I was just thinking a few moments ago (it is now almost 9:20 am) that I could not remember exactly where was the building where I worked as a messenger for many months in 1976. It was somewhere south of Pennsylvania Avenue and west of the White House, if I can remember anything accurately. I believe I used to walk to work, from our little attic place up on the corner of 17th and New Hampshire. Down New Hampshire Avenue toward foggy bottom, again, if I remember anything correctly, but I do not remember very much at all – what I remember is working, driving that little white car around DC and the suburbs, picking up and carrying messages and sometimes whole boxes of paper, yes.
And then, much more vaguely, I remember coming back to the office. That was routine, unremarkable, and forgettable. What I do remember is more extraordinary events that took place while I was out in the field, driving, or running in and out of buildings. How people used to sniff at me in elevators, and I would assume they thought themselves so much more high class than I, or at least better smelling. They were perfumed and I was stinky and sweaty from running around and picking up boxes.