Just Cured - Experience Fine Foods

“Tell him you will call him back in an hour,” I told the young colleague as I gestured for her to terminate the call. She was into hour four of a call with her counterpart at <insert mega New York firm here> discussing the placement of qualifiers, commas and cross references in a set of disclosure schedules for the deal that was closing in 33 or so hours. It was 11 pm on day 5 of 7 that started at dawn and ended sometime after 3 am, and our flight to the closing location was leaving in 9 hours. Plenty of time for the two of them to negotiate the commas to my satisfaction.

I, however, was hungry. I hadn’t really eaten since dinner late the night before. And the latest open kitchen in downtown would close in 30 or so minutes.

“We are driving, right?” she asked.

“Three and a half blocks on a beautiful late spring evening? No, of course, we are walking.”

“But it is dark and dangerous and there are scary people on the streets,” she complained.

I told her she could walk or not eat. Reluctantly, she agreed to walk.

We passed nary a soul, scary or otherwise, on our walk to dinner. An hour later, hunger sated with really good burgers and fries, we left the hotel bar for the office. As we turned out of the hotel entrance, she yelped and began swiveling her head this way and that. “That drug addict behind us is going to mug us for his next fix,” she whispered urgently.

At the first corner, the “druggie” turned left as we continued across the street. I offered that I recognized the man, that his name was James, and that he managed the stationery store in the arcade nearby. In fact, I had his business card in my pocket. She protested that he was scary (meaning young, black and not like her) and was babbling incoherently. What he was doing was singing to himself.

We walked the next two blocks without incident. As we made the turn south, I stopped her from crossing the street and explained that she would be more comfortable on this side of the street and I wanted to show her something. In the middle of that block is a major bus stop for lines to the city’s less fashionable neighborhoods. The sidewalk was crowded, as it always was that time of night.

I directed her attention across the street and asked what was so frightening to her about those people waiting for the bus. “They aren’t like us and are looking for trouble,” was her reply.

“And that’s where you are so wrong,” I responded, disappointed and intent on making our walk a lesson. “I recognize a quarter of those people, not by name but by face; and they are

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like us. They are working hard to support their families, many working two jobs. They have no interest in hassling you; their thoughts are consumed with getting home and kissing their sleeping babies on the forehead, with getting a few hours sleep before getting their kids off to school or themselves off to their other jobs. They are the dishwashers at the restaurants you dine in; the doormen, bell men and housekeepers at the hotels our clients stay in; and the cleaning crews of the high rise office buildings we work in. They may be invisible to you as you go through your day; but they are, just like us, working hard to get ahead or get by.”

This little lesson took place several years ago. I find that I am reminding myself of it often, however, as I frequent my new work neighborhood. One where it is more difficult to remember my lesson. Where the passers-by often are dealers or addicts. Where the woman talking to herself hears the demons talking back. Where the response I overhear to “where ya been” is frequently “a stretch in the county jail.”

Remember, Michael, I repeat, we are all just doing the best we can, as best we know how.