The New Yorker's Malcolm Gladwell has become a master of melding argumentation with descriptive narrative reportage. At 35, the native of Elmira, Ontario, has options from Hollywood, a million-dollar book deal, and a famously short attention span.

portrait by David Morgan

The day the coolhunt went down in history, Baysie Wightman had her hands full in every sense. Not only did she have to visit a number of the coolest sneaker stores in the Bronx and Harlem, but she also had to tote with her a big black canvas bag stuffed with 24 Reebok shoe prototypes as well as drag along two hip female inner-city liaisons and a journalist from The New Yorker named Malcolm Gladwell.

To hear Baysie tell it, her job at Reebok is no big deal, absolutely no big deal at all. Scouting around to find the urban kids who know what's on the cutting edge of cool is just part of the process of how you make good products. It's not that interesting. But this journalist, this lapdog of a kid named Malcolm, seemed to be in awe of what she did and wanted to tag along and watch her do it. Although she was mystified, Baysie was also charmed. She found Malcolm an incredible hodgepodge of weirdness-a nerdy Canadian of slight build who was half-black, half-white, highly intelligent, disarmingly funny, and totally at ease-so she let him come along.

When that ubiquitous staple of the New York City car service trade, a black Lincoln Town Car, came to pick them up right on schedule, Baysie took it as a good omen. Once the shoes, Malcolm, and the liaisons were loaded inside, Baysie's day seemed to be going smoothly. The driver pulled out and headed north, nipping up the Major Deegan Expressway to the Bronx ...

Where they got stuck.

A huge traffic accident shut down all lanes on the Deegan, leaving the hired limo trapped with no way off the expressway for two hours. "It's just like The Bonfire of the Vanities!" Baysie nervously joked, all the while secretly fretting that a stranded Lincoln Town Car with a load of the latest, ultrahip sneakers would be a carjacker's dream come true.

Malcolm was also fretting-but not about carjacking. Baysie was completely unaware that the sweet, funny guy laughing and chatting with her in the backseat was in fact a desperate man.

She had no idea that, with only 72 hours left before his deadline, the young New Yorker staff writer's story was in shambles. He critically needed some sort of key scene to coalesce the various parts of the article that were failing to come together even after weeks of extensive research and interviews. The success of Baysie's little excursion was pivotal in Malcolm's story for The New Yorker. Everything needed to go just right or the consequences would be disastrous.

Time passed on the Major Deegan and one shoe store appointment after another evaporated, taking with them any hopes of the scenes Malcolm so badly needed. As the wait dragged on and the pressure mounted, Malcolm conversely appeared to become more relaxed. His composure, in turn, got Baysie to loosen up. He got her to tell him more about the nuances of her job as well as her close friendship with DeeDee Gordon, who puts out the L Report, a quarterly newsletter that dissects the up-to-the-minute standards of cool in major American cities.

By the time the car finally got moving, Malcolm's article had begun to gel in his mind. What's more, a couple of the shoe store appointments could still be salvaged.

At the palatial Dr. Jay's sporting goods store on Fordham Road in the Bronx, Malcolm got to see Baysie in action. And Baysie got to see Malcolm in action, too. She noticed he spent a lot of time chatting with the kids, leaving her nervous that either the kids were going to trash Reebok in front of a reporter, or that Malcolm-who was only jotting notes without the use of a tape recorder-would miss a fleeting, pro-Reebok moment. However, the opposite occurred.

One of the kids with Baysie examined a new Reebok with approval and said, "This is bug! Reebok is trying to get butter."

Baysie turned to Malcolm. "Did you get that?" she asked excitedly. "Buttah! He said like buttah!"

Malcolm gave a little nod and a grin. Baysie didn't need to worry. He was catching the tiniest nuances of everything.