't confident enough of making a living as a photographer. But now things had changed. He scanned the room looking for his friend and saw Rob waving at him from one of the rolling chairs.
When Greg reached his friend’s desk, he saw the naked surprise on Rob’s face. ‘How come you’re out and about in the land of the living?’
Greg shrugged modestly. ‘I did it,’ he said.
‘Did what?’
‘Quit. My J-O-B.’ Greg spelled out slowly.
. ‘So you’re finally gonna give the photography a proper shot?’ Rob chuckled. ‘Excuse the pun.’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘That's amazing, man, and about time too.’ Then Greg noticed his friend was looking distractedly past him to someone who had just come off the elevator.
‘Hey,’ Rob called out waving. ‘Hey Billy, over here!’
Greg stood up. ‘Look man, if you're busy we can always hook up later … ’ He felt confused and somewhat hurt by his friend’s reaction.
‘Just hold on a second.’
A short man with a square head and body lumbered over to them, a huge folder balanced on his hands.
‘Billy,’ Rob began. ‘I want you to meet Greg Matthews – remember I told you about him? He’s a good friend of mine, a photographer … been documenting the city since … ’ He glanced questioningly at Greg who felt oddly proud about being introduced as a photographer.
‘Since I was about ten,’ Greg replied, sticking out his hand.
‘This is Billy Harrington, he's one of our photo editors here at the paper.’ Rob grinned at Greg's look of surprise.
Billy tried to manoeuvre the folder he was holding so he could shake Greg’s hand but gave up. Both men laughed. ‘Yeah, Rob talked about you before, said you were really good,’ Billy said. ‘Have him give you my number, and I'll take a look at your portfolio.’
Greg was stunned. ‘That would be … great, thanks … ’
Billy scurried away and Greg looked gratefully at Rob. ‘Wow, thanks man, I really, really appreciate that.’
‘Hey,’ Rob held his hands up. ‘It's just an introduction, you gotta bring the gold, OK? Get some of that stuff together you did with the Flatiron, and maybe some of those neighbourhood pieces you were talking about, and I reckon he might offer you at least a trial contract position.’ He shrugged. ‘Pay’s not great but … ’
‘That would be incredible,’ Greg said, hardly able to believe his luck. Never mind the pay, the experience would be invaluable. TheNew York Times!
‘Well, let’s meet up for a beer or two soon and we can talk some more about it – it’s already been too long.’ He glanced at his computer screen. ‘Wish I could talk more now but I’m kind of on a deadline.’
‘No problem, I'll get out of your hair – or at least what's left of it,’ he joked to his friend.
As Greg made his way back to the elevator, he turned around to take a look at the office one more time. He couldn't believe this opportunity. Granted, as a contractor, and a trial one at that, he'd be making very little money, but it would still be worth it. Being in charge of his own schedule, being creative. He felt like jumping in the air and doing a fist pump.
