Tony is not available when I walk into City Hall, so I peek through the long, rectangular window into the door of his office. My first thoughts are something like, “he has been here for a long, long time.” The office is cluttered; the walls are filled with zany light up posters, hard hats, and antique looking plaques. On the far wall sits a tan slip covered sofa accented by needlepoint pillow of a loon. The windows sport long sheer curtains. When we had spoken on the phone, I imagined him as an overweight man with a bristly mustache that twitched when he said words like “business,” “investment,” or “clam chowder.” I think to myself, “I’ll know who he is before he even opens his mouth.”
A few moments later, I hear a gruff, disembodied voice. It says, “Some young lady’s here to see me. Eh? No. It doesn’t matter.” Then silence. Tony lumbers around the corner and grimaces. He is pushing an unspoken snow-white haired woman who sits demurely, hands folded in her lap. Neither look at me, seated outside Tony’s office, when he says to nobody in particular, “I’ll be right with you.” He deposits the woman in his office, moves his enormous body out the door and says something about “upstairs.” I follow his wide, circular frame down the corridor, watching his leather shoes squish and squeak with each step. Tony still has not looked me in the eye, and by this point, I am feeling terribly intrusive, a little skeptical, dismissed, but ultimately amused. I bit my tongue at the “squish, squish, squish,” of his feet.
In the elevator, Tony asks me who led me back into the office. Who instructed me to be there? Denise, his secretary, was not in. I replied, “the blonde, curly-haired woman,” and he scowled a bit. His face was very large like an overripe fruit. A second chin wobbled at his neck. Above his upper lip, his skin was wet with perspiration, and his eyebrows were like two bristly gray and black caterpillars, shriveled and drying out on the pavement of his brow.
“That’s why I’m so perturbed, I’ll have you know,” he added. “That there was nobody in the office. Of course, that’s not your fault; it’s my department.” He led me into a conference room on the second floor and gestured to one of many rolling desk chairs. “Have a seat,” he began, a hint of kindness in his voice.
I began my usual speech: I am a college student, I am writing my thesis, I am interested in the sociology of economics, but Tony cut me off. I hadn’t even had the chance to unwrap my tape recorder from the handkerchief in my purse. “I’ll tell you what annoys me with all these students and their projects about Bethlehem Steel,” began Tony. “It’s too broad. All the questions are enormous.”
I sat in my chair, knees curled up to my chest, and smiled. Tony was leaning heavily onto the table, his fat fingers restless, his pinky nail a little moldy and yellow. He wore a navy blue suit with gold buttons atop a white cotton shirt sporting an indeterminate stitched logo. I recalculated and began to throw out words such as “neoliberalism,” “occult economy,” and “service culture.” Tony smiled a frighteningly horizontal smile, very thin with the possibility of snaking around his entire grapefruit-like head. “Like an absurd South Park villain,” I thought. He talked extensively, crinkling his eyes and flashing his devilish smile throughout the duration of our forty-minute interview. I barely spoke, but Tony allowed himself to indulge the apparent pleasures he found in his own voice.
(Quotes forthcoming.)
A few moments later, I hear a gruff, disembodied voice. It says, “Some young lady’s here to see me. Eh? No. It doesn’t matter.” Then silence. Tony lumbers around the corner and grimaces. He is pushing an unspoken snow-white haired woman who sits demurely, hands folded in her lap. Neither look at me, seated outside Tony’s office, when he says to nobody in particular, “I’ll be right with you.” He deposits the woman in his office, moves his enormous body out the door and says something about “upstairs.” I follow his wide, circular frame down the corridor, watching his leather shoes squish and squeak with each step. Tony still has not looked me in the eye, and by this point, I am feeling terribly intrusive, a little skeptical, dismissed, but ultimately amused. I bit my tongue at the “squish, squish, squish,” of his feet.
In the elevator, Tony asks me who led me back into the office. Who instructed me to be there? Denise, his secretary, was not in. I replied, “the blonde, curly-haired woman,” and he scowled a bit. His face was very large like an overripe fruit. A second chin wobbled at his neck. Above his upper lip, his skin was wet with perspiration, and his eyebrows were like two bristly gray and black caterpillars, shriveled and drying out on the pavement of his brow.
“That’s why I’m so perturbed, I’ll have you know,” he added. “That there was nobody in the office. Of course, that’s not your fault; it’s my department.” He led me into a conference room on the second floor and gestured to one of many rolling desk chairs. “Have a seat,” he began, a hint of kindness in his voice.
I began my usual speech: I am a college student, I am writing my thesis, I am interested in the sociology of economics, but Tony cut me off. I hadn’t even had the chance to unwrap my tape recorder from the handkerchief in my purse. “I’ll tell you what annoys me with all these students and their projects about Bethlehem Steel,” began Tony. “It’s too broad. All the questions are enormous.”
I sat in my chair, knees curled up to my chest, and smiled. Tony was leaning heavily onto the table, his fat fingers restless, his pinky nail a little moldy and yellow. He wore a navy blue suit with gold buttons atop a white cotton shirt sporting an indeterminate stitched logo. I recalculated and began to throw out words such as “neoliberalism,” “occult economy,” and “service culture.” Tony smiled a frighteningly horizontal smile, very thin with the possibility of snaking around his entire grapefruit-like head. “Like an absurd South Park villain,” I thought. He talked extensively, crinkling his eyes and flashing his devilish smile throughout the duration of our forty-minute interview. I barely spoke, but Tony allowed himself to indulge the apparent pleasures he found in his own voice.
(Quotes forthcoming.)
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