Times Square simmers in July. Dodging early morning traffic on what always seems the hottest day of the summer, I wait for the ugly melody of the construction worker's yell at dawn. The faces stare back at me--a tired traffic cop; the bag lady, waking from a night's sleep in front of a burnt-out marquee; the sleazy bum waiting for Caesar's massage parlor to open its doors to all his lust. By the end of the summer I told time by these people. Their habits were so fixed that I knew I was late to work if the doors to Adam and Eve's sex palace were already open or if the bag lady had moved to another concrete hotel.

I ducked into Al's Deli to pick up my obligatory cup of coffee before work, more for the early morning banter among the regulars in Al's than the caffeine. Delis--especially the all-nighters--embody the New York experience. Seven in the morning or three at night, I'd always be guaranteed a sandwich, a run-in with the run down, and west-side talk.

Amusing characters worked behind the counter at Al's. They'd know I was there for my regular cup of coffee and a sugar donut, unless of course the people at work had sent me to pick up an order. I was often dispatched to Al's last summer to pick up hot bagels with cream cheese and assorted other newsroom commodities. My experience as a copyboy at the New York Times convinced me that journalists always crave food. The illustrious editors and reporters always seemed to be snacking on something, consuming some journalistic staple like french fries with no ketchup, or a bag of Doritos. Going to Al's gave me a chance to get out of the building. That escape, even just across the street, was often necessary.

My stint as a copyboy at the Times lasted 12 weeks. A budding journalist's dream, you say? Heaven for the collegiate reporter? Let me take you into the newsroom on the third floor, show you my stomping grounds and the various roles I played there.

Behind the labyrinth of burnt-orange desk dividers sat many of the most competent and respected journalists in America. At any given time about 600 people worked on the third floor. As a replacement for the receptionist during two weeks of the summer, I greeted many of these people every morning when they arrived at work. I got the feeling that if I didn't greet them with a smile and a "good morning" they would only tell time by the edition of the paper that sat on their desks.

Which I had put there. I distributed the papers in the morning. At first, I felt as though my task was to toss the papers along an incredible obstacle course. I'd never remember that the Culture Desk only received two late city editions and three Village Voices, and no copes of People. That well-read periodical would go to some other desk.

After a while, I turned the task into a game, tossing papers onto desks like Earl Monroe at the Garden. I got away with these shenanigans because I was often the only one in the newsroom. At the Times, the motto, besides All The News That's Fit To Print, seemed to be Very Late to Bed, Very Late to Rise.

After my sprint through the desks, from Culture to National, from Foreign to Financial, I'd settle down with my morning crossword puzzle until the first batch of copy came my way. There was never time to read the paper the way I'd like; inevitably, someone would interrupt me as I neared the Op-Ed page. Like a Pavlovian dog, an early morning editor would yell "Copy!" at the top of his lungs. This didn't mean he wanted a piece of copy, or a copy made of some article. Instead he wanted me, Joe Copy, to run an errand. The errand was usually Times-related, though I made my share of trips to the florist to pick up plants for executives' offices during the course of the summer. Once in a while, I'd be sent on a mission away from the immediate vicinity of the Times and into the sweltering heat. My travels spanned the city--from Washington Square Park to the United Nations, from Al's Deli to a retired editor's house on Riverside Drive to deliver his collection of memorabilia.

Often, I'd replace Executive Editor A.M. Rosenthal's secretaries while they went to lunch. Rosenthal, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and the man with more power at the Times than anyone except for Publisher "Punch" Sulzberger, was usually out to lunch as well, but when he wasn't I would always look as if all I was doing was watching the lights on his phone. I hoped he'd never catch me reading my copy of The Kingdom and the Power, Gay Talese's "history" of the Times, which contained some less than favorable stories about some of the current editors, including Rosenthal. I didn't want him or any of the reporters to think I was some Talesean protege brought in to do more gossipy expose. After a while, I'd leave the Talesean book home and bring to work something a little less controversial--Hamlet.

Several times during the summer, I worked in the Times morgue, the clipping library. It was deathly boring, filing away little yellow slivers of old Times stories. I filed those clippings for hours, literally hours. Then I'd return to the copy desk to huddle with my supervisor, who'd wind me up and send me for supplies for the third time that day.

I expected most of this lackluster work. After all, the Times was the Times, the self-proclaimed (and widely accepted) newspaper of newspapers, and I was a little college junior. I didn't anticipate much.

Surprise, shock and euphoria set in when a suburban reporter approached me on a particularly humid August afternoon and asked if I'd like to write a story. Suddenly, a terrifying scenario ran through my head. I'd write the story, whatever the subject might be, return to the building and have no idea of how to type my story into the Times computer system, which stores all future stories.

Nonetheless, two weeks and four attempts at the computer later, I was a published New York Times reporter. No byline, of course, but a little financial remuneration. No complaints. Writing that story was the highpoint of the summer, and I managed to work on several of the copy desks before my stay ended.

I spent my spare time poring over the advanced Sunday puzzle until some editor would inevitably utter the all too familiar chorus: "Copy!" I couldn't wait for that next trip to Al's to pick up another cup of coffee.