By Kathy Charles
Allison White exited the Columbus Circle subway at a brisk pace, heels clacking noisily on the pavement. She was confident in the direction she was going, her stride full of purpose. She had to be. Her very livelihood depended on it.
Allison was a woman who knew things. She knew how to screen a phone call in a professional and courteous manner. She knew how to groom a Bernese Mountain dog and feed it a veterinarian-prescribed diet. She even knew how to change a light bulb in a chandelier. That task had been particularly challenging, not so much for its complexity, but for the sheer height of the damn thing, hanging at least twenty feet above a living area bigger than her whole apartment.