A Day Near the Office

Maybe he was traveling. Perhaps he had a luncheon engagement. Or he was just not feeling well. Whatever the reason, Lester didn’t show up for lunch at his usual time. We didn’t have a lunch date. Indeed, Lester had no way of knowing I would be waiting for him today.

I met Lester about three years ago. By coincidence, we shared a table in the atrium of the Citicorp Building after getting food from the hot and cold buffet of Cucina Gourmet. Retirements had whittled down my lunch-buddy list at work, so I’d often find myself eating alone. Until I met Lester, as affable a chap as you would likely meet anywhere.

Lester is in his 80’s, and always seems to be in conversation with whomever he sits with. That fateful day our trays found their respective ways to a common table. He is by no means the male version of a “bag lady.” A former retailer of home furnishings, I found his reflections on the industry entertaining. We also shared an interest in travel, old movies and history. His observations on events he lived through in the 1940s and 1950s were illuminating.

We’d meet once or perhaps twice a week, but since my retirement last June I had not seen Lester. I was in Manhattan today for a visit with my cardiologist (nothing wrong, thank you) and had hoped to stop by my old office but was told the staff was at meetings all day and could not entertain any guests. They weren’t even answering their phones. That troubled me, for the specter of more layoffs hangs over the entire publishing industry. The communications problem persisted throughout the day, but my short term anxiety turned to Lester. Where was he? In my current state of mind the ultimate reason found its way into my consciousness.

I dawdled over lunch. Noon turned into 12:30; 12:30 shifted into 1; 1:30 came and still no Lester. I was about to give up when he showed up, looking no worse for the 11 months since our last meeting. I did not tell him of my anxiety. We talked about retirement (he cautioned I might get bored after a year or so, unless I had hobbies like golf, which I don’t). We talked about a biography of Madame Chiang Kai-Shek he’s reading and the despicable way the Nationalist leaders of China treated their countrymen. We compared notes on the immigration law controversy in Arizona. All in all, a satisfying lunch with stimulating conversation, cut short half an hour after it began by my need to get to my next appointment.


Lunch Time: Since I retired my lunch more often than not is a can of soup. That might explain why I haven’t gained weight, especially when compared to what I normally ate. Today’s buffet lunch was typical of my former eating habits—several small pieces of Teriyaki turkey, a portion of chicken Francese, beets and carrots, and some pasta. And, please don’t tell Gilda, a slice of pound cake (only because I had finished my meal by the time Lester came and I had to have something to eat while he dined. I also was in a mood to celebrate my good blood work report).

I was such a regular at Cucina Gourmet that the cashier recognized me and welcomed me back.

Perhaps they succumbed to the economy, or maybe bad management, or maybe lack of interest, but in the near year that I have been away from the Citicorp food court, two kosher delis closed. On the other hand, two new sandwich shops opened.

I washed my hands in the Citicorp public restroom. That is, I wet my hands there, for despite four soap dispensers not one drop of soap dripped out of any spigot. It’s laughable to see the sign, “Employees must wash their hands before returning to work,” when Citicorp does not provide any soap.


Ink Spots: These days when I read the NY Times it is either on my BlackBerry, my computer or from the newspaper itself lying on the kitchen counter. Today I read it the old fashioned way, on the train into and out of Manhattan and became a victim once more of the Times’ nefarious plot to not only publish “all the news that’s fit to print” but to print it in such a manner that is leaves an almost indelible black mark on your fingers.

There have been periods when I disdained reading the Times because my blackened fingers embarrassed me. I even wrote the Times a letter some 15 years ago. They responded they’re no worse than other papers and they’re trying to resolve the problem. Apparently without success.


Nap Time: Metro North retained its comforting position as a favorite napping environment.

I’m indebted to my friend Kevin Coupe of the retail blog MorningNewsBeat.com for the following update on napping. I could not have expressed these sentiments any better:

"The BBC reports (in April) that a new Harvard Medical School study suggests that if a person naps after learning something, it actually makes it easier to commit to to memory. The study results reveal that while people are asleep, their brains tend to work on making connections and processing links relevant to the information they’ve just learned.

I love this study.

Though, as an inveterate napper, I keep thinking that I should be a lot smarter than I am."