I had only enough money to last two more weeks. And the lease on the tiny furnished apartment I had rented for a month was about to expire. So, basically, I had one week to find an apartment and a job. I was 23 years old, jobless, and about to be homeless in New York City.

And as odd as it sounds, I wasn’t worried. I mean, how hard could it be? A week should be plenty of time, I thought. I was young and naive and from Ohio, where people pretty much say what they mean, do what they say, and assume that the shortest distance between two points really is a straight line. We also tend to believe that, on the whole, things work out the way they’re supposed to. A few days before my lease was up, I told all three of my friends, who were smart native New Yorkers, that my time for job searching and apartment finding was almost over. They were horrified. “Gail, it takes weeks, sometimes months, to find an apartment here. You’ll probably get a job, but talk about cutting it close! Are you crazy?”

I wasn’t crazy. It just had never occurred to me that it would be hard. And, as it turned out, it wasn’t. I had decided that I wanted to work at one of the television networks — NBC, ABC, or CBS — and had, with my “exuberant persistence,” as one interviewer put it, scored interviews with all three. The nicest person I met was a guy named Tom Swafford, who was the director of community affairs at WCBS-TV. At the end of the interview, he said, “Well, Gail, one way or the other, we’re going to hire you. Call me in two weeks.”

Sure enough, I called Tom on the appointed day, and he said, “Gail, I’ve got a job for you. I’m making you manager of the Channel Two film library. One hundred and fifty dollars a week.” I was beyond thrilled. Now all I needed was an apartment. It was Monday, but I found the Sunday New York Times real estate classifieds in a trash basket. Under apartments for rent, I read, “74th St. off Prk; studio, 3rd fl wkup; avlb immed.” I called and spoke to a Mr. Mullins, who said to come on over. It was just one room, with a minuscule kitchen that you had to walk through to get to the bathroom, but I loved it. “How much is it?” I asked. “One hundred and seventy-five dollars a month,” Mr. Mullins answered. “Well, I can only pay $150,” I said. (I had been told you should spend only a week’s pay for a month’s rent.) He paused for a moment, looked me over, and said, “You seem like a nice enough girl. You can have it for $150.”

So I skidded in under the wire with both a job and a place to live. “You are ridiculously lucky,” one friend said. Another girl, who turned out to be a lifelong pal and who was wise beyond her years, said, “No, it’s not really luck. Gail is just too simple to make things complicated.” Being simple, I decided to take that as a compliment.