Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  I smile and he stands, sticking out his hand, which is not manicured and a bit on the dry side, for me to shake. “We’ll see you Monday. Eight-thirty a.m.”

  “Can’t wait,” I say, and this time both corners of his lips turn up in a full smile, and I’m almost sure he can see right through to my brain, where my little assignment sits front and center, and I’m mentally swapping his tie for a subtle silk one.

  Imagine how simple this whole thing would be if Tom Reiner had been The One!

  I’m almost embarrassed for big, old Ms. Banker when she gets up to escort Tom Reiner out of the office, her polyester pants shirring with each stride. She’s trying so hard to impress but doesn’t know the first thing about how to do it. There’s hair-fluffing and blouse straightening and forced giggles at comments that aren’t meant to be funny. I can’t help imagining a makeover—taking her to the gym, a whistle strung around my neck as she chugs along on the treadmill; coaching her through Bloomingdale’s, pointing out stylish clothing that enhances her looks; snapping a pointer at her fingers when she gravitates towards tapered slacks. “Remember the crashing waves! Success! Success! Say it with me, Banker!” I’d yell. She does have quite beautiful eyes and a nice, tiny nose.

  When I rise to follow them, she turns around with a quiet, “Na-ah, we’re not done yet.” I visually rap her wagging finger a bit too hard. This time I add a gaggle of highlighted beauty editors attacking her virgin brows with tweezers, chanting, “This won’t hurt a bit! Hoooh-hooh. haaaahhhhh-haaaaah-haaah.”

  She puts me to the test by running the computer skills evaluations. Fair enough, was my initial thought. But, I am not exaggerating when I say that these are awful, horrible tests designed to massacre self-esteem and chuck confidence into the East River. After you fail to know what the vaguest little button on Microsoft Word does, which obviously can’t be too important, since it’s the only application I’ve used every day for years and haven’t had the need for yet, a window disguised as cute and innocent with a bold font and pretty colors, says things like, “Sorry, that is the wrong answer.” and “Are you sure that is what you want your final answer to be?” in such a dehumanizing way that you really have to fight off the urge to pick up the monitor and hurl it out the window.

  I fail miserably.

  When I meet with her again in her “inspired” office, Ms. Banker looks smugger than she had earlier.

  “Do you think it’s funny to lie on your resume?” she asks as my dream Cosmo assignment seems to slip between my fingers.

  This time I’m sure it’s not the sort of question that requires an answer.

  “Our clients trust us to provide them excellent staffers, and you have taken that responsibility and stomped all over it.” Ms. Banker appears thrilled at the opportunity to reprimand me thus. It’s like when you go to McDonald’s and ask the underpaid, caste system-conscious cashier to “Biggie Size” your meal, and avenging themselves for every time they’ve been forced to ask “Would you like fries with that?” they act like they haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, until you realize you’re using Wendy’s terminology in McDonald’s and correct yourself. “Um, sorry. I mean Supersize.” And then, as if in epiphany, they say, “Oh,” as if they hadn’t known what you’d meant all along.

  It’s clear Ms. Banker has feelings for me like the ones people normally reserve for penny-pinching landlords and shoplifters—in sum, not the good kind. Who knows the cause? Youth? A difference of 120 pounds, maybe? And I’m okay with it, too, just as long as she can find it in whatever she has in place of a heart to let me keep the job with Reiner.

  “But since Mr. Reiner is set on hiring you, I’m going to let you take the tutorials to learn the programs now.”

  I’m shocked. And feeling a bit bad about the 120 pounds thought. Is she actually being nice to me? Maybe this is what she thinks her role in inspiring people is all about. First you knock them down, and then you show them that you, and you alone, hold the tools to pick them up—and then they’re eternally grateful. I’m not about to argue.

  You know what? Those tutorials break everything down so simply that I figure it all out in no time, retest and pass with flying colors. I have to admit that I do feel a bit inspired. I’m not about to grab a surfboard and a ticket to Hawaii, but still.

  In the end, Ms. Banker shakes my hand, and smiling, I might add, she says that she’s very proud of me.

  I like the sound of that.

  A couple hours later, I’m even more inspired in my new camel-colored overcoat. I probably shouldn’t have used my Saks card, the one I’d already stuck a hazard sticker on, but I had to start my new executive life with a new executive look. And the sling-back chocolate croc pumps were just made for a corporate debut. I wear them both on the way home, to break them in, and because I can’t help myself. I stuff the tags and boxes inside my new attaché case. It was on sale, okay?

  Four

  The Trial, the Men,

  and the Wardrobe

  Since I’m meant to arrive at 8:30 A.M. I set my alarm for 7 A.M. Howard Stern wakes me with an intricate assessment of the size of someone’s boobs. I look down at mine and wonder what he would think. On the bigger side is where I fare, and that seems to be his thing. I shake this thought from my head. Why the hell I am considering this point in the first place? It’s the first day of my new life after all.

  I chalk it up to the sadist nature of waking so early in the morning. If you need an artificial device like a clock radio to get out of bed, then can it possibly be good for the natural, normal way your body functions? I should write an article about that, “Snoozers Rejoice” or “Ten Reasons Why You Should Chuck Your Alarm Clock.” To regain some normalcy, I throw sweatpants over my nightgown and run down to the deli for coffee.

  The guy behind the counter cracks a remark about “joining the living today,” since I don’t think I’ve ever been here before nine. I laugh it off but it does seem to ring true. It’s been a long while since I worked in an office, and although I normally make a habit of laughing at and feeling superior to the throngs of people squishing into the subway during rush hour, tossing around cattle metaphors with abandon, today I’m proud to be one of them.

  The new shoes and camel-colored coat don’t hurt, either. I look very smart in a knee-length red pencil skirt and a printed Chloe top I bought on eBay for one hundred dollars. The floral chiffon top has the tiniest buds with the same brownish hue as my shoes and so the whole ensemble comes together beautifully. I mean, I look like I write for Cosmo. Normally, I am a total moron when it comes to practical dressing. I’m ready for any last-minute invitation requiring a pink taffeta tutu, but I wouldn’t exactly blend in on the North Fork. Yet everything seems to work out effortlessly today. Maybe I don’t have little birds and squirrels cobbling together my outfit, but this is a very Cinderella-esque moment. When I press the elevator button, the doors open immediately. At the newsstand I vacillate: should I impersonate a professional and crawl through the Times or be true to myself and indulge in a bit of New York Post gossip? I decide I’ve already got the job, so there’s no need to go overboard, fold the Post under my arm, working-woman-like and descend underground.

  When I emerge at Franklin Street the sidewalks are overflowing with suits and all manner of corporate casualties shuffling off in this direction and that all knowing exactly where to go. I’m in Tribeca. I’m completely disoriented. I have been here for parties at design shops, to review bars with velvet ropes outside, to perchance catch Ed Burns coming out of his apartment, but I’ve never gone by train or walked the area. And if you know anything about the “Triangle Below Canal” then you know it is a maze of a district, with street names that taxi drivers rarely know and, as if that’s not enough, two Broadways, a regular old one and a Western version. It’s enough to leave even the most street savvy running circles like a tourist. I glance at my watch, worrying I’ll be late. Perhaps it would have been a better idea for me to take a trial run to the office yest
erday, rather than spend hours on the phone with Joanne going over the profile of what my M&M will be like, using the Polaroids I’d won in the poker game as visuals. But, gosh, how often do you get to spend a Sunday in such a pleasant way—so pregnant with possibilities and hopes?

  I don’t even know east from west, north from south over here. I normally go with the “we” trick—west to your left, east to your right if I can figure out which way is north, but I can’t find any points of reference. I’m straining to see the Empire State Building, but it’s out of view. I think I see water in the distance, but is that the west or east side?

  I’m forced to ask directions. “I do live here,” I explain, “only I never make it down this far.” The guy smiles sweetly and points the way. Imagine that on Madison Avenue.

  I walk the two blocks he’d directed me along but I’m not where I’m meant to be. I remember that Tom had told me to ask where The Travelers Building is if I get lost, but I can’t imagine anyone would know a building by name.

  “Do you know where Greenwich Street is?” I ask a good-looking man, carrying a briefcase. No time like the present to begin my mission; I’m a bonafide workaholic.

  Only it turns out his other hand is laced through the hand of the woman walking alongside him, and, taking one look at me, she tugs him away before he can answer. I turn to look for another suitable (and dateable) guy to ask. Only, my foot won’t move with me. I look down to see my heel stuck in a grate—the occasion for the human pretzel impersonation I’m attempting to Mac-Gyver my way out of.

  I’m not panicking, but it seems that unlike the charming chain of events set off after this happens to Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner, I’m alone in my predicament. Looking down, I see it’s not giving at all; the shoe doesn’t budge. I have never in my life stepped on one of those subway grates. I am always so careful about this. In fact, I remember moaning aloud while watching that movie, “Yeah right! Like that would happen! Nobody walks right over those in heels!”

  I’m trying to keep my cool while twisting and yanking to free myself, but nothing’s happening. Shit! People start to stare, and I feel my cheeks flush. This is unbelievable. How did I get from Howard Stern’s opinion of my boobs to this?

  From somewhere behind, I finally hear someone ask if I need help, and inexplicably I scream. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” because I’m so busy being angry at the lack of humanitarianism in our society that I don’t realize this is my only way out.

  But I’m not fine, and now I have to bend down to remove my shoe and try to jiggle it free. Only once I loosen my foot from the shoe, I step down on a jagged bit of sidewalk, and my stocking snags. I lift my foot to inspect the damage and I feel the distinct tickle of nylon tearing up my calf as the run makes a warp-speed vertical climb.

  “Always carry two pairs of stockings,” I’ve advised in articles. But when you’re deciding between one pair of the really nice kind that make you feel like a million bucks and two of the practical pairs that come bunched up in eggs and put together don’t even make you feel like fifty cents, you somehow convince yourself that the expensive ones never run.

  Okay, I’ll just dash into a store and grab any old pair of stockings. That is, if I don’t die here, trying to pull my shoe from the grate. Surely there’s a shop around. I’m trying to delicately pull the gorgeous Jimmy Choo croc heel from the grate when all of a sudden, the shoe springs free, sending me sailing back to the ground on my butt.

  I look at my shoe, ready to kiss it, really, for coming out in one piece, when I realize that it is not, in fact, in one piece at all. Well, rather I have one piece, and some subway rat is now scurrying off with the other piece—the quintessential piece, the heel, which has descended into the depths of subway hell.

  It’s 8:20 a.m. and I have a heel-less shoe and a run in my stocking and may be responsible for the death of one of those subway mole people via stiletto stabbing. I am not off to the greatest of starts. The only recourse I have is a cell phone and a number for my boss.

  “Hello?” he answers.

  I was hoping for his voicemail. Now he’s on the line I’m not sure what to say. I opt for the truth. “Mr. Reiner. Hi. It’s Lane here.”

  “Oh. Hi, Lane. You can call me Tom, you know. Everything alright?”

  “Well, actually, Tom, I’ve had a bit of a mishap here with a subway grate and my shoe, so I’ve just got to pop back home and get another pair that actually has two heels, okay? I won’t be more than a half hour.”

  I’m pretty sure I hear a muffling, like when you put your hand over the receiver, and then a deep laugh in the background, before he says, “No problem, Lane. Do the best you can. We’re still getting everything all set for you anyway.”

  “Thanks,” I say, relieved. He hangs up before I remember to ask how to get there. I’ll just have to suck up the money for a taxi.

  I realize I’m pretty close to Century 21. Not around the corner close, but since I’m all the way downtown, it will take me less time to get down there and buy another pair of brown shoes than to go all the way back to my apartment and reconsider my whole outfit, which was built entirely around this pair of shoes.

  I can’t believe how crowded this shop is so early in the morning. People know how nuts it gets here and want a chance to scavenge the merchandise before everyone else. But since so many people have this same tactic in mind, it’s not very effective. I head for the shoe department and feel electricity pulsing through my veins. I spot a pair of Clergerie platforms for only seventy dollars. It should be illegal to have so many beautiful things on sale for such little money. It doesn’t seem fair that I have to buy another pair of work shoes rather than fun platform sandals that would normally cost $500. It’s like finding a buried treasure and waving it off for someone else to find. They have the most adorable crystals embroidered onto gold leafy-twisty vines around the ankle, and I recently pitched a whole round of stories about how huge this bohemian look is going to be this summer. I’ll just try them on. Across, in the full length, they are spectacular.

  Maybe I can write an article about my experience buying these shoes, and then I can write them off on my taxes, and then they would really only cost—well, how much of it do you actually get back?—less anyway, much less than even the seventy dollars which is, undeniably, already an extraordinary deal. I tuck them inside the tissue, and hold onto the box tightly, because in this shop, people are eyeing what you’ve got, just waiting for you to put it back, under the idea that if someone else wants it, it’s got to be great, right? This is the sort of mob mentality that causes catastrophic trends like those humongous jeans guys started wearing years ago, and oversize sunglasses, and anything by Gaultier.

  Halfway down the aisle, a miracle happens. A miracle in chocolate crocodile. The very same pair of Jimmy Choos I just ruined is sitting right there. In a box. In. My. Size. It is a veritable miracle since they are from this season, and this makes me think that maybe, just maybe, miracles really do happen, and that the story of Hanukkah actually is true: that oil really did last for eight nights. And they’re only eighty dollars. It’s a sign from God (or a whopping mistake someone should be fired for), and who am I to ignore it?

  Perhaps the day will get off on a better foot now, I’m punning as I pass some adorable earrings on the way to the checkout. They’re only ten dollars so I toss them onto the counter with the rest of my purchases, which, after having scanned the clothing department, fill up two hefty shopping bags. I’ll be having lots of long days at the office, and who knows what I can expect in the sartorial disaster area, after today’s start? I’m preparing. If I’d prepared this well for today I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with, right? Besides, I’ll be making so much money, I’ll be able to pay this credit card bill in full, no problem. The cashier swipes my card through and I cross my fingers it won’t be declined.

  The only problem, I realize, as the cab pulls up in front of a looming office tower with an adorable sculpture of a red umbrella out
side, is that I now have two shopping bags from Century 21, which I’m not sure will make the greatest impression, especially now that I’m late. How late am I? A quick glance at my cell phone tells me it’s now ten o’clock. Not quite the half hour I implied.

  I’m waiting for my change and receipt when, for the first time, I take in the scene at this building. There’s a huge courtyard in front with trellised overhanging walkways and all form of greenery; to the side benches are set up like a quaint little park. And on every inch of this property, and I do mean every single inch, there is something infinitely more wonderful than anything Mother Nature could produce. Something that would cause any living breathing woman’s jaw to drop to her ankles.

  And that majestic, fantastic, utterly unbelievable something is men. Men in button-down shirts in various modes of buttoned—all the way up, one open at the top, two open at the top. There are men in ties, men with no ties, men with ties tossed over their shoulders.

  But wait, there’s more.

  There are tall men, short men, men with glasses, men without glasses. I spy men in sports coats, long overcoats, suits. Men with briefcases, backpacks, messenger bags, holding files, gripping plastic bags. Some men are alone; some are in groups. There are men standing, sitting, walking, running, bending over to pick things up.

  And the best part?

  There are very few women.

  “Miss! Miss! Do you want your change or not?”

  “Huh?” I wave my hand around to grab for the contents of his outstretched palm, unable to shift my gaze from this fantastic scene. I make my way to the curb, gripping the spoils of my shopping spree.

  Picture me, if you will, standing before this massive structure, men literally oozing out all over the place (so this is where they have been all this time!), the sun shining, a gentle breeze blowing (and whipping hairs into my gooey lip gloss, of course), just beaming at the fact that my hunch was one thousand percent correct. If anything, this phenomenon is more glorious than anything I could have hoped for when I pitched the article.