Published June 18, 2010, in the Chicago Sun-Times.
About 15 years ago, at a one-day office temp job somewhere on Michigan Avenue, one of my co-workers discreetly pointed to a man just out of earshot. He had an athlete’s frame, a drill sergeant’s posture, and a general’s bearing. In the hushed tone that we little people use in the vicinity of greatness, my co-worker said, “That’s Stedman.”
“Wow,” I whispered back. “Who’s Stedman?”
After a pause befitting the moment, she said, “Oprah’s boyfriend.”
About 15 years ago, at a one-day office temp job somewhere on Michigan Avenue, one of my co-workers discreetly pointed to a man just out of earshot. He had an athlete’s frame, a drill sergeant’s posture, and a general’s bearing. In the hushed tone that we little people use in the vicinity of greatness, my co-worker said, “That’s Stedman.”
“Wow,” I whispered back. “Who’s Stedman?”
After a pause befitting the moment, she said, “Oprah’s boyfriend.”
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