In Part I, I wrote about why I wanted to move to New York City…but since you’re not getting quizzed on what I wrote, I’ll quickly refresh your memory: lonely, shy, bored Los Angeles girl who watched too much TV seeks excitement in the big city. Today I am going to delve into what happened once I finally got there! Fasten your Big Apple seat belts!
My first day as a wannabe New Yorker was perfect in every way, but not in the way you might think. It was June 1983; warm and muggy. Once off the airplane at JFK I scrambled with the other passengers to get on a bus that would take me to Manhattan. It felt like I was caught in the Tasmanian Devil’s path from a Looney Tunes’ cartoon. The personal space I was accustomed to in California was already a distant memory. People were pushing and shoving and I heard someone yell out “Fuck!” The word resonated in the air like the ultimate punctuation point completing the thought “Welcome to New York City!”
Driving over the 59th Street Bridge I took in the wide angle skyline with it’s “canyons of steel” with every cell of my body. My eyes — and heart — could not take it all in at once. Crossing that bridge was my own personal Mayflower voyage to a new land, a new beginning. Land-ho!
Simon and Garfunkel even wrote a cute song about the famous bridge:
That first day I felt at once small as a flea and yet larger than life. Some events of that day included a bird pooping on my new, flowery cotton dress, witnessing a fist fight in Central Park during the Puerto Rican day parade and eating my first slice of NY pizza from a nondescript hole-in-the-wall pizza place — thin, with each bite crispy and cheesy. That’s what I meant by a perfect first day — poop, pugnacity and pizza. I was living the dream!
As I mentioned in Part I, my boyfriend had family that lived on the West Side of town. His parents were divorced and each had an apartment back in the day when it was actually affordable to live in the city. We stayed with his father at first, whose apartment was at 165 West End Avenue, complete with a view of the Hudson River. Apartment 9B. Only a few blocks from the iconic Lincoln Center.
Those first few weeks I had culture shock and sore feet. Seeing a busy New York street with throngs of people in a hurry on television is very different than actually being a part of the pushing and shoving masses. I was 23 years old, so I learned quickly to dodge taxis (flight or fight?), bolt across streets regardless of whether or not the light was red or green, and walk 30 blocks without so much as a blink of an eye.
My first purchase was a navy blue suit (skirt and jacket) with a silk, cream colored blouse, navy blue pumps and a slim, black briefcase (to hold my lackluster resumè, what else?). I got my first credit card from Macy’s and charged the entire austere ensemble. As a child of the Feminist ’70s, I had been forced fed on Glamour Magazine articles about career women finding themselves and figured that was the required wardrobe to land the job. Since I had been an English major, I had set my sights on a job in publishing.
I literally “pounded the pavement” for two weeks. Walking, walking, walking…dropping off my resumè and even scoring a few interviews. I was exhausted at the end of every day, but still hopeful. Finally, a lead from an employment agency sent me on an interview with an Account Executive for DuPont at a large advertising agency, NW Ayer. The company had more glamorous accounts such as DeBeers Diamonds, 7-Up and the Army. The famous “Be All You Can Be” slogan came out of NW Ayer. DuPont was an industrial account and very well, unexciting: Corian, Tyvek, Mylar, Teflon…yeah, diamonds eat your brilliant hearts out!
The interviewer (his name was Dave Clark!) asked me a few questions about my interests and what brought me to NY. His office, though not very big, was on the 42nd floor and faced Avenue of the Americas, otherwise known as Sixth Avenue. Stacks of papers were piled everywhere. He was unassuming, kind and direct. He wore a white shirt, tie and gray pants. His hair was slicked back.
Later that day, Mr. Clark called me and offered me the job! I would start as a “Group Assistant” for the unhefty sum of $200 a week. I was an assistant to account executives, creative writers and artists for DuPont and The Army. Group Assistants, all young college grads with hopes and dreams for days, were glorified gophers who made coffee and procured pastries for meetings, answered phones and typed memos. Before email, FedEx was an assistant’s best friend. All the assistants faced each other in the hallway — we didn’t have our own cubicles…or a view.
After only two weeks I was employed in New York City, making very little money, with no apartment of my own yet, one credit card and very sore feet. Who wouldn’t be thrilled?!!! I certainly was!
Stay tuned for Part III…
Cheryl Thatt-Burbank 