She came into my office in 1997, but you could tell by her lines that mine wasn’t the first. She was built like the Brooklyn Bridge, and left no doubt that she was the kind of a desk that remembered phone numbers that started with Mayfair, Lennox, and Bensonhurst. I had picked her up with a little Southern charm and a few of the nickels I had scored writing product sheets for the smokestacks on President’s Island. She made herself at home and stayed 13 years, longer than the dog or the landlord, and then one day it was over. A gem like that never changes, so it must have been me.
I don’t know much in the way of desks, but I do know one thing. She’ll find someone. The kind of someone with an eye for pre-war angles, a taste for industrial steel, no money to spend on a desk, and strong friends with a truck. Maybe that’s you. Hey, we should talk.