Do you remember those glass ant farms that were so popular years ago? Well, working on Wall Street was much like that. Hundreds, no, thousands, of people hurrying to and fro, all dressed basically alike, carrying identical paper sacks of coffee and leather briefcases. The uniform for businessmen of the day was a glen plaid suit, wingtip shoes and a wrinkled raincoat casually slung over their arm. Some sported a feathered fedora, which I found to be very "uncool." Ladylike is the best way to describe women's attire. We wore suits or dresses, high heels with stockings and we carried matching purses. Makeup was minimal and long hair was pulled back neatly. The bell bottom pants, tie dye shirts and platform shoes popular during the 1970s were reserved for the weekends.

Like a chameleon, we all shed our outer skin on Friday nights. A weekend hippie, I would rush home to New Jersey, change into my hip hugging jeans, Indian inspired tunic and boots and rush back to Greenwich Village. In the winter, much to my mother's horror, I wore a fur coat bought at a Village thrift shop that left long light-colored strands of hair over everything and everyone I touched. That coat was so ugly but so warm, and the angrier it made my mother, the happier I was. Ah, rebellion!

My job was at One Chase Plaza, a beautiful complex of marble and glass. When it rained, however, the exterior steps and walkways were as slippery as ice. One evening, as my friends and I waited for a sudden storm to pass, we saw a man run across the plaza, intending to take shelter inside with us. He stepped in one puddle too many and his feet went out from under him. As we watched with a mixture of horror and delight, he slid feet first on his butt into the glass enclosed lobby windows. That man deserved an academy award. Looking directly at us, he stood, took hat in hand and bowed deeply, replaced his dripping hat on his head and continued on his way. Laurence Olivier could not have done it better! We gave him a standing ovation.

Many companies had offices in Chase Bank corporate headquarters. Among them was the Japanese securities firm I worked for. I have always been fascinated by the Asian lifestyle and working here gave me a close look at the differences in our cultures. For one thing, there was a definite caste system.

America born Japanese were considered less worthy than those who were born in Japan, and those born in Japan who became American citizens were held in the lowest regard. Like all nationalities, they had their biases toward other races. One day, a young Korean gentleman, perhaps 32 years old, met with my boss, Mr. O. They discussed stock trades for an hour or so before deciding to have lunch. As they were leaving the office, this man approached me to express his pleasure that we had met. No sooner did he shake my hand then he dropped dead of a cerebral hemorrhage. The stockbrokers stood motionless, in shock, unable to think or speak.

I dialed Chase Bank's medical department and asked for help. Within minutes a doctor was kneeling beside him. Sadly, there was nothing the doctor could do except to cover him with a sheet. An ambulance was called but this was Wall Street at lunchtime. Think again of the ant farm. It would be hours before paramedics arrived. While waiting for the ambulance, business went on as usual.

Try to imagine that this man was lying so that his body was directly across the doorway to Mr. O's office. The stockbrokers would walk in and out, stepping over him as though he was a lump in the carpet. When I told Mr. O that I was uncomfortable sitting just a few feet away and would like to move to another office, he seemed surprised. Mr. O assured me, "He won't be there tomorrow." In other words, why trouble yourself now when things will be back to normal in the morning. And, of course, they were. The young man and his death were never mentioned again.

Mr. O was truly a gracious man. He and his wife invited all the employees to dinner at their home one evening. The meal was delicious, but while serving, his wife continually begged our forgiveness for the unworthiness of the food. The Asian men merely nodded but I felt an uncontrollable urge to yell, "What are you apologizing for? This meal is terrific!" Of course, I merely bowed my head and smiled. Different lives. Different wives.

Some months after the young businessman died, Mr. O was called back to Tokyo. Having been in the U.S. for many years and having adopted much of the American lifestyle, he had displeased his superiors. He and his wife belonged to a country club, his children spoke English like it was their native language, and they all enjoyed the freedom being away from corporate scrutiny afforded them. He was to be replaced by a man who, though not actually anti-American, did not look kindly at having us on his payroll. Mr. O advised that we, the three Americans, should look for other employment, and he gave us glowing letters of recommendation. His disappointment at having to leave the United States was evident, and he spoke of returning as often as possible for both business and pleasure.

With a sad smile, I bid Mr. O and the others goodbye and headed to mid-town, where I had secured a job at one of the big eight accounting firms. There I met Jeff, a fellow employee, and we began dating. Jeff was six foot six inches in his stocking feet. Since I was just about eye level with his waist, any conversation we had while standing was had with his belt buckle.

About six months into my employment, I received a call from Mr. O. He was back in the states on business and asked if he could take me to dinner. At first I hesitated. I lived in New Jersey. A late night in Manhattan would make it difficult to get home. I would need to take a bus from Port Authority, a scary place at any hour, but especially at night. And then there was the question of what we would talk about. Lunch with your boss is one thing, but dinner, alone, is another story. I discussed my fears with Jeff, who advised me to go. He promised to pick me up from the restaurant and bring me home.

At the agreed upon time, Mr. O arrived at the main entrance of the Exxon building, where I waited with a few gal pals. When he opened the passenger door of the big white Cadillac he had rented, the girls got a good view of the two pillows he sat on to see over the steering wheel. How they laughed! I knew what everyone would be discussing over coffee in the morning. Mr. O drove us to Benihana Restaurant, a novelty in the seventies.

Arriving at Benihana, Mr. O suggested that we have cocktails in the loft. This meant I had to climb a ladder type staircase. I was wearing a dress and high heels, and the angle of the ladder would have afforded a clear view of my buttocks to anyone standing below. Try as I did, I could not get Mr. O to ascend first. Eventually, the hostess realized my predicament and wedged herself between us. The loft was Asian in design, featuring low tables and pillow seating. Tradition held that we had to remove our shoes. I made myself comfortable and ordered a soda. "Don't drink," I kept reminding myself. Hard liquor and I are not on good terms. Mr. O ordered sake, which he proceeded to drip on my legs over and over again. He would gently wipe it away while telling me, "It is so nice to talk to you as a woman and not an employee." Uh oh! Danger Will Robinson!

Hours passed. We arrived at the restaurant at 6:00 and did not go into the dining room until nearly 8. Don't ask me what we said to each other. Once I heard the "woman" comment, I was so nervous I could barely focus. Mr. O kept insisting that there was no need to rush, as he would drive me home to New Jersey. No way! I told him that wasn't necessary, but my words fell on deaf ears. "You are my date. It is my responsibility to see you home safely." "Date? Damn! How do I get out of this?" was all I could think about.

At the hibachi table where we sat there were three other couples...all American. Here I was - a young, blond, well-dressed female with an older, short, fat Japanese man. One look at their faces and I knew what they were thinking. Hooker! The couples came and went as the hours passed, but they all shared the same opinion of me. Mr. O was in no hurry and the chef, a personal friend, took his time cooking and serving us. By 10:30, we were just eating dessert.

Anticipating trouble when the meal was over, I excused myself to go to the ladies room. I found a pay phone (no cell phones) and called Jeff. "Where are you?" he asked. "I thought you had been kidnapped, and by now you were a geisha on the Ginza." Once Jeff heard the anxiety in my voice, he assured me he would be outside the restaurant in 15 minutes. I returned to the table, told Mr. O that Jeff was waiting for me and thanked him for a wonderful evening. He would not listen and insisted that he would tell Jeff that he, Mr. O, was my escort for the night and would see me to my front door.

By now it was 11 o'clock. Even with all the neon signs, Manhattan streets are dark at that hour. True to his word, Jeff was leaning against a car directly in front of the restaurant. He was slouched down so that his size was not immediately evident. Mr. O marched over to him and began to assert his rights. Jeff listened patiently and then stood to his full 6'6". As if in slow motion, I watched Mr. O lift his head higher and higher, until his neck was completely stretched and he could make eye contact. Quickly, he lowered his head, turned to me and said, "So nice to see you again. Take care of yourself." Away he walked never to be seen or heard from again.

Only in New York!