04.09.24

I sit in Madison Square Park for the first time in a long time. A visit to my old office this afternoon has me meandering around the shadows of my life almost five years ago.

My old boss texted me when I got laid off two months ago that I should come visit, and we finally made it happen today. I took a different train than I used to, even though I do still live on the line I used to commute on to get there every day from my old apartment. The last time I was in this office was in 2020, in the Fall — I was starting a new job soon (the one, in fact, that recently laid me off) and needed to go retrieve my pre-Covid desk wares. My life looked very different then.

I walk into the building I once sat in from 9am-6pm every day. The elevators have been digitized, called with an iPad and without buttons on the inside. They don’t have a receptionist to let me in anymore, so some assistants coming back from lunch let me in.

I walk toward where I used to sit — hallways I frequented when I was twenty-three and underdressed — and dole out hugs. I remind the Big Boss of my name as he passes by and catch up with all my former cohorts, who are as kind and warm as ever.

After an hour and a half, they wish me well and I get out of their hair, stepping back out onto Seventh Avenue on the first truly warm day of April. I used to wander around this area on my lunch hour, trying to get some steps and fresh air to break up my office doldrums. Despite how badly I want it, it’s almost hard for me to imagine going into an office every day like I did then. All of the buildings I once moseyed by look like relics of a bygone era of my life — plant stores and pharmacies and the McDonald’s that never had a line. I had no money, I was more fragile, I was more optimistic. I remember when clear blue skies over the Flatiron Building made me think of how there are people who dream of even visiting this place where I live. But they still do.