Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe

by Jen Lancaster

  I’ve let management steamroll me, like when I stayed mute when I found out my bonus was being slashed. That’s not me. I think that’s why I continue to identify with the Sex and the City girls. They aren’t corporate drones. They aren’t living their lives like a Dilbert cartoon. They’re who I was and who I can probably be again.

  Today I have the opportunity to set things right.

  Today I’ll make sure I’ve been heard and I can’t wait.

  I’m dressed for the part, too. I look like I’ve just walked out of a Jones New York catalog. I splurged on a fitted cranberry suit coat with a slight peplum at the bottom and a long, matching pencil skirt. The crisp white blouse with pointy collars makes me look extra professional. I pulled my crocs194 out of their protective casing and they complete the whole outfit.

  David glances at his watch. “T minus fifteen minutes. You guys ready to roll?”

  We pick up our trays and gather up dirty napkins, dumping the trash in the big cans on the periphery of the food court. We cut through the train station to avoid as much of the slushy streets as possible. My shoes are completely waterproofed but I like to steer clear of what hazards I can. When I first got them and it was warm enough to go without trouser socks, I’d take them off and carry them rather than allow them to touch the sidewalk. The guys always laughed at me, but I bet Carrie Bradshaw would totally understand.

  Back in the office, I fix my lipstick and run a quick brush through my hair. Then I grab my notebook and my Mont Blanc195 pen and head toward the conference room. David and Tim are both sitting at David’s desk. “Knock ’em dead, tiger!” David calls.

  “Come tell us what happened when you’re done,” Tim adds.

  I already know what’s going to happen; I’m going to rock this meeting.

  An hour later, I’m back at David’s desk. I stand there until he looks up from his spreadsheet and notices me.

  “Hey, how’d it go?” he asks.

  “Okay, now I hate the company,” I tell him.

  “Why? What happened?”

  I flop into his visitor’s seat and I wave for Tim to come join us. As Tim ambles our way, David tells him, “Now she hates the company.”

  “Shocker.” They both laugh.

  I shoot daggers at both of them. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  Sheepishly, Tim says, “Sorry, go on.”

  “We’re in there and after we chat for a bit, the president goes around the table and begins to ask everyone what they need to do their jobs better. The first three morons are all, ‘Oh, we’re so happy, don’t change a thing!’ Then he gets to me and I present a clear, concise list of ideas on how technology could really change our business. I mean, I have an actual vision for how much better everything could be. I can see his eyes light up like, Hey, this girl might be on to something.”

  “Good for you!” Tim claps me on the back.

  “Hold your praise. Then the jackass sitting next to me tells the president that she’s having trouble getting another employee to return her calls and can he please make them talk to her? Then the original three morons jump in and tell him about how they need stupid shit like sturdier file folders because the ones they use rip too easily.” I take a deep breath and continue but I’m almost too disgusted. “And here’s the kicker—instead of him saying, Listen up you ass-tards, I’m the president of this company and I could totally have you killed and—”

  “Why would he threaten to kill them?” David’s brows knit in confusion.

  Tim replies, “She’s been reading too much Grisham.”

  “Anyway, instead of telling the group that we should really focus on the macro, he whips out a pen and begins taking requests for office supplies and phone messages. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks—none of the higher-ups actually want change. They just want to create the appearance of change so we shut the hell up already.”

  David nods sadly. “Jen, I could have told you that.”

  Tim loosens his tie and leans way back in the other visitor’s chair. “What’s your contingency plan? You want to stay here and make the best of it, or do you want to try something else?”

  “That’s a really good question.”

  And I’m going to find the answer.

  I’m sitting in my Stratus a couple of days later giving myself a pep talk. Listen, as soon as you’re done here you can cross the parking lot and go to the mall. And you can buy makeup at the Prescriptives counter and ogle the David Yurman jewelry and pretend like you can afford a Prada bag. I’m giving you permission to play hooky from your job for an hour. All you have to do is get through this.

  This is when I wish I carried a bottle of Jameson in my car.196 A shot of liquid courage would sure soothe my nerves. My hands are trembling and the butterflies in my stomach keep crashing into my heart. I’d totally vomit right now, except I’m afraid I might hit my crocs.

  I’ve been summoned to Dr. Dickweed’s office to discuss197 more unpaid claims. His partner has finally been admitted to our network, so now dealing with this abusive man is in no way, shape, or form any part of my job . . . yet my boss said I had to come anyway. Apparently Dr. Dickweed is “a crucial member of our provider network” and he specifically asked for my assistance.

  I’m stunned this guy is able to maintain a thriving practice. He yells at his patients the same way he yells at me. Seriously, he bellows with everything he’s got. He even opens his mouth so wide I can see his uvula vibrate. (It’s gross.) And his office staff—oh, God, do I pity those poor people. Whereas I only have to deal with his bullshit every couple of weeks, they endure the full brunt of his rage forty hours a week. His staffers scuttle along right next to the walls and never make eye contact.

  I check the time on my dashboard clock. It’s 11:53 a.m. If I wait a few more minutes, it will be twelve p.m., our scheduled appointment time. Yet if I stroll in at twelve p.m., I will be “late” according to Dr. Dickweed, and then he’ll tack on another fifteen minutes of bluster explaining how valuable his time is.198 I unfold myself from the driver’s seat, grab my bag, and with great resignation traverse the sidewalk to his office.

  Kathy behind the desk pulls a compassionate face when she tells me. She says the doctor is ready to see me right now and sends me directly back to his private office. As I retreat down the hallway, I hear her whisper more to herself than to anyone else, “Good luck.”

  I stand at his open door for a moment before I knock. The doctor has his back to me. The fluorescent lighting highlights the liver spots on his bald patch. He’s hunkered over his computer and he appears bony and delicate. Middle age has stooped his shoulders, slimming his limbs and thickening his waist. From this angle, he almost looks frail. Weak. Scrawny. Possibly in need of a hot bowl of soup and a bear hug. I’m almost feeling sympathetic when he spins around in his chair and spots me.

  “Well, you took your goddamned time getting here, didn’t you?”

  It is 11:55 a.m.

  I plaster on a smile. “Good morning, Doctor, I understand you have some claims you’d like me to address?”

  He stalks over to a filing cabinet, pulls out a stack, and literally flings the whole pile at me. The space in front of my face goes white for a second before all the pieces of paper drift to various locations on the floor.

  I’m very quiet for a moment while I figure out my next move. If I punch him—oh, God, do I want to punch him really hard with my big silver ring—I’ll end up in jail. If I scream back at him, I’ll get fired. I bet Samantha would seduce him and then totally destroy him, but I’d rather eat roofing tar.

  I decide my best bet is to do nothing at all. “Looks like you dropped something!” I say sweetly. I don’t make a move from where I’m standing.

  I’ve spent so much time apologizing to this man over issues that aren’t my fault, it takes him a second to realize I’m holding my ground. I can actually feel the balance of power tipping as he crouches down to retrieve the papers. “I’m happy to take these back to my
office and get them all figured out for you,” I tell him.

  “Come with me,” he says brusquely. I follow him down the hall. I’m almost always seated when I meet with him, so I never realized that in my crocs, I’m just as tall as he is. We get to a little storage closet at the end of a hallway, filled with boxes and a make-shift desk.

  Before I even realize what’s going on, the doctor jumps out from behind me and shuts the door. From the other side, he shouts, “You can come out when you’ve resolved my claims issues.”

  I grab the door knob and try to turn it.

  That crazy old bastard actually locked me in here.

  This? This is a new one. Can’t say I’ve ever been kidnapped before. I try the door handle again. Yep, still locked. I walk to the tiny window over the desk. It’s just a pane of glass and doesn’t open. Okay, I would have stayed a journalism major and taken the Beirut beat if I had any interest at all in being kidnapped.

  I sit in an old office chair and weigh my options. I could try to break the door down except I think that’s one of those things that looks way easier on TV. I shove up against it a little bit—ow—and realize I’m right.

  Samantha would throw the chair through the window and jump out except it’s little and I might not fit.199

  Charlotte would call the police except I’m pretty sure no one would believe me.

  Miranda would be the most levelheaded. I follow her lead and decide to use my cell phone to call my director. After I explain the situation (and she finishes snickering200), she tells me not to do any of the above. Her suggestion is to just sit there and work on the claims. She doesn’t want me to make any trouble because we really need this doctor in our network.

  Miranda would never take this kind of shit.

  So I use my phone to dial Kathy in reception. I tell her the doctor has locked me in the storage room. Strangely, she isn’t that surprised. I demand she come let me out. When she opens the door, I hand her the stack of claims, saying, “These belong to you.”

  “What are they?”

  I stand up straight and pull my shoulders back. “They’re what I like to call the last straw.”

  I go home with every intention of writing up a letter of resignation. But before I can even boot up my laptop, my Sunday fantasy comes true and I break into a cold sweat. I alternate between broiling and freezing and I begin to cough my lungs out. I’m stricken with the worst flu of the decade.

  I’m so exhausted that I can’t even stay awake to see SATC. And I barely have the energy to change my voice mail at work, but I do anyway because I have to make sure the Pats, Kathys, and Lindas have the number of my backup.

  An entire week later, I’m finally well enough to return to the office. I’ve changed my mind about tending my resignation. Yes, I hate this job, but I can’t just quit. It’s too dicey. I can’t get my dad’s words out of my head.201

  I get to my desk after stopping to say hello to David and Tim. They both remark that they’ve never seen me so pale. (Girls would mention the five pounds I’ve lost.)

  I throw my purse in a drawer and slide my laptop into the docking station. As I settle in, I notice my voice-mail light blinking. I can’t have too many messages because my greeting instructed callers to talk to my backup for urgent matters, and to e-mail me whatever wasn’t.

  I pick up the receiver and punch in my password. I cradle the phone on my shoulder while I log in to the computer. I have ten new e-mails but none of them are pressing. Sweet! And then I hear my voice mail kick in.

  Welcome to the Audix Network. You have one hundred and three new messages.

  Eighty of these are from Dr. Dickweed.

  None of them is apologetic.

  All of them are apoplectic.

  As I listen and transcribe, I notice I’m sinking lower and lower in my seat. I’m practically cowering by the end, and I’m shaking all the way to my shoes. I kick them off in case my feet start terror-sweating.

  Then I step outside myself and really examine the situation.

  Hold on, this isn’t who I am.

  I’m not a coward.

  I’m not a patsy.

  I’m certainly not a punching bag, even if the blows are only verbal.

  I will not be bullied.

  I look down at what I’ve written in quivery handwriting and I decide I’ve reached my limit. That’s enough.

  I wad up the paper, then put my shoes back on and stomp on it before tossing it in the trash. Then I open a Word document and begin to type.

  Dear Human Resources,

  It is with regret that I’m tendering my resignation. . . .

  You know what, Dad?

  You’re wrong.

  Plenty of companies will hire me if I’m not employed. And if I go into my interview with a good attitude, a solid résumé, and some killer crocodile shoes? They’ll even give me a better salary.

  “Where are we going?” I’m almost completely out of breath and starting to fall behind.

  Someone in the group assures me that we’re almost there.

  “Yeah, you said that, but where are we going?” I’m trying to keep up but three-inch crocodile shoes aren’t exactly the best choice for climbing the hills of San Francisco, especially on a slippery sidewalk. I could take them off for better traction, but the street’s cold and wet.

  “Here,” says the girl with the spiky red hair. I think she’s from San Diego. “We’re going here.”

  I eye the exterior sign dubiously. “This looks like a sushi bar.”

  “That’s because it is,” replies the girl from Boston.

  Okay, did no one listen to me in the getting-to-know-you part of our training session earlier today? My “one interesting fact about you” was that I hated sushi.

  I’m here in San Francisco as part of corporate training. I quit the HMO, telling them I’d rather be waiting tables again than spend any more time in health care. Fortunately, the universe did not call my bluff and I was quickly snapped up by an information technology recruiting firm. My new job entails developing relationships with companies and providing them with IT consultants when needed.

  I’ve been on staff for a few months now and realize this isn’t exactly my dream career. However, they gave me an extra couple grand just for walking in the door and it’s super-easy to earn commission. Plus, I should learn enough about technology to land a better dot-com job when the opportunity arises. Also? No one’s yelled at me once, even when one of the contractors I placed sexually harassed a secretary.202

  “Yeah, I heard you. You can’t say you hate sushi if you’ve never tried it,” Boston argues.

  Pfft. “Of course I can.”

  Boston stares me down as the rest of our group files into the restaurant. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t be that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be outspoken and ballsy in class and then not even have the courage to try something you can buy in the grocery store.”

  I take a step back. “Ouch. That was straight to the heart.” She grins. “Did it work?”

  I pause for a long moment. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go.” Boston holds the door open and I enter in front of her. The rest of our group is already seated around the bar. As I sit, I notice there’s a channel full of water between the chef and us. I’m going to be honest—I’m kind of a sucker for anything with a moat.

  “What is this? How does it work?” The other girls from my class explain how the chef continually puts together new combinations of fish and rice and then sets them adrift on a floating plate. They sail around the bar and if you want something, you take it. Each plate is coded, so when the waitress collects them, she knows how much to charge.

  I sit still as fish bits packaged like pretty little Christmas presents float by. San Diego shows no hesitation, grabbing three plates in quick succession. She wolfs down each piece after covering it with wasabi and pickled ginger.

  Boston carefully selects one of the pink things that I al
ways used to see David and Tim eating. She douses it with a little soy and eats it in two bites.

  “You’re not eating,” she says. “Here. Try this. If you don’t like it, I’ll buy you some chicken fingers once we’ve finished. You can eat them with ketchup.” She hands me a little boat with something green, white, and black on it. I stare at it and make no motion toward it. “Oh, my God, you’re worse than a child. My eight-year-old son eats sushi. You really want to be bested by a second grader?”

  “No.” Maybe.

  I hold the piece up to my mouth and give it a tentative sniff. I smell . . . nothing. That’s a relief. If it smelled fishy, I really would have barfed on my shoes. I hold the roll against the very tip of my tongue . . . and my head surprises me by not exploding. Then I take my first mouse-sized nibble and then another. And another.

  “You like it, don’t you?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny your allegations.”

  “You’re an asshole. Try this.” She picks up what she calls hamachi and sets it in front of me. My reaction time is quicker and I clean my plate in a couple of bites.

  I go on to try snapper, scallops, and squid. I do spit the salmon out into my napkin, but I never cared for it cooked, either.

  Over the course of dinner, all of the girls from my training class laugh and talk and tell stories for hours and it’s just like a Sex and the City brunch only with more business and less b-l-o-w j-o-b chatter.

  I also have something like ten cups of sake, which is why I don’t blame the sushi when I do eventually vomit in the vicinity of my feet.

  But you know what? I wiped off my shoes in the morning and they’re fine.

  They’re a lot more resilient than I ever expected.