This afternoon, on Sixth Avenue, a young solicitor stepped in front of me, and tried to stop me, and — with a straight face and without missing a beat as I kept walking — he said to me, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Beyonce?”
I started working at The Village Voice while I was still in college. I scheduled all of my classes on two days of the week so that I could work three full days in the office. Don Forst was my first real boss. And I was young, and sometimes he would call my mother to check in and to tell her that I was okay. It seems silly now, but I think he did it because he really cared. I stayed there for more than five years. I’m not even old enough now to talk about “the good old days,” but we really had it good. I resigned shortly after Don announced that he was leaving (right after the paper was sold, right after I had to watch so many friends get fired, and right after I had to listen to lists of which friends would be fired next). It wasn’t directly related, but it was time for me to go. I typed his resignation letter for him, and that was one of the saddest work tasks I’ve ever done. There’s a memorial service for Don today. And I can’t even imagine how that’s going to go. But I’m pretty sure that I’ll never be so charmed if a boss calls my mother ever again.