Waiting for Inspiration

Samantha knew that the only way she’d ever produce an interesting article about the city for the editor of the newspaper she’d finally gotten an interview with was to force herself to concentrate. To avoid any and all distractions, to keep herself behind her desk for as long as it took to find the strong premise for such an article.

She had been desperate. Not only for the money, but for a start on the career she wanted. After all, that was why she’d enrolled in all those journalism classes after her divorce. The alimony she received just didn’t stretch far enough, though she’d agreed to it thinking she just needed something to tide herself over for a while.

After all, Paul had paid for all those courses she’d taken, and never had complained about how much time those classes and her various volunteer positions (political, tutoring, fundraising) ate up. He’d had dinner alone, then often fell asleep in his recliner watching TV until she finally arrived home.

The divorce had been amiable, just a matter of drifting apart, and Paul wanting more companionship, family life. Oh she wanted children—eventually. She was only thirty two, there was plenty of time.

“Damn it,” she said aloud to barren little room in her new ridiculously tiny apartment that she’d set up so she wouldn’t be distracted. A desk, comfortable office chair, a small coffee maker so no excuse to drift out of the room. She made herself use the bathroom before entering, not bring her cell phone in with her, put up a small still life she’d owned since she was eighteen so nothing to discover there.

She’d even put up heavy curtains to stop her from gazing out the window. And if it were hot, there was a window airconditioner, if cold, two sweater of different weights on a hook she’d put on the far wall. (Ha! Far wall a joke the room, all of 7 X 11, which she’d painted in beige and the carpet was beige as well.)

Now what she had to do, clearly, was shut off her wandering brain—focus, focus, on the computer screen facing her. She remembered that one of the articles she’d read on how to be a productive writer had said to simply put her fingers on the keyboard and type. It was okay the author wrote, “If all you typed was gibberish, the fingers would begin to take over.”

An hour later, looking at the gibberish she’d produced, she left the room. Dejected, she decided she would treat herself to a latte at the corner Starbucks.  

It was surprisingly deserted, at fifteen to ten in the morning, everyone at work she guessed. The Baristas were standing around, chatting. Once one of them broke away and made her drink, she had become curious about their chatting, so she took a table close to them.

They were talking about their college days. Her brain started churning. College days, and working at Starbucks. She listened closely, then one said, “Yeah, who’s hiring philosophy majors. My brother dropped out his first year and now owns a nice house, has a wife, and two kids. And my parents are ashamed to admit he’s a garbage man—well, sanitation worker. I am their pride and joy—the philosopher, magna cum laude from a university, and look where I’m working.”

The group laughed. And the exceptionally pretty girl I’d noticed, proclaimed, “And look at me—the artist. Not smart enough to land a job in a gallery or museum. Or good enough with my oils to sell anything. I even tried hanging a couple of my paintings on the fence in the park, and gee, sold one to a guy who was trying to get me to go out with him for ten bucks.”

The conversation continued a few minutes longer, then one of them said, let’s get ready, it’s almost coffee break time for the techies across the street. A mad rush ensued and I left, knowing I had to lock myself in my “office” again.

And so I repeated the same preparations I’d done earlier. Now fingers on keyboard, I cleared my mind and started letting my fingers take over. After ten minutes, I allowed myself to look down. The first words were gibberish, but then bits of sentences, unfinished clusters of words. But garbage man was in each cluster.

I violated my rules and turned on Google and typed in “garbage man”. Eighteen pages of entries. I looked up what the salary was for garbage man in New York City: The average salary for garbage collectors in New York is around $76450 per year. Salaries typically start from $36330 and go up to $82090.

Moreover they are unionized, have pension plans, and health insurance. But respect. Not really. In fact, lots of jokes about them are easy to find. But playing around some more, I found an article entitled, “Garbage Man – Overlooked and Under Appreciated.” I was fascinated. It began with this paragraph:

 “We spend a lot of time in our society recognizing people for the jobs they do. It is great that we do this. But sometimes, there are those who fall through the cracks. We see a Police Officer, a teacher, a fireman, and of course a soldier and we are quick (and rightfully so) to extend warm greetings, a smile and gesture of thanks. It is the norm now in public to see a senior citizen wearing a military ball cap so we stop and ask about their service and thank them. We see the cop in the restaurant we do the same. Indeed, they are deserving.”

"But the garbage man, no. We ignore him. We don’t stop to think what our cities would be like if they didn’t exist."

My God. I had my story. I would examine the workers we don’t know. From the men who go to the Hunt’s Point Market to fill their carts with the attractive fruits and vegetables, nicer and cheaper than those at the supermarket to the women who clean our offices overnight, to…I didn’t know.

I called the editor after emailing him what I’d written so far and saying I’d call later. A couple of hours later my phone rang and I picked it up without checking whose number showed on caller ID, something I rarely do.

“Hey Samantha, Joel from Huffington News. I like it. Send me a list of the type of person you plan to interview. If it makes sense, I’ll sign you up for a series.”

I took a deep and said, “That’s wonderful. How about the fruit cart men, the office cleaners who work in offices overnight…”

“Yes. Exactly. And don’t forget the workers who stock the shelves overnight. Can you interview some people for each category?”

“Of course,” I said, wondering how to do it. I didn’t know those people. But I did know one. For the first, I could go to my local 24-hour supermarket. I’d shopped at it at two pm a couple of nights ago after I discovering an email from an old college friend saying she’d stop by early the next morning if I was available. Something about a flight delay. I knew she would like cranberry juice and muffins, after all, she’d had them every morning when I'd meet her in the school cafeteria.

 When I got to the market, the cranberry juice was easy, but no muffins? I stopped a man shelving some eggs and asked him if there were any muffins waiting to be put out. He said, he’d check, and I said, hopeful, cranberry. He didn’t return right away, but when he did, he had someone with him.

He introduced me to Carl, who delivered the baked goods for his company. I’d thanked him and explained what I wanted. He said, to my amusement, “Mini, Medium, or large.”

I’d examined the choices available and choose medium. I remembered his smile when I said, “Carl, you are a lifesaver.”

And so, that night, I returned to the market at the same time and stopped to look at the various trucks double-parked outside the market. I was amused to see them, because I'd never noticed them before. I walked along them looking for Carl. When I spotted him, I said, “Carl, could you give me a few minutes of your time?”

“You remembered my name?” he asked.

“Yup. By the way, I’m Samantha Nelson. I’m a reporter, and I want to do a story about the people who keep things running in this city. The unknown and underappreciated workers.”

“Then you also want to interview Boris. I’ll get him.”

I left with two fascinating stories for my first article. Boris, the badly scared Vietnam vet; and Carl, earning the money for college tuition. Boris felt he didn’t have much of a choice other than night work and was grateful to be employed. Carl doing it to find a less invisible future.

The paper bought the story, and signed me on as “The New York Night Columnist.” I was a reporter. But I vowed never to forget the qualm I’d felt when I’d introduced myself as one to Carl. He'd made me visible.