Chapter 5 – Quinn's Story
158 West 75th Street
Lobby of the Steadman Building
Friday, July 26th, 1985
1320 Local/1720 Zulu
Quinn Morgendorffer had seen a lot in her 24 years…or at least she thought she had. She'd never seen a major city in the throes of panic. New York City was in a collective nervous breakdown. As she waited on a cab to get her back to her apartment in Stuyversant Town, she took a breath and took it all in and wondered at a city in the grips of panic. A dusky skinned man ran by, a dark bag in his hands, he missed Quinn by inches and shouted out "Sorry miss!" as two cops in NYPD two tone blue were in hot pursuit, screaming "HALT! STOP! STOP OR WE SHOOT!" That last part jarred Quinn to the core. When did they start shooting robbery suspects?
Even at street level, she heard the sirens and smelled the smoke from uptown. Harlem and Bed-Stuy were burning. There had been riots since Chernenko's speech, mostly from people who were convinced it was all going to end "like in that TV show, the Day After, and their 'fill in the blank group' would be left to die." The NYPD had sent all it had north, with the FDNY right behind. Both had had their ranks thinned because of reservist call-ups. She'd heard rumors Governor Cuomo had begged President Reagan for use of the National Guard, but Reagan had refused, mainly due to the situation in Europe. There were also rumors of an impending curfew, of martial law being declared, and that there were Soviet commandos planning to hit Gracie Mansion or the tunnels. The rumor mills were running rife, and Quinn had heard them all. God I hope Daria's ok? Listen to me? I'm hoping my big sister is alright. Well, if things really get fucked up, she's going to war, not me. My entire fault, really. Didn't get into FIT anyhow. But I did pretty well at Columbia.
This was partly why Quinn was standing outside her former workplace, the contents of her desk in a cardboard box and a letter of termination sticking out of the box. Figures I lose my job because for the first time in my life, I do the right thing and stick up for my big sis..Oh well, I kinda hated that job anyhow…
4 hours earlier
Quinn entered the offices of Fierce magazine much as she had for the two years previously. She was dreading the day to come due to the fact that her boss, Mort Kauffman, a so-called "writer of young urban fashion" (a legend in his own mind, Quinn had often thought) and senior editor of the magazine, was planning on hosting a "dinner party for peace!" and expected his assistant, Quinn, to drop everything for a bunch of his superficial friends and coke addicted models to pretend they were somehow smarter than Regan and Chernenko while eating quiche.
Never mind Quinn and many of the staff were worried whether or not they would be here or part of the upper atmosphere from day to day at this point. None of that mattered to their superficial, idiot boss, who was still going on about his late trip to the Hamptons and how this "tiff" between the superpowers had everyone spooked for no good reason. Why, one of his wine and cheese parties and Reagan and Chernenko would be friends!
Or, at least Mort seemed to think so. "It's all the fault of those warmongers in the military, just like Vietnam," Mort would say. "We need a good protest by the youth, not those anti-nuclear fashion disasters, but some really good looking kids, something with some real kitsch!" The first time Mort said it, Quinn almost agreed with him, and then it hit her:
Daria and Jane were among those so-called "warmongers."
She knew them, she knew they didn't want a war, and they didn't want to die. She'd spoken to Daria over the phone last week. Looking forward to it was the last thing that could be said for Daria, or Jane. Daria's voice had been shaky, she was trying to stay brave for her sister, but she knew it was an act. Funny thing was? Daria's attempt made Quinn feel a bit braver too. For the first time ever? Quinn Morgendorffer was proud of her older sister, and woe to the SOB who felt otherwise.
And I work for this ass that disparages my sister. Why do I put up with this schmuck again? Oh yeah, because I want a job in fashion journalism. What the hell is so damn important about that anyhow? God, he's like a male version of Stacy. Quinn Morgendorffer, it is time to put Fashion Club where the hell it belongs: The damn wastebasket. You've ghost written articles for this putz when he is coked out of his damn mind, and does he even give you a byline? No. There's a national emergency happening, and he's worried about his trip to the goddamned Hamptons and wants the peace movement back so bell-bottoms and long hair makes a comeback, not because we might get cooked alive!
The thoughts made Quinn even madder than usual, and her gruff "hello" to the receptionist came out meaner than intended, not that the receptionist had much more going for her than "typing fast and running slow." Her neon-green hair and ever-present bubble gum didn't say much as to her situational awareness either. As Quinn made her way to her desk, she noticed Cynthia, her "girlfriend" and one of the junior photo editors was gone, and her desk suspiciously clean.
Where the hell is Cynthia? Mort didn't fire her, did she? I'll duck into Glaydis's office and ask. Glaydis was one of the assistant editors and hated Mort as much as Quinn did, and had a boy with the National Guard uptown who was due to ship out for Kentucky any day now. She had bigger things than whether or not Mort had some nutty fantasy going.
"Morning Glaydis? Where's Cynthia?"
Glaydis looked up from the stack of articles she'd been proofing, and bleeding all over with a red pen. Her brunette hair was clean, but disheveled, and her green eyes were bloodshot, like she'd been crying. She sniffed, and smiled a weak smile, for Quinn's benefit.
"Hi Quinn," she said in hushed tones. "Mort's gone nuts, I think he's high on something, which isn't new, but it's a hell of a time for that with the fall line issue due. Then again, there may not be a fall line if things keep going the way they are. Mort's not helping though. He fired Cynthia for having the nerve to take time off to get her kids to her parent's place in Maine."
Quinn's jaw dropped. "What? Why? She's just asking for some time to get her kids out of the bullseye!"
"I know that and so do you. But Mort just up and fired her for 'lack of dedication to the magazine.'" Glaydis replied, her fingers waggling for emphasis.
Quinn couldn't believe it. Here there was Armageddon staring them in the face and Mort was more worried about the magazine? Cynthia had three kids, was a single parent and the oldest of her kids was in the 4th grade. In short, she had a damn good reason wanting them the hell out of town and with her parents in Maine. But Mort fired her rather than do the right thing. It's not like Fierce lacked for photo editors.
"What now? Do we soldier on till the bombs come? Do we quit, or do we just not bother coming in?" Quinn asked with a pleading tone in her voice. I don't know what to do, I mean, nobody's telling us a thing right now, what do we do?
Gladys gave a gallic shrug. "How in the hell do I know, Quinn? Me, I got no man, no kids at home, and a housecat for company, I've been a New Yorker all my life and I am over 40. Dearie, if the bombs come, I intend to have some Bordeaux with a side of sleeping pills. Same for the cat. My little Sammie isn't dying like that. Dearie? My advice? Finish out today and quit. Assuming the nukes don't come, you can use me as a reference. And, if they do come? Well, you can be the generation that rebuilds from our screwups, either way, right now? Who the hell needs fashion journalists at a time like this? I've seen your stuff Quinn, it's good, really good. Go find somewhere where it will do some good, not here where you can listen to the coked-up ravings of a crazy-ass moron."
"Why wait Gladys? I should type up my resignation and just put it on his desk now. I've got you as a reference, right?"
Gladys simply nodded, then got up and came from around her desk; arms wide and the same weak smile on her face.
"To better times, toots." Gladys whispered as she hugged Quinn. "When you talk to that crazy fighter pilot of a sister you have, tell her to stay safe for me, ok?" She pulled back from Quinn as she smiled a bit more genuinely. "And you, I don't want to see you until this thing is over, one way or the other. Might be a good time for you to see your family. Aren't they 30 miles or so from Baltimore?"
Quinn nodded, but realized if Aberdeen Proving Ground or Fort Meade got hit, it might not make much of a difference.
It was at that moment that Quinn's reverie was broken by the nasaly, high-pitched voice that was, to most, like fingernails on a chalkboard, the fact that it was slurring and it took a few moment's to realize that someone was calling her name, and that someone happened to be her boss was equally troubling. God Mort, I know it may seem like the damn world's coming to an end, and it may very well be, but really, you have to be coked out of your mind during working hours? Shit, might as well get the day formally started.
Quinn and Gladys shared a knowing look and Quinn turned to leave, walking briskly towards Mort's office down the hall. Mort was still bellowing for her, although the bellowing sounded more like the bleating of a sick calf.
"Quinn, goddamit, where are you?" the voice bellowed from behind the door.
"Coming, Mr. Kauffman." Quinn said, her teeth gone past gritting and right onto grinding.
She entered Mort's office, which had a decent view of the southern Manhattan skyline, and right into lower New York harbor. The rest of the office's décor could best be described as "bad 70's porn film meets Andy Warhol."
Quinn could see a lot more ship traffic than was normal out Mort's window, a lot of it painted haze-grey rather than the standard mélange of merchant and local livery. What the hell is going on in the harbor?
"Hey, red? Focus, I pay you to make me look good and smart!" Mort said, inches from her face, his alcohol breath wafting over Quinn and making her eyes water. "It's just those idiots in the Navy again, probably blowing the hell out of a whale!"
Quinn began to see red, I hate that nickname, and I hate that he's usually blasted out of his mind when he says it.
Mort then smiled and leaned back into his pleather office chair. He was wearing a fur lined sportcoat in the middle of July, and had glasses you could see yourself clearly in, not to mention the purple bell-bottoms and the ruffled shirt. It was all a sad testament to the fact Mort had not gotten with the times. He was stuck in the 70s where he ruled the Garment District and he didn't let a soul forget it. His hairline had rapidly receded, and the rug he called a toupee was barely covering the fact up. Completing the unattractive picture was his sweaty, meaty hands and his oversized gut. No, Mort Kauffman was a testament not just to a has-been but a never would be.
"Quinn. I need you to clear my calendar for today, call 'Tessa and call Studio 54 and get my usual table," Mort said with a bit of a toothy grin. "By the way, something that's occurred to me, Quinn."
Uh-oh. "And that is?" Quinn replied, the bile rising in her throat as she spoke.
"Every woman in this office I have had the pleasure of breaking in, shall we say. Not you. And hey, why not we make the two-backed monster while we can, before Ivan blows us to hell? Maybe we can even do some lines off of each other, to heighten the experience? Hmm?" Mort said, a greasy smile breaking the monotony of his face.
Quinn turned red at the suggestion. First, out of embarrassment. She wasn't the girl who led boys around by their emotions any more. She was a new, professional Quinn who took this demeaning job to get her big break in this town…and now this clown suggested she screw him because it was the apocalypse? No Mort, not even if you are the last man on Earth, god forbid.
Mort, much to Quinn's chagrin, didn't wait for an answer, and lept over the desk with an agility that Quinn didn't suspect he still had. Quinn, out of sheer surprise, stepped back and screamed. Quinn's actions caused Mort to misjudge the distance, and thus he fell short, banging his head on the floor of his office, which, while carpeted, was still hard enough to draw blood, thus slurring his voice even more prominently.
"YOU TURN ME DOWN! YOU, YOU NO TALENT ASSISTANT WHO COULDN'T GET WORK AT THE VILLAGE VOICE TURNED ME DOWN!" roared Mort.
Quinn trembled a bit at first, she was worried about keeping her job, but she soon realized, Why the hell do I have to take this? He's just a coked out jerk. No, it's time I told him to go to hell.
"Mort, with all due respect, and that means absolutely none." Quinn said in an icy tone,
"Screw you. I don't sleep with men whose equipment is made by ERTL. You know, just like the real thing, only smaller? And Mort? I. Don't. Need. You. I quit. You understand? I quit! If the nukes are coming? I want to die with my family. Not with a coke addicted narcissistic asshole! Oh, and one more thing Mort? The military you like to make jokes about so much? One of those people is my sister. She's in England, waiting for what comes next. I've been a shitty sister to her, at one point pretending she wasn't even my kin. But that changes, today! She'd have simply kicked your ass. I guess I am going to settle for telling you off. Bye Mort."
Quinn then turned on her heel, opened the door, and walked out, slamming the door as hard as she could behind her. What came next was a massive surprise.
She came out to applause. All 20 or so staff members of Fierce were there and they were clapping with yells of "Alright" and "Way to go Quinn!"
Glayds ran over and hugged her. "Quinn honey, let's you, me and some of the girls go take a long brunch. On his dime! Creep!" Gladys shouted the last in the direction of Mort's office.
Quinn looked at her quizzically.
"Dearie, Mel in accounting controls all the petty cash, and she's been waiting for a moment like this for eight years!"
Quinn nodded in understanding, then she threw back her head and laughed. What the hell? Things are insane enough already!
The present
Quinn listened to the music of a city in the depths of apocalyptic panic. "Gee, the President calls for calm, and half the city thinks: 'Ok, let's panic! Somebody needs to pass the memo on what calm means '" she muttered under her breath.
On a good day it was tough trying to get a cab at the corner of her building, but today, it was as if half of New York's cabbies had called in sick, then again, so had a lot of other folks, the press was calling it the "nuke flu." Quinn shook her head, perhaps it was time to head south to her place on East 20th Street on foot, happily, all the danger was uptown, and most of the muggers were probably preoccupied with getting out of the Big Apple before the Russians caramelized it.
She sighed, and looked down at the Minolos she wore, They're my faves, but fact is, they won't hold up under a 30 block walk…and let's face it, what the hell can I trade them for at a time like this, can't eat them, and they won't get you out of town. Plus, they're a gift from Mort…Quinn shuddered at that last thought. Half of her current professional wardrobe was gifts from Mort. She resolved to leave it behind, considering NYC probably would be a heap of rubble before too long, what was the point of taking such impractical crap with her?
Quinn quickly went through her box, grabbing a six-pack of Tab and tossing it in her oversized purse. It ought to have some heft to club the crap out of a mugger anyhow now, learned that from that stupid prison movie my ex made me watch. Then again, there was something fishy about him. The good ones, they're always married or gay. Quinn shrugged as she rifled through her bag, throwing her office supplies and useless knickknacks back into the bag, and retaining only an extra set of hose, some handkerchiefs and a spare blouse, along with the aforementioned Tab, and a roll of subway tokens just in case she did manage to get to a station or find a southbound bus, the rest was put back into the box, and unceremoniously dumped into the wastebasket at the corner.
Quinn then smiled and rubbed her hands together, washing her hands of the past, and she mentally figured she could make it home by about 3 or 4. After that, pack what she could into one suitcase, and call a cab, negotiate a fare to get her across the river to Newark and catch a plane or train to Baltimore Penn Station or BWI, and rent a car home from there. That's of course hoping the authorities haven't limited all travel, or that there's even seats available. Quinn felt the nervous bile rising as she set out south, One step at a time Morgendorffer, One step at a-
It was then that Quinn's reverie was disrupted by a very loud horn, one that could only come from one of the older Checker cabs…and sure enough, one block away, off to the Quinn's right, was a Checker cab, with a very animated gentleman, his distinctive yellow hat perched on a head full of grey hair, and his glasses taking up much of his face, waving furiously at Quinn, as he hit the horn again!
"Hey Lady!" he screamed, "Get off the streets! Somebody will mug you or worse in times like these!" His accent was pure gravelly New York, and could only belong to somebody who'd been a hack all his life.
Quinn was bewildered, she pointed to herself in the classic "Who me?" gesture.
"Yeah you!" he replied. "Get in the cab before something happens to you!"
Quinn shrugged, then ran across the nearly empty intersection to 5th Avenue and got into the cab. A white and brown patch of living fur that purred contentedly immediately assaulted her and jumped in her lap.
The cabbie noticed Quinn's shock at being assaulted by the cat. "Oh crap, I'm sorry, that's Baron, he means well, he just forgets not everybody wants 20lbs of purring cat in their lap as a way of saying hello, then again, if he does that, it means he likes you. And Baron is an excellent judge of character." The driver wasted little time in pulling away from the curb and making his way in the direction of the West Side Highway.
Quinn smiled as she absentmindedly stroked Baron's fur behind the ear, to which Baron responded by purring even louder. "Yeah, he really likes you. Anyhow, my name is Murray Cohen. Been a cabbie for almost 40 years since the war ended. And god willing, there's gonna be a New York to come back to so I can drive for another ten or twenty years. But right now, I am getting the hell out of here. If it's the end, lady? I am going to meet it with my daughter and her family in Maryland."
Quinn's eyes lit up with joy at the good news in front of her. "Um, Mr. Cohen, I hate to ask, but where in Maryland are you headed?"
"What's it to ya?"
"I got family near Baltimore. I can pay!"
"Oh, well then in that case, guess I lucked out. We can work out a fare when we get down there; you got an apartment near here? Someplace you might wanna pack a few things?"
"I'm down on East 20th Street, 620 to be exact."
"Oh Thank God! I thought you were going to say some artsy fartsy place north of Harlem. I ain't going up there today."
"This is gonna sound silly, but can we even get out of New York?" Quinn asked
"We'll manage. The trick is, when we get to your place, you gotta pack fast, no more than two suitcases. We'll put em up front with me. As for getting out, we can roll the dice with the tunnels, it might be our best bet. Just so you know, we're not stopping for food till we get to Jersey. And if something happens, and I don't usually tell passengers this..but I got a .38 in the glovebox with a dozen extra shells."
Quinn's jaw dropped "Why are you telling me?"
"You're a nice lady, and there's been some real animals running around on the streets the last couple of days…a lot of cops are getting recalled into the Army."
"Shit. It's really hit the fan, huh? Quinn asked, her voice almost a whisper.
"Yeah, it has, young lady. And I know you're a member of the tribe, like me, and I am not leaving a fellow Jew to die here if I can help it. My Rachel, God Rest her Soul, would kick my ass if I did. You got any family in the military?"
"My Sister, she's a fighter pilot."
"No kidding, my son's some sort of intelligence guy in the army. Haven't heard a damn thing from him in the last two days. You hear a thing from your sister?"
Quinn shook her head vigorously no.
"Was afraid of that, when I was in the Army, they'd hold up the mail when something big was up. Lady, I think we're going to war, and I think those in the know are pretty convinced of it. Speaking of which, you mind if I put on the news?"
"Go ahead, doubt much has changed…"
"True, but it doesn't hurt." Murray offered.
The old radio went on with an audible click and came to life immediately.
"1010 WINS NEWSHOUR, The time is 1:20 and we'll give you the world! Our top story is the deteriorating situation between the superpowers." We go now to our Chief Washington Correspondent Bob Schaeffer,
"Good evening, Katie, In the morning press briefing at the White House, Spokesman Larry Speaks denied any rumors that the United States and NATO had forsworn further negotiation with the Soviet Union or the Warsaw Pact during today's Press Briefing:"
'The President has said, and we will reiterate, we are willing to negotiate, anytime, anywhere. But we cannot simply accept the terms laid out by the Soviets during the General Secretary's speech. Accepting those terms would be tantamount to the surrender of NATO and the free world.'
"Further comments by unnamed Pentagon and White House officials have stated little hope for a diplomatic solution, noting increasing signs that the Soviets have begun total mobilization of their armed forces, and while some hope this is simply brinkmanship, many are not very confident that this can be resolved short of armed conflict. Back to you in New York, Katie."
"We go now to CBS's Special Correspondent, Bob Simon, who is currently, somewhere in Germany"
"We've been asked not to mention where we are, as preparations for war are going on unabated here and nobody here wants to give Soviet intelligence any favors. I took a ride to the border with NATO troops, I can't say with whom exactly. They are backing up the West German border troops currently, and the feeling here is that war is pretty much inevitable, and more than one soldier here is feeling as if they'd rather get it over with than waiting, and worrying. One West German border police officer sticks out in my mind, when I asked him what would he do if and when the Russians came. He told me, 'Make their lives as miserable as we can.' He told me further that he hadn't seen any Russians, but he'd heard tank engines and helicopters across the border at night, and that his East German counterparts were taking up the border minefields. According to many I have spoken to, it's a sure sign that the Russians are coming. Back to you, Katie."
"In local news tonight, there is both calm and panic as the news becomes seemingly more grim by the hour, as just about every house of worship in town is full, with many parishioners praying for peace. The riots in Bedford-Stuyversant and Harlem continue tonight, with appeals for calm from the mayor and governor falling on deaf ears. Other protests have broken out at the UN and the headquarters of the Communist Party of the United States on 25th Street in the wake of an FBI raid. Almost all routes out of town are gridlocked, with traffic moving very slowly, officials are calling for patience, and stating that if matters continue, they will implement a system rationing travel outside the city."
"I want people to know the NYPD is doing all it can in this moment of crisis to help the citizens we protect. We have to do the job with a third of the officers we'd usually have, as many of my officers were reservists and they have been called up. We need you, the citizen, to stay calm, stay home except when necessary, and don't pass rumors. One of those rumors started the riot in Bed-Stuy right now. We're New Yorkers, we're better than this."
"That was NYPD Commissioner Ben Ward at the Mayor's press conference this morning. We'll stay with the top story 24 hours a day to keep you informed during this time of crisis. This is 1010 WINS, we're now taking a break for station identification…"
Quinn looked out the window as the cab made its way down the grey streets, the sky darkening as a portent of a summer thunderstorm, but also as a foreshadow of what was coming.
"Whole city's gone nuts, Well, At least those communists can't slink off in the middle of the night. Serves the bastards right." Murray intoned. "I remember listening to the radio and remembering how it sounded the last time."
"Was it anything like this?"
"This time is worse, I didn't grow up under the threat of being annihilated."
Neither said a word to the other till they got to Quinn's apartment on 20th Street. Only Baron's purring and the hard taps of a summer thunderstorm filled the taxi.
