Strangers in our office leaning against cubicle walls, spitting into walkie-talkies: "Pedro's coming with a truck. Yeah. We'll need about twenty-five dollies and ten carts. Yeah."
The 9th floor halls of 261 Madison Avenue are lined with red dollies and cardboard boxes. Large, iron dumpsters overflowing with magazines, manilla folders, and 3-ring binders are parked into every corner.
IN New York magazine is moving out. Soon, the floor will belong to only us. For awhile — until
we move, and the others come — it will be quieter than usual.
