New York City
September 15, 2000

Dear Emily,

When I got the offer for the job I have now, I dimly suspected that the company was operating some sort of high-tech hustle. But this inkling didn’t assume any solid shape in my mind. When friends asked me what I’d be doing, I repeated what I’d been told by my new boss, who didn’t seem to harbor any doubts about the enterprise. When the job started, and it became clear that there was almost no work to do here, I revised my boilerplate answer. When people asked what I did, I told them I was a reporter taking summer vacation in a cubicle.

Summer is over. The other day someone inquired about my job again, so I took a moment to consider everything I’ve observed at this place, and then surmised, “I’m paid to help make a company that doesn’t do much appear otherwise. The people who head the company have secured a large amount of venture capital from investors who are convinced that, in the future, there will be tremendous demand for what we will, by that time, do. Until then, we strike a pose of readiness.”

Our company is “well-positioned,” with “strong partnerships” and key “intellectual property” in a “fertile field.” Management repeatedly claims that very exciting developments are in the works and that a major, major announcement is just around the corner. One nods and smiles. When one is given something to do, one does it. More often, prospective investors and partners are given tours of the place, so it’s best not to be playing video games. Our office has a kitchen, where employees have access to free sodas and snacks. There are two handmade signs in the tiny room, scotch-taped at eye level on opposite walls. One reads, “There is no one here to clean up after you.” The other says, “This refrigerator will be cleaned every Friday.” I notice this almost every time I get a can of seltzer.

Last spring, before I landed this job, I interviewed one of the rappers from a left-wing, militant-black-nationalist group. It was a good interview. We were both well prepared to talk about music and politics. I respectfully challenged some of his stated positions and he defended them. Then he returned my rhetorical fire, no less respectfully. I quoted him saying, “Your legacy has been that of the slavemaster.” He was talking about a poor-people’s uprising, saying I had to choose a side in the battle to come. He stated this without knowing anything about me, personally.

As it was, as of last spring, in order to repudiate the societal privileges this man was referring to I wouldn’t have had to change all that much. The most overlooked advantage of being white and at-least-middle-class in America, I’ve found, is margin of error. A perfect example is my pal Sam. He went to a top Manhattan private school but refused to go to college. He became a bike messenger and pothead instead. Sam probably smoked herb on the streets of New York City every single day of Mayor Giuliani’s reign. Of course he got busted several times. But he was never sent to prison. Sam has drifted far from his home culture. He believes the conspiracy theories bike messengers sometimes discuss over lunchtime joints. And yet, unlike his colleagues, I’d bet Sam could bluff his way into Columbia next semester if he tried.

I took a bunch of freelance assignments over the summer. One of them led to my leaving work early yesterday. It was a story about a crew of rappers from Newark who opened an ice cream parlor in their neighborhood. The group’s publicist insisted on being present when I visited the shop. But she didn’t want to be in her clients’ neighborhood after dark, or even at dusk. (The publicity firm she works for is one of many in New York staffed by grown-up high-school-cheerleader types.) So I went A.W.O.L. from the office. I took the train to Newark – home of Funkadelic and of Redman – and a cab to the ice cream parlor. It’s in a part of the Newark/Irvington ghetto where the boarded-up buildings are low and grass grows high and thick in the vacant lots. Compared to the Bronx it’s downright country. The only other businesses near the rappers’ new one were a bar and a fried chicken place. The latter was obviously the regional gathering spot for unemployed men and freelancers.

Children and old people were assembled at the ice cream parlor, watching the musician-entrepreneurs get their picture taken. The photo will appear in Sunday’s newspaper along with my story. It will be an upbeat and hopeful tale, with quotes about doing something for the kids and flavors named after hip-hop stars and investing in the community and local boys made good. I’ve followed these guys’ career so far and think they have a lot of potential. I thought so even before one of their better MCs was shot and killed, and since then they’ve worked even harder. Yesterday we talked only of ice cream and urban revitalization. The photographer, the cheerleader, the b-boys and I stood on the corner near the shop and shot the afternoon breeze. We had green, white and pink ice cream cones to lick. The same summer sun that was so oppressive a couple of weeks ago felt good right then, because the wind carried that first hint of autumn’s bite. There was high grass and broken bottles all around.

Before long the cheerleader’s hired car showed up, and she offered me a ride back to Manhattan. I accepted and made it to the office before quitting time. I grabbed myself a seltzer and checked my email for something to reply to.

–Adam