AARP Hearing Center
In 1969, during my summer break from college, I worked in Manhattan for a temp agency. As a Kelly Girl, I went on short-term gigs, but by July, I had a steady job as a receptionist at a prestigious Madison Avenue law firm. I sat behind a massive mahogany desk, greeted employees and clients with my best 100-watt smile and answered the firm’s telephones with a cheerful voice.
I wasn’t as happy as I seemed. In fact, I was bored out of my mind. So when one of the partners, whom I’ll call Paul, asked whether I might like to join him for dinner at the 21 Club, I didn’t skip a beat. Paul was a powerful enough figure in New York’s political scene to socialize with Governor Nelson Rockefeller. And Paul had his own limo and driver.
“Sure,” I said, flashing my best receptionist’s smile. Born and raised in working-class Queens, I’d heard about the midtown restaurant where celebrities and power brokers dined, but I never thought I’d walk through the door, escorted by a power broker who seemed to see something in me.
It’s not as if Paul’s invitation had come out of the blue. I considered this guy — with his big belly and bald pate — to be a fatherly figure, maybe even a mentor. Sometimes he lingered by my desk showing off wallet pictures of his kids, including a daughter who, like me, was 19, or talking (without naming names) about a legal case. I was flattered to be treated as a confidante. After all, I was only the receptionist.
“When?” I asked him.
“How about tonight?” he said. “I’ll pick you up downstairs in front of the building.”
I made a quick call to my boyfriend. “Order something really pricey,” I remember he suggested. We had a good laugh. My mind drifted to a juicy steak.
At the end of the day, Paul met me in front of the building and ushered me into his limousine. In those days, there was no plexiglass divider between driver and passenger, and I can still recall the banter. He introduced me to his chauffeur, Joe. “This is one terrific gal,” he said. “Really on the ball.”
We pulled up in front of the 21 Club and I eyed the iconic iron jockeys standing sentry. I felt lucky to be there. But that’s all I remember about the restaurant. I have no recollection of its interior, what we talked about or the food we ate. I don’t even remember whether I ordered a drink, but if I did, it would have been one glass of wine. But there’s one memory that has haunted me for nearly five decades.
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