by Whitney G.
“I need your help.”
“That’s a given, sir. You are a sad, sad soul. I take it you opened some of my brochures.”
“Fuck your brochures.” I heard him laughing. “I need you to help me find someone who used to work here as a housekeeper, but I don’t want to go through the manager. I need to know where she currently works.”
“Should I assume that this person is a woman?”
“Since I said the word ‘she’, I think that would be a pretty accurate assumption.”
“Should I also assume that this woman’s name is Gillian?”
“No.”
“I thought so.” He laughed. “I’ll tell you exactly where she’s working now. I think I can do that.”
“Right now is a good time to start.”
He laughed harder. “There’s a catch.”
“Do tell.”
“You’ll have to agree to go to at least one consult with a professional therapist, and then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
I hung up.
I’ll figure this shit out myself…
Blog Post
Gillian
One year ago…
If you ever want to know how to crush someone’s spirit, the recipe is fairly simple: One-part unemployment, two (part-time) jobs that won’t officially begin for thirty days, and three parts moving into a rundown Brooklyn apartment with a random girl you met off Craigslist.
Stir well. Serve cold.
I never thought I’d say this, but New York City has officially lost its luster for me. That blinding brightness I once admired is now tainted with the darker shades of hopelessness everyone tried to warn me about.
I can’t walk down Fifth Avenue without feeling like a failure, and those dazzling dreams I used to dream don’t feel like possibilities anymore. They’re all daunting delusions of grandeur.
For a split second, I considered returning home to Boston—telling my family that they were right. I thought I could sit in my old room and figure out another direction for my life, all while ignoring their incessant put downs and relentless repeats of ‘I told you so’. But yesterday, when my older sister called me and said, “I just bet Dad another thousand that you’ll be back by this Christmas.”—I decided I’d rather deal with my new hand in life instead of folding.
All of that said, I’m deactivating this blog today. There’s no point in blogging for an audience of trolls, or posting things that will only be seen in the far, unvisited corners of the internet.
I probably won’t have time to blog anyway. Between being a “domestic engineer” (a nice word for housekeeper) and a floating reserve flight attendant (a nice word for “flying waitress”), I’ll be laughing at the irony in all this.
And since my college degree is now practically worthless, and I’m blacklisted from most of the places I’d actually want to work, I leave this blog with this:
FUCK YOU.
Fuck you, New York City.
Fuck you, New York Times.
Fuck you, you know who you are.
And fuck you, Kennedy.
Fuck. You.
Write later
Write never,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: Who is this audience of “trolls” (plural) that you speak of? I’m still your only fucking follower…
Gate B8
Gillian
Portland (PDX ) --> Dallas (DAL) --> London (LHR)
The alarm clock in my hotel room sounded at exactly 6:00 a.m., and it took everything in me not to cry and wish that this was some type of joke. With every muscle in my body still aching, and my feet so numb and sore that I could barely feel them anymore, I would’ve killed for a few more hours of rest. Or at least another assignment…
Being assigned to work the first class cabin at Elite was the ultimate prison sentence, and unless there was some type of divine intervention soon, I was certain I wasn’t going to last too much longer.
For four weeks, I’d completed all the over the top wine and cheese services, the five course meals, and the ‘check on the first class passengers every twenty minutes’ rule as I flew from Portland to Ft. Lauderdale, Seattle to Los Angeles, Atlanta to Beijing, Beijing to New York. Not to mention the numerous stopover and layover cities in between.
I’d rushed through the terminals in the newest set of mandated heels—a full inch higher than before, and forced myself to smile as I encountered the rudest of passengers. Adjusting to the constant time zone changes, I was shocked that I’d managed to keep my frustration under wraps, especially since I’d been paired to work with the one supervisor everyone told me was the worst.
“The Hawk.” Miss Connors.
Obsessed with perfection, she scrutinized my every move, monitored my every breath. According to her, the bobby pins in my hair were always “too aligned to the left,” my beverage pouring skills “resembled those of a blind waitress,” and I was not “worthy” of sharing her line that featured so many “trips of luxury.”
She was always around. Always. And no matter how many times I tried to do things “The Elite Way,” she would insist that I was doing things “the wrong way.”
My only reprieve from her came when we checked into our separate hotel rooms. While most of the crew hung out at the hotel bar or left to explore the city, I stayed in my room and collected as many hours of sleep as possible. And no matter how many nights I vowed to dream about something other than Jake, my mind always overruled my intentions.
Images of his kissing and fucking me intruded on my most innocent thoughts, and I still dreamed of the way his lips owned mine. I tried to move on, to take Meredith’s advice and “try someone else,” but no other man quite compared. The attraction was only half as intense, the sexiness of the conversations never came close.
After my alarm sounded for a full five minutes, I rolled across the mattress and turned it off. Then I grabbed the room phone and dialed zero.
“You’ve reached the front desk at the Dallas Airport Marriott!” a woman answered on the first ring. “How may I help you this morning?”
“Could I have a few more coffee pods?”
“Absolutely!” She was too cheery for this time of day. “Decaf or regular?”
“Regular.”
“I’ll have someone send it right on up!”
I wrapped myself into one of the hotel’s robes and sat in the corner chair, preparing to slowly wake up and spend the few hours before my next flight watching mindless television, but my older brother’s name suddenly came across my phone’s screen.
I hesitated before answering, not sure whether I should talk to him this early or not.
Brian wasn’t as bad as my sisters or my parents, but he never stood up for me either. He would laugh at their put-downs, but offer me a sympathetic smile right after. He’d fill me in on his life—with no air of arrogance at all, but he would never even try to act as if I was working toward something good in my own life.
Before his call could go to voicemail, I took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Brian, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on? What’s going on!”
Ugh…
It wasn’t Brian at all. It was my oldest sister, Claire.
“I’ve called you two times a day—every day for the past two weeks, Gillian. And not only have you refused to return the calls or even considered the thought of texting back, you answer right away for Brian. I wonder why that is…”
“Probably because Brian isn’t a bitch…”
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “Is something wrong?”
“Brian changed his mind about the proposal. Instead of doing it here at home, he’s going to propose to her in New York since that’s where they met, and he really wants you to be there. So, make sure you’ve taken off from your little job, if you haven’t already, and if we can’t find a suitable hotel, we’ll need to stay in that Lexington
Avenue apartment you brag about so much. Have I already mentioned that you need to take off from your little job?”
“My job is not little, Claire.” I snapped. “It’s quite important.”
“Is it?” She laughed. “Because if it’s that important, why isn’t your name listed on the website anymore? Why is it that when I searched for it last week, you weren’t on the list?”
I gritted my teeth, halfway believing the concocted lie myself. “Like I told you before, I was—” I coughed. “I am the fifth junior editor in my department. They only list the top three, and for the umpteenth time, being the youngest junior editor in history at The New York Times is far from being little.”
“You’re right,” she said, somewhat genuinely. “Me and Amy are studying and searching for cures to well-known viruses, Mia is setting milestones in medicine, Ben is winning every case the courts throw at him, and you…” She sighed. “You’re getting paper cuts and making red-lined marks on articles no one reads. So, I guess you’re right, Gillian. Your job is far from ‘little’ after all. It’s nothing.”
“That’s enough, Claire.” My mother was suddenly on the line and I blinked back the angry tears that threatened to fall.
“Gillian, I’m sorry,” my mother said. “We’ve been calling you nonstop once again and we just thought using Brian’s phone this morning was a way to get you to answer. Will it be okay if we have to spend a night or two at your place during his proposal weekend?”
“Depends.” That awful ache that only came when talking to my family resurfaced. “It depends on if you all will stop acting like I’m some type of disappointment.”
“Oh, Gillian…” Her voice was soft. “You are a disappointment. But that’s okay. Everyone can’t be great and I love you all the same. It’s not the end of the world if—”
I hung up and blocked all of their numbers. I knew I’d have to unblock them eventually, to also find a way for them not to say at the Lexington Avenue apartment that was mine no longer, but I didn’t want to let them ruin my day before it could even begin.
I turned up the volume on the television as a knock came to my door.
“One second!” I stood up and unwrapped my coffee cups before heading toward the door. But when I opened it, I realized it wasn’t hotel services with the additional coffee pods. It was Miss Connors.
Fully dressed in her uniform and looking absolutely flawless as always, she was glaring at me as if I was committing some type of crime.
“Um. Good morning?” I double-tied my robe. “Is something wrong?”
“Something is very wrong, Miss Taylor.” She glanced at her watch. “It is almost seven o’clock.”
“Are you upset that hotel breakfast doesn’t start until seven thirty?”
“It’s almost seven o’clock and you’re not downstairs with me, ready and waiting to go to the airport,” she said, ignoring my comment. “It’s almost seven o’clock and you’re dressed in a bathrobe and looking as if you have yet to start putting on your makeup.”
I was officially confused as hell. “We don’t have to be at the airport until ten today, right?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling you…” I tried to keep my voice calm. “The flight isn’t until eleven forty-five. And with the airport being literally right down the street, if we left now we’d be four hours early. Three hours ahead of everyone else in the crew.”
She stared at me.
I wasn’t sure if I should say, “Okay, I’ll see you downstairs when it’s time,” or continue looking rightfully confused.
“Miss Taylor,” she spoke before I could come to a decision. “I’m not sure why I have to keep stressing this with you, but I’m going to say this one last time. I am not everyone else, and since this airline has decided that you are working with me for the next few months, that means that you are not like everyone else. ‘On time’ is late, early is on time, and getting there when I get there is perfection.” She crossed her arms. “I am perfection. And now, since I’ve wasted five minutes of my morning on you, you have fifteen minutes to meet me downstairs. Or else I’ll write you up and you’ll be downgraded to working with another supervisor who only flies to places like Detroit, Chicago, and West Virginia.”
I bit my tongue, trying my best to hold back my true feelings about her too-damn-early timing and “perfection.”
“Is there something you want to say to me, Miss Taylor?” She tilted her head to the side. “Something other than, ‘I love working for Elite,’?”
“No.” I forced a smile. “I love working for Elite.”
“I thought so.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, wow. Now you only have thirteen minutes. See you downstairs.”
She walked away without another word and I slammed the door closed, screaming all of my frustration into a pillow.
Later that morning, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and bagels wafted through the terminal hallways at Dallas/Ft. Worth International. Passengers stood in long lines, awaiting an early breakfast, and the blue signs that hung high above every gate shone brightly beneath the stark white lights.
I rolled my bag across the floors for the second hour in a row, still searching for random ways to kill the time since the crew lounge was full. With another hour to spare, I darted in and out of various shops, picking up things I had no intention of buying, staring at things I wished I could afford to buy.
I watched passengers as they posed for pictures in front of Dallas Cowboys memorabilia, took the Sky-Link tram around all six of the airport’s terminals, and when I couldn’t take anymore, I decided to buy something to read.
I slipped inside the Hudson Booksellers in Terminal B and headed straight for the books on the back shelf, the bestsellers. Over the past few weeks, I’d torn my way through tons of them, even trading copies with some of the passengers on the long-haul flights.
Grabbing the latest Grisham, I picked up an overpriced bag of potato chips and stood in line. As I was pulling out my wallet, my phone rang. Meredith.
“Hello?” I answered, handing the cashier a twenty.
“Well, hello there, stranger!” Her voice was unusually high-pitched. “How’s life in the skies this week?”
“Exhausting, but I did get you something from Beijing last week. I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will. Is The Hawk treating you any better?”
“No.” I rolled my eyes at the thought. “She’s somehow managed to get even worse. How’s the fashion world?”
“Heartless and cutthroat as ever,” she said. “I’ll fill you in on that later, though. I’m calling because Ben came by last night looking for you. He left a small bouquet of roses and a card. Would you like me to open the card and read it to you?”
“Not really.”
“Too late. Already opened it.” She cleared her throat. “Dear Gillian, it’s been a month since we last spoke and I know that you’re upset with me for cheating, but the fact that you haven’t even tried to understand my side is a bit unfair. That said, I’m willing and ready to compromise. You can sleep with other people as well (two at most) and we just won’t talk about it. We’ll focus on us when we’re together and leave everyone else out of it when we’re apart. Love (Yes, you’re reading that part right: LOVE), Ben. PS—What time can I pick you up for makeup sex this weekend?”
“How romantic.” I couldn’t believe him. “Was that the entire card?”
“Unfortunately.” The sound of water running was in her background. “The roses are quite lovely though. I’ll keep them in my room. Anyway, have you finally had hot sex with the men in first class yet?”
“No, can’t say that I have.” I slipped out of the bookstore and headed up the steps to catch the Sky-Link tram. “I’m still getting used to traveling so often, so I haven’t had the time.”
“Bullshit, Gillian…You’re still stuck on that guy you met at the rooftop party, aren’t you?”
“What? No, no, it’s definitel
y not that.” I didn’t even attempt to sound convincing. “The time zones and the first class service is taking a toll on me. That’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” She laughed. “I’ll give you one more week to hang on to your fantasies of that guy, but since you’re going to be back in New York next week, we’re going to get you laid by someone else. ASAP.”
“You know, I am so grateful to have a friend like you who keeps my vagina’s visitors in her weekly thoughts. Thank you, so, so much.”
“You are so, so, welcome,” she said. “Oh and one last thing. Your mail is starting to get out of hand again. Winnie the Pooh Bear, Anne of Green Gables, Kennedy B., and Katniss Everdeen sent ten letters each this week. I took the liberty of stuffing the envelopes in the corner with the hundreds of others you never open, but seriously, Gillian… There has to be at least a hundred letters all over our place. When are you going to finally do something about that?”
“Depends. When are you going to stop bringing guys home and waking up all of our neighbors with your over the top sex?”
She immediately ended the call, her loud laughter coming right before the beep.
“Now heading to Terminal A. Gates 1-21.” A soft voice came over the speakers as I boarded the tram. “Please hold on and step away from the doors.”
The doors glided shut and the tram lunged forward against the tracks, forcing all aboard to grip the handrails a little tighter, to look up at the gate map and pinpoint how many more stops we’d need to make until we could get on the ground again.
Outside the windows, several airplanes stood still in preparation for a turn on the runway, and ground controllers waved their bright sticks in the air to assist pilots with parking at the gates. Across from me, two lovers held hands and laughed as they complained about airport security, and next to me, a woman shouted into her cell phone about “rude ass gate agents.”
“Now stopping at Terminal C. Gates A21-39.” The tram stopped and I let go of the handrail so I could move to the other side, but as the doors opened, I stopped dead in my tracks.