Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  I do know this place though. I have been enraptured by its booty before. But at the time, I was in deep REM sleep.

  So I do what any soon-to-be-famous magazine writer, who is now one and half hours late, overflowing with inexplicable shopping bags, would do. I take note of the absolutely humungous smile that has formed on my face (and will probably necessitate a nimble surgeon’s removal), lower my sunglasses, run for a seat on the low wall that runs along one of the walkways and whip my phone out to call Joanne.

  “Holy Effing Shit!” I whisper-scream into the receiver. “What? What?” she asks.

  “You are not going to believe how many men there are here. One just looked at me! Oh my God, and another one is checking me out right now! This is insane. Abso-effing-lutely insane!” Now it’s not like me to curse this much. But I’m sure I don’t need to make excuses to you for my effing awe-inspired cursing. Can you just imagine? Can you just effing imagine?

  For a girl, who prior to this day, only had daily contact with the men on her block—the mailman, the FedEx man, a messenger, the guys at the deli, perhaps the odd delivery boy I’d scare as he attempted to shove a menu under my door—this is one utterly fantastic moment.

  “Can I come meet you for lunch one day?” she asks.

  “Ha!” I say, because I’m so giddy and can’t think of anything else.

  “You sound like you’ve just won the lottery.”

  “I think I have,” I say. “Do you have a second to talk while I smoke a cigarette?”

  “Sure, my boss isn’t here,” she says, not because her boss gets mad when she talks on the phone, but because he sits right across from her and has this annoying habit of asking “What? What did she say? What’s so funny?” every time Joanne laughs, replies or says virtually anything at all into the phone.

  “Holy shit.”

  “What? What?” she’s asking, sounding, I think, a bit like her boss. “What’s going on?”

  “What isn’t going on?” I reply. “This is incredible. And I haven’t even gone inside yet.”

  “Why not? It’s pretty late, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I had a little incident with my heel and a subway grate this morning.” I’m talking kind of loudly now, because I’m sort of hoping some guy will overhear my conversation and find me wildly amusing and sexy. One does, I’m guessing from the way his eyes rest on me as he walks past, and the way his head turns to look back at me after.

  Now, lest you think this could only happen to the most gorgeous women in the world, let me give you a bit of a clearer picture of me. I confess I have been called a pretty girl. That is to say, in this world—the normal world, or rather, the one outside of the beauty and fashion businesses. And if you’re not familiar, “the industry,” as we insiders refer to it, is a microcosm in the universe where everyone has access to the best beauty services in the entire world: the hair color gurus; the biweekly blowout (daily in many instances); the BaByliss flatiron (bye-bye frizz); Paula Dorf makeup; lessons on how to use the Paula Dorf makeup (it’s all about contouring); the designer clothes (free!); the trainers; the wires to shut your jaw up when you need to drop twenty pounds, after which the Zone will deliver healthy meals to your home every day for maintenance; the eyebrow artistes; and then, of course, the breast enhancements; the Ursule Beaugeste pocketbooks; the Chanel shades; BOTOX; endermologie; microdermabrasion; airbrushed self-tanner; laser hair removal; and on and on and on. It’s not difficult to spend your whole day hopping from one expert to another—and when you’re getting paid for it, there isn’t much reason not to. Besides, all these places offer Internet connections, power points to plug in your laptop, and to some people, probably someone to type the bloody things up for them. And although I have access to some of those things—enough to make my friends jealous—there are many more women who have many more of those things (and, let’s face it, longer legs and smaller noses, tighter abs, skinnier arms). And so this puts me on the bottom end of the spectrum of their “fabulous, daahling” kingdom. In a room full of them, I wouldn’t even rate a glance. I won’t even say how many times I’ve been given a hard time by a clipboard-manned door.

  Press lunches at Barneys can bring on such raging attacks of insecurity that I can’t even bring myself to go. Those that serve cocktails allow me to at least take the edge off enough to speak to the goddesses whom I need to mingle with in order to succeed in my career.

  But in this world of sensible shoes and power suits, where sworn-by beauty lines “Remede” and “Decleor” are laughed off as exotic appetizers, and answered with “No, thanks, I’m allergic to fish,” I’m a standout. I can tell from the way these men are looking at me that this is not just in my head. I feel taller, as if my legs are long, willowy branches gracefully swaying from my torso. My hair is long and smooth and doubtless reflecting sunrays in the majestic manner of Guinevere riding through Camelot on a white horse. People have always said I have great cheekbones (little do they know this is simply a makeup trick), and when I remember this, I suck my cheeks in to maximize the effect. I glance at my nails—slightly square shaped, and finished in a barely-there polish—and even those seem alluring. I have never felt more desirable in my life.

  I mumble something into the receiver about Century 21 and shopping bags, and Joanne asks me to clarify, but all I say is, “I’m just about done gloating. Nothing left to say here. There are men to meet!” With a laugh, Joanne hangs up. She must be thrilled I’m not complaining for once.

  I figured I would simply ride up in an elevator and find myself seated at a desk in no time. This was a serious oversimplification on my part—not unlike the train of thought that had me believing I’d find my way to work this morning. I realize my first problem when I look ahead and everyone is flashing ID cards at the security guard.

  “Hi,” I say when it’s my turn.

  “Hi,” he says back. In my state of mind, merely saying that word feels sexy. The idea of all of this security feels sexy. This entire place is one elaborate aphrodisiac.

  “I don’t have an ID card. It’s my first day,” I say, blushing; given my state of mind, I worry my words sound X-rated somehow.

  “Okay, any picture ID will do,” he says, pointing to the opposite wall, “just go to that desk and they’ll call your boss and get you a card.”

  I’m fumbling through my handbag and trying to balance the shopping bags when suddenly I feel the whole load lighten up.

  “Can I help you with these?” Someone speaks out from the Sea of Man behind me, grabbing for the shopping bag handles, which have dug red marks into my hand.

  “Sure,” I say, overzealously. Everything smacks of surrealism. If I read this scenario in a book I’d be mumbling to myself about how unrealistic and ridiculous it sounds, but the truth is the lobby is even more unbelievable than the exterior. There are so many men that my eye doesn’t know where to look. The marble, swirling imperially here, there, and everywhere, is exquisite. I am an elegant Audrey Hepburn or Plum Sykes (beautiful, fashionable Vogue writer) in someplace like the Plaza Hotel. And my spontaneous rise to fabulousness is enhanced in a bit of a shallow (but human, really) moment, as I realize that the women passing to and fro, scarce as they are, have really put in minimal effort. They’re wearing messy ponytails and clunky flats! I see bare lips everywhere. Not one contoured cheek, not a single slim white suit with black shell, no trace of a freshly blown-out head of hair. Instead it’s shapeless suits and utilitarian tights. Look, I’m into women’s lib as much as the next girl, but if any single girls I know saw all these men around they’d certainly make an effort. These women don’t know how good they have it!

  “First day, really?” the bag-carrier is asking as he follows me through the metal detector and on toward the check-in desk. Now that is a desk with a fantastic view. I can barely concentrate on keeping a conversation going with this chivalrous young man in one of those blue shirts they apparently hand out with MBAs. There goes another, and another; blond hair, and brown hair,
and freckles, oh my!

  “I’m Tim,” he says, extending his hand while a John Cusack look-alike and a shorter Mel Gibson walk by.

  “Lane.” I reach for his hand with a new appreciation of the phrase “kid in a candy store.”

  “May I help you, Miss?” asks the security woman in an unfortunate polyester top and frizzy bob. I want to help her, spearhead a mega-makeover, and then I catch myself. Who am I?

  Behind her hangs an enormous American flag and I swell with patriotism: I am an American, a New Yorker, a useful member of society, a businesswoman among businessmen. And at this moment, I can’t think of a better thing to be.

  “Well, you’re busy here I see. I’ll catch you around.” Tim gingerly rests the bags in a semicircle around me, rejoins his friend, and I hear the distinct clap of a high five. I’m flattered.

  This is going to be a piece of cake. I can probably finish the article in a week and then it will be smooth sailing through lunchtime rendezvous and supply-closet nookie the rest of the time. I can put my feet up and enjoy the view for the final month and three weeks. Maybe I won’t even quit. Maybe I’ll stay here until I grow old and gray. Maybe it’s not really that I’m meant to be a writer, but that I just didn’t know any other life before.

  The poorly dressed attendant calls Tom Reiner and instructs me to wait by the side of the counter. I could stand here watching this fantastically erotic bustle for the rest of my life and feel I have indubitably lived.

  I feel a tickle on my foot and look down to see someone’s knocked over one of my bags. I’m reaching over to pick up my fashionable mess when the panic returns: I have no way of hiding (or explaining) the spoils of a conspicuous shopping spree that has caused me to be an hour and a half (now an hour and forty-five minutes) late.

  I flirt with the idea of layering each and every garment on my body and tucking each of the wedges into a coat pocket. I’m just picking up my new pink Cosabella low-rider thong, fearing (and hoping a little) this may cause a man pileup, and smiling wickedly as I decide whether to ball them up to hide inside my purse, when someone calls my name. It’s none other than Mr. Thomas Reiner.

  I don’t meet his eyes at first. I’m a little mortified at myself and at his tie—this time covered in spinning globes rimmed with double motion lines and raised blue stitching for the watery bits. I rise to a standing position and shift my gaze to meet his. We complement each other at the same time:

  “Nice tie,” I say.

  “Nice color for you,” he says, indicating the underwear. Despite the fact that you are probably holding your hand up to cover your face right now (and if you are on public transportation, yes, everyone thinks you are crazy), this is actually a good thing because Tom happens to be the sort of guy who flushes at the sight of his new assistant’s underpants.

  And so, despite the fact that there are doubtless a number of questions looming, he decides to push them aside and instead excuses himself from the situation by saying, “I’m running out for a meeting. I’ve left some instructions with John Tansford from my department and I think he can keep you all covered up (megablush) while I’m out.” Coming from someone else’s mouth this might sound snippy. “And I hope you’re as good at your job as you apparently are at bargain-hunting. Ask the receptionist to buzz John for you. When I get back I’ll take you on a tour and to the glamorous … “ he waves his hand loftily, “cafeteria—for lunch.”

  I follow his image as it disappears through the doors, and I’m already wondering if John Tansford will be my M&M, or the guy who carried my bags, or the one who winked at me, or the one with the dimples… . How does anyone get any work done here?

  I stand and wait, guessing which one will be the enchanting, single and scrumptious John Tansford.

  “Ms. Silverman?” asks the tallest, skinniest man I’ve ever met. It’s a miracle he can stand up without tipping over. Looking down, I see this is in no small part thanks to his colossal feet. He looks less like a man and more like a boy, albeit a very tall one, all big-eyed and rosy-cheeked. When I stand (all of five feet four inches-despite how willowy and long I imagined my legs a moment ago) he makes a conscious effort to hunch over, as if apologizing for his height. Despite this sentiment, he maintains direct eye contact with the floor. It isn’t difficult to see winch side of the sexy/nice line John makes his home on.

  “Yes. John, is it?” I ask, extending my hand, which he takes with a grip so light I can barely feel it.

  “Yes, John Tansford. Nice to meet you. I hear you had some problems getting here this morning,” he says, his face scrunching at Mr. Floor as I gather my bags, “Can I get those for you?” he offers.

  No matter what people say about the cutthroat world of business, I have to say, if this were an editorial office, there would be no way I would have gotten through my first day walking in with the spoils of a shopping spree an hour and forty-five minutes late. My firing papers would have been filed before I even arrived. And while they had me filling them out, someone would have taken my Clergerie platforms as part of the money I owed them for wasting their time. But here I am being escorted with my own personal porter to the ID station as though I’m Julia Roberts at the end of that Pretty Woman shopping spree and makeover sequence.

  Everything is so organized and professional here. Your ID card is processed immediately. That is, after showing five forms of identification, and going through a thorough security check that runs just shy of inquiring how many sexual partners you’ve had, the last time you’ve gone to the bathroom, and how often you fight with your mother.

  Unfortunately it’s not the clip-on I’d imagined, and when I ask the ID man if there’s a possibility he could order one for me, he thinks I’m joking and goes into hysterics.

  “That’s a good one. ‘Can you order one for me?’ Ha!” He ribs John, who flashes me a reticent glance, but looks away before I can be sure whether that was a smile I saw accompanying it.

  Clip or not, my picture is remarkably great, no small feat for someone who’s been told her license looks like a “before” photo from a makeover shoot.

  We make our way up twenty-six flights and then, inexplicably, into the stairwell to descend one. I’m in no position to question anyone’s behavior so I keep quiet. The hallway gives way to an open-format office strewn with cubicles with unfashionably colored cloth walls in maroons and grays, which in any other spot would probably seem depressing. But here, just as a slicked-back ponytail and toned-down makeup can actually highlight a boisterous ensemble on the runway, the drab colors just make the men seem to pop even more. Glass encased offices line the border of the floor. As we make our way past some of them, I note once again, that women are sparse. I do catch the random “Happy Birthday, Tiffany!” sign here, and the telltale candy dish there, but the tokens of female life are few. And those women I see are in suits or androgynous pants and tops. But even that isn’t enough to stop me from feeling like part of one, big happy family. These are my people. I am drunk with being part of something big, and excited to take note of every detail for my article.

  My cubicle is right outside Tom’s office and next to John’s cubicle. Although it does have those dreary maroon walls, I’m sure I can work some magic and transform it into an adorable respite. It’s got plenty of space for me to hang things on and lots of great storage bins and work surfaces. I wish I could come to a space like this to do my regular job. With all these people working, and the distance from my bed, I’m sure I’d get so much more work done. It’s buzzing with telephones ringing, people shuffling to the water-cooler, typing away, and drawers opening and closing. It’s like a real office in here. So inspiring! So lively! So, well, filled with men! Now, I know I sound like a little kid who’s never seen the big working world before, but that’s exactly how I feel, since I’ve been holed up in my apartment for so long. I don’t think I realized how far removed from society I’d been.

  Tom has left a beautiful arrangement of lilies and orchids on my desk with a little c
ard that reads, “We’re so glad to have you.” I couldn’t be more pleased, and feel a bit amused by the fact that Tom has omitted the exclamation point here, where most likely any other human being would place one. Reading it as a straight sentence, without the lilt at the end that an exclamation point would require, does make one take the statement more seriously. You know, I think Tom might have something there. No wonder he’s a Managing Director of Mergers and Whatever-that-other-thing-is.

  “Shall I leave you to settle in for a bit? Tom’s left all sorts of notes here for you about filling out your paperwork and meeting with HR about benefits and all that. I’ll be right over the wall if you need me.” He knocks on our dividing line and raises his eyebrows in wait of my response. If the fidgeting and crimson cheeks serve as any indication, it looks like he just might faint if I require his presence a moment longer.

  “Sounds gre—” I go to lift my voice, as if there’s an exclamation point, but stop myself, clear my throat, and repeat, in a monotone, professional way, “Sounds great.” John nods and disappears behind the maroon wall. I think I hear a sigh of relief from the other side.

  My computer appears to be brand new. I take off my coat and hang it on the side of my mock doorway. It’s so beautiful, it will make a nice first impression to passersby. My new chair has a comfy, high back, and, I note, as I lean back into it, a fantastic rocking option—a nice change to the cheap, uncomfortable chair I use at home. Funny that; I feel very much at home.

  One mountain of paperwork and the most boring meeting of my life later, I’m fidgeting with my computer, which doesn’t allow much fidgeting before a dialogue box prompts me to enter a password. Passwords remind me of voicemail and voicemail gets me wondering if there are people leaving me messages at home, left and right, offering me assignments for the first rime in my life. I get a sinking feeling, realizing that I’m not there to answer the calls. I dial my voicemail number.