Glad she's on my side.
Ran out last night just before midnight to pick up a set of cards that MB was having printed for a project she's working on. The printer was in an old building in the 20's between 5th and 6th. Lots of people standing in line for clubs on that block, mixed in with lots of people still working really hard jobs. The printers were on the 6th floor, and as soon as the elevator doors opened I was knocked back by the smell. Toxic. I would have left immediately, but no one else seemed to notice, and since I was accompanying my girlfriend (ha!) I figured I probably shouldn't turn tail quite so fast. But seriously, the smell of ink was way past the danger level. Like somebody had shoved one of those old fat markers they don't even sell any more right up your nose. No escape. I could feel the brain cells popping with each breath.
Anyway, MB is standing at the window talking to some 16 year old latino girl who is in no hurry to do anything. I'm pacing back and forth trying to find a spot in the room where maybe the smell is not so strong. Perhaps the air currents had conspired to make a little pocket of freshness somewhere. Except there wasn't any air moving of course, and the toxic cloud just hung there, thick, over all of us.
So eventually the girl gets it sorted out and we are directed down the hall and into the actual printing room. All latino workers, big loud presses, cutters, scraps of paper all over the floor, pallettes of flyers blocking all the walkways. Guys are standing over these huge pools of ink, just inhaling the stuff. Seems like you would be dead within a few years. If you could last that long. Anyway, it's so loud that it's hard to communicate with anyone, but eventually MB gets the message through and is handed a big block of cards neatly wrapped in brown paper.
"This is wrong" she says immediately to the guy. He's like "what are you talking about?" but in that way where you know he doesn't actually know anything about the job or the way it was supposed to be, he just wants you to take your stuff and get out of there because, you know, they've got a lot of printing to do, and it's loud and frantic, and probably they're way behind schedule, and this tall pretty (very white) blonde girl in a furry jacket that Elton John would be proud to wear is telling him that the job is wrong. But before he can say anything else MB cuts him off and starts spouting a run on sentence of jargon that would make any computer geek blush. I can't remember what she said, but I saw his body posture change in the space of 10 seconds from "look lady [or worse] take your shit and don't give me any trouble" to "Oh my god let me get someone who knows what they're doing to talk to this woman and hope I get to keep my job." And then things started to get good. Somebody in charge comes over, and I can see MB really knows how to deal with this stuff. He's a tough guy (everybody in the room except for me is a tough guy,) but he can't really assume that role with her. She doesn't wait for him to assess the situation, or offer any thoughts, she just informs him that the job is wrong (again with some long sentence of which I catch only the small connector words: "the...it is...if...so...and...and...and this...",) and then doesn't ask, but just tells him what they have to do. "You give me 200 cards now to get me through the weekend, and then I'll come back on Monday and pick up the correct run." The guy just nods his head. There's nothing he can say. She's obviously right. Not because of her argument (or maybe, but I couldn't understand it) but just because there is obviously no doubt in her mind, or voice, or posture, that she is right. And standing in this toxic, testosterone laden environment, wearing her pajamas underneath that crazy jacket somehow adds to her credibility. He cracks open the package of incorrect cards, hands her a big stack (more than she asked for I think,) and nods his head gravely, like "Yeah, somebody fucked up, come back on Monday and I'll have it done right." I guess that's how you do stuff in New York. I think I'll see if she'll go pick up my monitor for me.
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Ran out last night just before midnight to pick up a set of cards that MB was having printed for a project she's working on. The printer was in an old building in the 20's between 5th and 6th. Lots of people standing in line for clubs on that block, mixed in with lots of people still working really hard jobs. The printers were on the 6th floor, and as soon as the elevator doors opened I was knocked back by the smell. Toxic. I would have left immediately, but no one else seemed to notice, and since I was accompanying my girlfriend (ha!) I figured I probably shouldn't turn tail quite so fast. But seriously, the smell of ink was way past the danger level. Like somebody had shoved one of those old fat markers they don't even sell any more right up your nose. No escape. I could feel the brain cells popping with each breath.
Anyway, MB is standing at the window talking to some 16 year old latino girl who is in no hurry to do anything. I'm pacing back and forth trying to find a spot in the room where maybe the smell is not so strong. Perhaps the air currents had conspired to make a little pocket of freshness somewhere. Except there wasn't any air moving of course, and the toxic cloud just hung there, thick, over all of us.
So eventually the girl gets it sorted out and we are directed down the hall and into the actual printing room. All latino workers, big loud presses, cutters, scraps of paper all over the floor, pallettes of flyers blocking all the walkways. Guys are standing over these huge pools of ink, just inhaling the stuff. Seems like you would be dead within a few years. If you could last that long. Anyway, it's so loud that it's hard to communicate with anyone, but eventually MB gets the message through and is handed a big block of cards neatly wrapped in brown paper.
"This is wrong" she says immediately to the guy. He's like "what are you talking about?" but in that way where you know he doesn't actually know anything about the job or the way it was supposed to be, he just wants you to take your stuff and get out of there because, you know, they've got a lot of printing to do, and it's loud and frantic, and probably they're way behind schedule, and this tall pretty (very white) blonde girl in a furry jacket that Elton John would be proud to wear is telling him that the job is wrong. But before he can say anything else MB cuts him off and starts spouting a run on sentence of jargon that would make any computer geek blush. I can't remember what she said, but I saw his body posture change in the space of 10 seconds from "look lady [or worse] take your shit and don't give me any trouble" to "Oh my god let me get someone who knows what they're doing to talk to this woman and hope I get to keep my job." And then things started to get good. Somebody in charge comes over, and I can see MB really knows how to deal with this stuff. He's a tough guy (everybody in the room except for me is a tough guy,) but he can't really assume that role with her. She doesn't wait for him to assess the situation, or offer any thoughts, she just informs him that the job is wrong (again with some long sentence of which I catch only the small connector words: "the...it is...if...so...and...and...and this...",) and then doesn't ask, but just tells him what they have to do. "You give me 200 cards now to get me through the weekend, and then I'll come back on Monday and pick up the correct run." The guy just nods his head. There's nothing he can say. She's obviously right. Not because of her argument (or maybe, but I couldn't understand it) but just because there is obviously no doubt in her mind, or voice, or posture, that she is right. And standing in this toxic, testosterone laden environment, wearing her pajamas underneath that crazy jacket somehow adds to her credibility. He cracks open the package of incorrect cards, hands her a big stack (more than she asked for I think,) and nods his head gravely, like "Yeah, somebody fucked up, come back on Monday and I'll have it done right." I guess that's how you do stuff in New York. I think I'll see if she'll go pick up my monitor for me.
- jim 2-10-2001 4:25 pm