Reading 'Page One'

My first job, the one I’d always dreamed of, was at The New York Times. But my dream didn’t survive the Times’ 1970s newsroom. Here were row upon row of gray, smoking, middle-aged men, bent, slumped, sweaty, full of dandruff, many with tremors and tics, old before their time. It was a visual wasteland. Life—or at least the will to dress for it—had mysteriously left the place. I was 20 years old and this was a bleak future. I escaped as fast as possible (disappointing my father—many Times careers are driven by proud fathers).