A Question of Time

First Sentence

At seven in the morning, when I should have been-could have been at my polished mahogany desk, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, another cup steaming a mix of organic hot cocoa and coffee, air conditioner humming from behind, silver Cross pencil poised over a stack of underwriting agreements, letters of credit and draft registration statements-at that ever-familiar, ungodly hour, when my law firm in ordinal time summons infantry to the battlefield of corporate life, I pressed through the throng, elbowed elderly nuns, teenagers and mothers with strollers, all crowding the Port Authority escalator, and ran down the terminal-unshaven, unwashed and weighted down by a blue, canvas backpack, which I last had worn on a wild, drunken trek through Europe on graduating from college.

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