“I’m a Very Powerful Man, Wendy, What Can I Do for You?”
This isn’t a #metoo story. He genuinely meant it.
We were at Angelo and Maxie’s, a steakhouse on Park Avenue in Manhattan. The year was 2003. I was twenty one years old. He was easily triple my age. I was waiting to eat dinner at the restaurant with him and the two men who, presumably, worked for him. They had been on their way to the restaurant when I met them because he was buying the the restaurant chain and they were about to close on the sale.
I’d been wandering around near Wall Street when I met them, looking for a subway station. I was dressed up in an ivory blazer and brown leather skirt because I was traipsing across the city dropping my resume off at every hotel I could find in hopes of getting a summer job at the front desk — despite having virtually no prior hotel industry experience. I was spending the summer with my dad’s ex-girlfriend in New York City. Yes, it was somewhat awkward to explain to him that I’d rather spend the summer with his ex IN the city than with him out in Jersey, but she and I had always gotten along well and it was too good of a opportunity to pass up. Thanks to her, I had a place to stay for the summer on the Upper West Side, but had no idea what exactly I would do to be productive. Since my boyfriend was in the hotel industry, I figured that was as good…
