Having quit the Manhattan Criminal Court dictaphone-typist job after finally receiving the needed first paycheck after 6 weeks, I was now ineligible to receive unemployment compensation checks. So some of the time during the December that I last lived in the Jamaica basement apartment with Barry in the 1970's was spent looking at Sunday New York Times classified want ads.
Noticing a want ad for a "publicity clerk" job with a book publishing firm in Midtown Manhattan, I telephoned its personnel office to arrange for a job interview. After being interviewed, my impression was that the person who was the publicity department manager was going to hire me, especially because I was the first applicant to be interviewed, in a decade when the first white applicant for a skyscraper office clerical job usually still was the person who would get hired, unless he or she lacked the job qualifications. But because it was the month in which the publicity department manager was apparently busy hanging out at various seasonal office parties and/or schmoozing/meeting with her print media contacts, press agent contacts, bookstore managers and newspaper or magazine book review editors, she took her sweet time about calling me back to let me know that she had hired me and when I might start working as her publicity clerk at the book publishing firm.
But after two or three telephone calls to her by me, which apparently also convinced her that it made sense to hire me as her publicity clerk because I was eager enough about obtaining the job to call her about her decision more than once, I was told to report to for my first day of work in early January of the new year.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Queens County Revisited: The 1970's (76)
I can't recall much of what I did during lunch hour for the 6 weeks I was caged in the dictaphone-typist pool at the 100 Centre Street Manhattan Criminal Court building. Working in Midtown Manhattan gave you the option of spending part of your lunch hour in more branches of the New York Public Library, in the central New York Public Library or at the Donnell Library. In Foley Square near the Wall Street area of Manhattan, however, there were fewer branches of the New York Public Library that you could spend part of your lunch hour at.
After buying a hot dog from a street vendor for my lunch on most workdays, I may have spent the rest of my lunch hour on only a few occasions walking up to the branch of the New York Public Library that was located in the south west side of Greenwich Village, browsing there for 10 minutes and then walking back to the 100 Centre Street courthouse. But during most lunch hours, I can no longer recall having done anything special when I worked there. Since I didn't start using each lunch hour on 9-to-5 workdays to write my Sundial memoirs of the 1960's manuscript text until the mid-1980's, I likely spent most lunch hours while working in the dictatphone-typist courthouse job just walking around or reading a daily newspaper I might have picked up out of a garbage can, or some paperback book that fit into my jacket pocket or back pocket. One thing I did do differently, though, during the 6 weeks I worked at 100 Centre Street was to take an elevated BMT route from Jamaica into lower Manhattan, rather than just take the E or F train from Jamaica, a number of times.
Before leaving work on the afternoon that I finally was handed, in the courthouse building, my first paycheck after 6 weeks by the dictaphone-typist pool supervisor, the African-American woman co-worker in her 40's, who had been friendly to me and who seemed, like me, to have only taken her job because she needed the money, then kidded me: "Now that you finally got your first paycheck, be sure to come back to work next week." Then we both laughed and wished each other a good weekend.
Of course, as soon as I arrived in my basement apartment in Jamaica on the evening of the day I deposited my first paycheck from the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse as a dictaphone-typist for 6 weeks, I typed up a letter to the elderly fellow who had hired me 6 weeks previously. Then I placed the letter and the photo I.D. that I had been given upon being hired by the personnel office of the courthouse, which showed that, as a courthouse employee, I had a legitimate right to go in and out of judges' offices and court work areas with manila envelopes without being questioned, into a stamped envelope, which I immediately mailed. In my brief letter, I indicated that "in order to begin working" at a "higher-paying position in the private sector," I was "regretfully resigning my position" as a dictaphone-typist in the New York County Supreme Court.
In reality, of course, I had neither a "higher-paying position" nor any regrets about resigning. But, given my moral objections to the role of the police, judges and local court system in 1970's New York City society, I just wanted to get the hell out of there--without giving them any indication that I was somebody whom the judges and D.A.'s, Red Squad and cops would likely label "subversive" if I honestly wrote about my moral and political reasons for quitting.
After buying a hot dog from a street vendor for my lunch on most workdays, I may have spent the rest of my lunch hour on only a few occasions walking up to the branch of the New York Public Library that was located in the south west side of Greenwich Village, browsing there for 10 minutes and then walking back to the 100 Centre Street courthouse. But during most lunch hours, I can no longer recall having done anything special when I worked there. Since I didn't start using each lunch hour on 9-to-5 workdays to write my Sundial memoirs of the 1960's manuscript text until the mid-1980's, I likely spent most lunch hours while working in the dictatphone-typist courthouse job just walking around or reading a daily newspaper I might have picked up out of a garbage can, or some paperback book that fit into my jacket pocket or back pocket. One thing I did do differently, though, during the 6 weeks I worked at 100 Centre Street was to take an elevated BMT route from Jamaica into lower Manhattan, rather than just take the E or F train from Jamaica, a number of times.
Before leaving work on the afternoon that I finally was handed, in the courthouse building, my first paycheck after 6 weeks by the dictaphone-typist pool supervisor, the African-American woman co-worker in her 40's, who had been friendly to me and who seemed, like me, to have only taken her job because she needed the money, then kidded me: "Now that you finally got your first paycheck, be sure to come back to work next week." Then we both laughed and wished each other a good weekend.
Of course, as soon as I arrived in my basement apartment in Jamaica on the evening of the day I deposited my first paycheck from the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse as a dictaphone-typist for 6 weeks, I typed up a letter to the elderly fellow who had hired me 6 weeks previously. Then I placed the letter and the photo I.D. that I had been given upon being hired by the personnel office of the courthouse, which showed that, as a courthouse employee, I had a legitimate right to go in and out of judges' offices and court work areas with manila envelopes without being questioned, into a stamped envelope, which I immediately mailed. In my brief letter, I indicated that "in order to begin working" at a "higher-paying position in the private sector," I was "regretfully resigning my position" as a dictaphone-typist in the New York County Supreme Court.
In reality, of course, I had neither a "higher-paying position" nor any regrets about resigning. But, given my moral objections to the role of the police, judges and local court system in 1970's New York City society, I just wanted to get the hell out of there--without giving them any indication that I was somebody whom the judges and D.A.'s, Red Squad and cops would likely label "subversive" if I honestly wrote about my moral and political reasons for quitting.
Queens County Revisited: The 1970's (75)
Given the fact that I felt it was morally wrong and politically unprincipled for me to work in a New York County/Manhattan Criminal Court system that I believed was continuing to act as an instrument of political repression and human rights denial, on behalf of the white corporate power structure of New York City, in the 1970's, I quickly decided to quit the dictaphone-typist job as soon I was handed my first paycheck.
But during the first week of working in the dictaphone-typist pool, I was surprised to learn that, while the other dictaphone-typists were now each receiving their paychecks every two weeks or every month, a newly hired employee of Manhattan's Criminal Court like myself had to wait 6 weeks before he or she was handed a paycheck. So I, thus, couldn't afford to leave this job until 6 weeks were up.
Luckily for me, the unemployment benefit checks that were long overdue for me arrived during the middle of the 6-week period when I was waiting for my first paycheck from the Manhattan Criminal Court/New York County Supreme Court job. And the money from the late unemployment benefit checks enabled me to come up with my half of the monthly rent for the Jamaica basement apartment that I shared with Barry again, only about a week after the rent was due.
Barry had, however, seemed to get a bit anxious when I didn't have my half of the $150 rent at the beginning of the month. So I telephoned a former camp co-counselor whom I had befriended during the Summer of 1970, with whom I had resumed my friendship a number of years later, after bumping into him while transferring from the 74th Street IRT elevated station to the Roosevelt Avenue IND stop in Queens one evening, as we were both coming home form work.
When we got together in the evening following this telephone call, I hinted to him that I was expecting an unemployment benefit check or a paycheck soon, but that I needed a small loan in order to pay my half of of that month's rent to get the anxious Barry, my roommate, off my back. But when my friend--whom I had never asked for any kind of a money loan or favor before--seemed unwilling to help me out with the rent this one time, I realized that he really was just a "fair weather" friend; although I hid my changed feeling about our friendship from him when we said goodbye to each other outside my basement apartment in Jamaica. Queens.
But during the first week of working in the dictaphone-typist pool, I was surprised to learn that, while the other dictaphone-typists were now each receiving their paychecks every two weeks or every month, a newly hired employee of Manhattan's Criminal Court like myself had to wait 6 weeks before he or she was handed a paycheck. So I, thus, couldn't afford to leave this job until 6 weeks were up.
Luckily for me, the unemployment benefit checks that were long overdue for me arrived during the middle of the 6-week period when I was waiting for my first paycheck from the Manhattan Criminal Court/New York County Supreme Court job. And the money from the late unemployment benefit checks enabled me to come up with my half of the monthly rent for the Jamaica basement apartment that I shared with Barry again, only about a week after the rent was due.
Barry had, however, seemed to get a bit anxious when I didn't have my half of the $150 rent at the beginning of the month. So I telephoned a former camp co-counselor whom I had befriended during the Summer of 1970, with whom I had resumed my friendship a number of years later, after bumping into him while transferring from the 74th Street IRT elevated station to the Roosevelt Avenue IND stop in Queens one evening, as we were both coming home form work.
When we got together in the evening following this telephone call, I hinted to him that I was expecting an unemployment benefit check or a paycheck soon, but that I needed a small loan in order to pay my half of of that month's rent to get the anxious Barry, my roommate, off my back. But when my friend--whom I had never asked for any kind of a money loan or favor before--seemed unwilling to help me out with the rent this one time, I realized that he really was just a "fair weather" friend; although I hid my changed feeling about our friendship from him when we said goodbye to each other outside my basement apartment in Jamaica. Queens.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Queens County Revisited: The 1970's (74)
The 100 Centre Street and Federal Courthouse judges' offices, to which I delivered the manila envelopes containing sentencing recommendations and pre-trial "release on bail" or "hold" recommendations and reports, were often empty of judges by most afternoons during the workweek and often empty of judges all day on Fridays. Many of the appointed judges at 100 Centre Street and in the Federal Court apparently liked to take Friday off whenever they could, in order to have as many 3-day weekends as their low-volume case load enabled them to have.
And sometimes, when I arrived at the private office of a judge at 100 Centre Street or in the Foley Square federal courthouse to deliver one of the manila envelopes, I would find the judge in his chair sleeping or taking a nap behind his private office desk. In addition, a few times, when I handed the manila envelope containing the probation officer's sentencing or pre-trial "grant bail-deny bail" or "release-don't release" recommendation to a judge, I noticed that the breath of the judge smelled strongly of whisky; and the judge seemed somewhat drunk--apparently from having had too much to drink during the 2-hour lunch breaks that nearly all the judges in the 100 Centre Street and the Federal courthouses seemed to take on the days they showed up for "work."
When delivering a manila envelope one afternoon to one New York County Criminal Court judge, I experienced a surprise: The judge to whom I was now bringing the manila envelope in the 1970's had been one of the prosecuting attorneys in the Panther 21 trial case of the late 1960's.. This case had ended with the acquittal of all the Black Panther Party political activists, who had apparently been framed up on "conspiracy" charges by the NYPD and federal law enforcement agents in the late 1960's.
Yet in the 1970's, this prosecuror-turned judge in Manhattan's Criminal Court was now responsible for handing out sentences and making pre-trial bail or no-bail decisions for arrested African-American defendants--despite his personal history of being involved in violating the democratic rights of the obviously innocent Panther 21 defendants during the 2 years whey were held without bail in pre-trial detention and during their trial.
And sometimes, when I arrived at the private office of a judge at 100 Centre Street or in the Foley Square federal courthouse to deliver one of the manila envelopes, I would find the judge in his chair sleeping or taking a nap behind his private office desk. In addition, a few times, when I handed the manila envelope containing the probation officer's sentencing or pre-trial "grant bail-deny bail" or "release-don't release" recommendation to a judge, I noticed that the breath of the judge smelled strongly of whisky; and the judge seemed somewhat drunk--apparently from having had too much to drink during the 2-hour lunch breaks that nearly all the judges in the 100 Centre Street and the Federal courthouses seemed to take on the days they showed up for "work."
When delivering a manila envelope one afternoon to one New York County Criminal Court judge, I experienced a surprise: The judge to whom I was now bringing the manila envelope in the 1970's had been one of the prosecuting attorneys in the Panther 21 trial case of the late 1960's.. This case had ended with the acquittal of all the Black Panther Party political activists, who had apparently been framed up on "conspiracy" charges by the NYPD and federal law enforcement agents in the late 1960's.
Yet in the 1970's, this prosecuror-turned judge in Manhattan's Criminal Court was now responsible for handing out sentences and making pre-trial bail or no-bail decisions for arrested African-American defendants--despite his personal history of being involved in violating the democratic rights of the obviously innocent Panther 21 defendants during the 2 years whey were held without bail in pre-trial detention and during their trial.
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Queens County Revisited: The 1970's (73)
It turned out that the "dictaphone-typist" job involved sitting in an office room with other dictaphone-typists, mostly African-American women in their late 30's or early 40's, who were all part of a dictaphone-typist pool, then-supervised by a white Irish-American woman who appeared to be in her 50's. The dictaphone-typists transcribed the dictaphone-tapes of "bail" or "no-bail" recommendations and sentencing recommendations that the then-all-white male probation officers made to various Criminal Court judges.
Most of my workday as part of the dictaphone-typist pool involved listening to the dictaphone tapes while transcribing/typing the words of the probation officer on forms or blank white sheets of paper, like the other dictaphone-typists did. Unlike the other workers in the dictaphone-typist pool, however, part of my job also was to, like an inter-office messenger, deliver by hand the manila envelopes which contained the transcribed probation officers' reports and recommendations to the offices of the various New York Criminal Court judges in both the 100 Centre Street courthouse or nearby federal courthouse building. Because there were apparently not enough offices in the 100 Centre Street courthouse to house the number of judges used by Manhattan's Criminal Court system, some of the court system judges were apparently assigned office space inside the nearby Federal Court building.
I did not mind being assigned the additional work task of delivering the manila envelops by hand to the offices of the various judges, after being accompanied and shown where their offices were during my first week on the job by an African-American woman file clerk, who appeared to about the same age as me; and who seemed glad that the inter-office messenger work she had previously been assigned to do would now be done by me. Unlike the file clerk, I did not feel it was an extra burden to have to do the hand-delivery work, since I felt it gave me a good excuse to decrease, somewhat, the time I was chained to a dictaphone-typist pool office desk, by taking as long a time as I could to do the delivery work; and it also provided me with more work breaks from sitting all day, listening to tapes on a headphone, transcribing text, and typing text that I normally might have had to type, had I not been assigned to also do the messenger work.
I no longer remember much of what the recommendations from the court probation officers that I transcribed were nor much about the file clerk who showed me where the judges' offices were in the courthouses. What I do remember about the file clerk was that the file clerk was the kind of very religious church member who seemed to believe that the main purpose of life on earth was to work during the week, go to church every Sunday, center your non-work life around all the evening and weekend activities that the church you belonged to sponsored, and prepare yourself to be rewarded for your belief in and devotion to Jesus Christ and God during your life, with an eternal after-life in a heavenly paradise after you died; and that your eternal after-life in the heavenly paradise would make up for any of the feelings of enslavement, economic hardship or boredom that you might have had during your daily life on earth, prior to your earthly death. So when the file clerk asked me if I believed in Christ and I indicated that I didn't, she, naturally, seemed to give me a look of pity, because she believed that I would then be ineligible to enjoy an eternal after-life in heaven as she would enjoy, after my earthly death.
All I can remember now about the white middle-class male probation officers was that they rarely spoke to the dictaphone-typists who transcribed their recommendations and reports when they came down to the dictaphone-typing pool room to hand them to the white woman supervisor who, subsequently, assigned one of the dictaphone-typists to do a particular transcription.
By the 21st-century, I imagine the dictaphone-typist pool would likely have been eliminated and the probation officers were probably now likely being required to type-up their own reports and recommendations for the judges on their desk computers or laptop computers, using windows; and all the dictaphone-typist/transcribing jobs that were provided for previous generation of workers at the 100 Centre Street courthouse would likely have vanished by now, I suspect.
Most of my workday as part of the dictaphone-typist pool involved listening to the dictaphone tapes while transcribing/typing the words of the probation officer on forms or blank white sheets of paper, like the other dictaphone-typists did. Unlike the other workers in the dictaphone-typist pool, however, part of my job also was to, like an inter-office messenger, deliver by hand the manila envelopes which contained the transcribed probation officers' reports and recommendations to the offices of the various New York Criminal Court judges in both the 100 Centre Street courthouse or nearby federal courthouse building. Because there were apparently not enough offices in the 100 Centre Street courthouse to house the number of judges used by Manhattan's Criminal Court system, some of the court system judges were apparently assigned office space inside the nearby Federal Court building.
I did not mind being assigned the additional work task of delivering the manila envelops by hand to the offices of the various judges, after being accompanied and shown where their offices were during my first week on the job by an African-American woman file clerk, who appeared to about the same age as me; and who seemed glad that the inter-office messenger work she had previously been assigned to do would now be done by me. Unlike the file clerk, I did not feel it was an extra burden to have to do the hand-delivery work, since I felt it gave me a good excuse to decrease, somewhat, the time I was chained to a dictaphone-typist pool office desk, by taking as long a time as I could to do the delivery work; and it also provided me with more work breaks from sitting all day, listening to tapes on a headphone, transcribing text, and typing text that I normally might have had to type, had I not been assigned to also do the messenger work.
I no longer remember much of what the recommendations from the court probation officers that I transcribed were nor much about the file clerk who showed me where the judges' offices were in the courthouses. What I do remember about the file clerk was that the file clerk was the kind of very religious church member who seemed to believe that the main purpose of life on earth was to work during the week, go to church every Sunday, center your non-work life around all the evening and weekend activities that the church you belonged to sponsored, and prepare yourself to be rewarded for your belief in and devotion to Jesus Christ and God during your life, with an eternal after-life in a heavenly paradise after you died; and that your eternal after-life in the heavenly paradise would make up for any of the feelings of enslavement, economic hardship or boredom that you might have had during your daily life on earth, prior to your earthly death. So when the file clerk asked me if I believed in Christ and I indicated that I didn't, she, naturally, seemed to give me a look of pity, because she believed that I would then be ineligible to enjoy an eternal after-life in heaven as she would enjoy, after my earthly death.
All I can remember now about the white middle-class male probation officers was that they rarely spoke to the dictaphone-typists who transcribed their recommendations and reports when they came down to the dictaphone-typing pool room to hand them to the white woman supervisor who, subsequently, assigned one of the dictaphone-typists to do a particular transcription.
By the 21st-century, I imagine the dictaphone-typist pool would likely have been eliminated and the probation officers were probably now likely being required to type-up their own reports and recommendations for the judges on their desk computers or laptop computers, using windows; and all the dictaphone-typist/transcribing jobs that were provided for previous generation of workers at the 100 Centre Street courthouse would likely have vanished by now, I suspect.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Queens County Revisited: The 1970's (72)
Had I not been desperately in need of money in order to pay my half of the following month's rent for the basement apartment in Jamaica that I was again sharing with Barry in the Fall, there's no way I would have been willing to be interviewed for a "dictaphone-typist" job within Manhattan's court system. But given my desperate economic situation, I felt compelled to let myself be interviewed.
When I reported to the personnel department in Manhattan's Criminal Court building at 100 Centre Street, the elderly white guy, who appeared to be in his early 60's, seemed so glad to find a white guy who typed 80 wpm for the dictaphone-typist position that needed to be filled at the courthouse that, with a smile, he offered me the job on the spot. And, given the fact that, whatever chance I still had to eventually get mailed an unemployment benefit check by New York State would vanish if I now refused Manhattan's Criminal Court dictaphone typist job, I also felt economically compelled to agree to report for work in the Criminal Court building the following week.
Having demonstrated outside 100 Centre Street in the 1960's during the beginning of the Panther 21 trial, in which a jury eventually found all defendants innocent of the trumped-up "conspiracy" charges on which the New York City cops and the F.B.I. COINTELPRO agents attempted to frame and convict them, I was already somewhat familiar with the 100 Centre Street building. In addition, when I was arrested inside Hamilton Hall in late May of 1968 during the second New York City police invasion of Columbia University's campus (for the purpose of ending the Spring 1968 Columbia Student Revolt against the Columbia administration's policy of institutionally sponsoring Viet Nam war-related Institute for Defense Analyses [IDA] weapons research, constructing a racially segregated "Jim Crow" gymnasium on public land in Morningside Park and suspending dissident anti-war and anti-racist students for non-violently demonstrating inside Columbia University's buildings), I had actually spent a night inside one of the crowded holding pens at 100 Centre Street; before being brought into one of its courtrooms and released on probation, pending a trial for the "criminal trespassing" charge that was eventually dropped by New York County's "criminal justice system".
But to actually work inside 100 Centre Street as a "dictaphone-typist" for the court system for even a brief time in the 1970's provided me with a slightly different angle to view the scene there.
When I reported to the personnel department in Manhattan's Criminal Court building at 100 Centre Street, the elderly white guy, who appeared to be in his early 60's, seemed so glad to find a white guy who typed 80 wpm for the dictaphone-typist position that needed to be filled at the courthouse that, with a smile, he offered me the job on the spot. And, given the fact that, whatever chance I still had to eventually get mailed an unemployment benefit check by New York State would vanish if I now refused Manhattan's Criminal Court dictaphone typist job, I also felt economically compelled to agree to report for work in the Criminal Court building the following week.
Having demonstrated outside 100 Centre Street in the 1960's during the beginning of the Panther 21 trial, in which a jury eventually found all defendants innocent of the trumped-up "conspiracy" charges on which the New York City cops and the F.B.I. COINTELPRO agents attempted to frame and convict them, I was already somewhat familiar with the 100 Centre Street building. In addition, when I was arrested inside Hamilton Hall in late May of 1968 during the second New York City police invasion of Columbia University's campus (for the purpose of ending the Spring 1968 Columbia Student Revolt against the Columbia administration's policy of institutionally sponsoring Viet Nam war-related Institute for Defense Analyses [IDA] weapons research, constructing a racially segregated "Jim Crow" gymnasium on public land in Morningside Park and suspending dissident anti-war and anti-racist students for non-violently demonstrating inside Columbia University's buildings), I had actually spent a night inside one of the crowded holding pens at 100 Centre Street; before being brought into one of its courtrooms and released on probation, pending a trial for the "criminal trespassing" charge that was eventually dropped by New York County's "criminal justice system".
But to actually work inside 100 Centre Street as a "dictaphone-typist" for the court system for even a brief time in the 1970's provided me with a slightly different angle to view the scene there.
Sunday, September 4, 2016
Queens County Revisited: The 1970's (71)
Given the unemployment office's unintentional (or perhaps intentional) delay in mailing the benefit checks I was entitled to, I was, consequently, forced to go to the New York State Employment Bureau again to try to get placed on some kind of clerical-typist-type job before my hoped-for 6-month period of being on unemployment benefits, which would enable me to devote more time to folk songwriting and activism and romantic love-seeking than I had been able to do in the 1970's during my periods of wage enslavement.
Surprisingly (and perhaps because the New York State bureaucrats felt that if they didn't make more of an effort to place me quickly I might actually end up being able to collect the unemployment benefits from the State that was due me), after I scored 80 wpm on the typing test that I was given, the New York State Employment Bureau actually set-up an appointment for a job interview for an open "dictaphone-typist" position for the following day.
The catch, however, was that the "dictaphone-typist" job opening to which I was required to go to in order to retain my unemployment benefit eligibility, and required to accept if offered in order to retain my eligibility, was with a New York State government agency which I felt functioned as a tool for unjustly incarcerating, in a mass way, the African-American poor, U.S. political dissidents and left-wing anti-war and anti-imperialist activists, poor whites and white working-class people of all races in New York City: The New York County Supreme Court at 100 Centre Street in Downtown Manhattan, near Foley Square.
Surprisingly (and perhaps because the New York State bureaucrats felt that if they didn't make more of an effort to place me quickly I might actually end up being able to collect the unemployment benefits from the State that was due me), after I scored 80 wpm on the typing test that I was given, the New York State Employment Bureau actually set-up an appointment for a job interview for an open "dictaphone-typist" position for the following day.
The catch, however, was that the "dictaphone-typist" job opening to which I was required to go to in order to retain my unemployment benefit eligibility, and required to accept if offered in order to retain my eligibility, was with a New York State government agency which I felt functioned as a tool for unjustly incarcerating, in a mass way, the African-American poor, U.S. political dissidents and left-wing anti-war and anti-imperialist activists, poor whites and white working-class people of all races in New York City: The New York County Supreme Court at 100 Centre Street in Downtown Manhattan, near Foley Square.
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