Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  By the time tomorrow rolls around I’ll need a new plan, and most importantly, a new attitude. But for now, the only thing I want to think about is getting drunk. Isn’t that what people always say? Take one thing at a time. I figure this first goal is something I can at least accomplish successfully. And if I’ve learned anything in the past month, it’s that successes—no matter how small—help.

  The Reservoir is packed. Everyone is in after-work garb, and although I might look to be in the same boat, I can’t help but feel that the rift between them and me couldn’t be wider.

  When you’ve had a breakdown and cease to worry about the little things that consume your thoughts every other day of your life—hygiene, work, eating—there comes along with it, a freedom from responsibility that I imagine lunatics enjoy. And with that sort of no-worries attitude, I am actually decent company to Jenn: throughout the evening I don’t call her out on anything she says, like Pearl Jam is a better band than Nirvana (I mean come on); acquiescing to her every desire—”Let’s sit near those cute guys,” and “Why don’t we play pool?”—and not commenting on the extra weight she’s put on or even the “Rachel” hairdo she’s wearing nearly a decade after its popularity has waned. I never once insinuate that I’m put off that she hasn’t called in so long.

  Fidgeting on her barstool after she’s topped off a burger and fries, Jenn suddenly takes on the self-conscious mannerisms that unsubtly hint she’s caught the eye of someone from the opposite sex. Ah! I remember how this used to be such an enjoyable pastime for me before my hopes and dreams had been dashed about!

  All of a sudden she is more animated than she’s been all night. She shakes her overly feathered and voluminous dark hair out. Are all women this transparent? If so, then maybe it’s our fault after all that men get the best of us. We never play our cards close to the vest the way they do. If you give everything over to someone, obviously they won’t want it. Everyone knows that. So why have I done this very thing? This, I am right at this moment quite positive, is the reason Liam does not want me anymore. I’ve been accused of it before. But I’ve always been crap at games, even if Joanne dresses them up in smart metaphors about “a dance” we have to tap out just for a little while; they’ve never been my style.

  “There are so many guys here!” says Jenn.

  “Ya think? I hadn’t noticed,” I say, envying her ability to notice. I feel like everyone is faceless, a bunch of Mr. Potato Heads sans eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. As she readjusts herself once more, readjusting her shirt down over her skirt, whoever she’d been making eyes at pushes his way through the crowd toward her.

  “How you ladies doin’ tonight?” asks her stranger, never once looking at me as he speaks. He pulls the rim of his Yankees cap up and shimmies it down again. He’s sort of cute in a boyish way.

  “Good,” Jenn says, dragging the word out and nodding her head slowly.

  “I’m Liam,” he says. Oh, no, he didn’t.

  “Excuse me, did you say Liam?” I nearly yell into his back, which is now towards me.

  “Um, yeah, is that okay?” he asks, twisting just enough so I can see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, as he raises his eyebrows to Jenn, as if to say, “Your friend is a nut.”

  He doesn’t think I can see him, but I catch the whole thing. I don’t feel the need to excuse myself to this person, who is too stupid to realize there is a giant mirror in front of him, or too rude to care. Still, I say, “I just wasn’t sure I heard you right,” swallowing my words.

  Jenn shrugs her own shoulders in agreement and grimaces. I’m not shocked; instead my synapses are firing up with memories of her disloyalty and selfishness. Twisting her head away, which only gives me a better view of her from the mirror, she swirls a finger around her ear.

  Maybe I am bonkers. Maybe I’m totally, utterly nuts. I certainly appear to have lost all semblance of reality. But surely it has to mean something that this jerk’s name is Liam when here I am right in the middle of a crisis over my Liam. I’m guessing it’s not a good sign.

  Liam and Jenn are exchanging pleasantries and I’m doing what The Other Girl does—smoking, taking extra interest every inhale and exhale, peeling the edges of a coaster, and checking myself out in the mirror while taking long, slow sips at my straw. Every so often I look down into my drink as if it is the most interesting thing I have ever seen. (Ooh, ice! Bubbles!) After a few moments of this I take to looking around at people, training my gaze from one side of the room to the other, as if I’m waiting for someone.

  I can’t help but notice that everyone else seems to be talking to someone of the opposite sex. I imagine that they’re all in love, planning trips to the Caribbean, and ready to head home to amazing sex. I notice a couple at a corner table. She’s pretty in an unassuming way, and he is dressed down in a sweater and worn-out jeans, looking the part of the intelligent, humble, and funny type. They speak in the hushed tones, the crowns of their heads touching.

  I gather, in a very scientific way, which only a girl lapping around in a pool of self-pity can, that this guy would be perfect for me, and therefore continue to do what any lonely girl would do: Mentally I tear his companion to shreds. Her boring J. Crew look; her plain-Jane hair—probably doesn’t own a shred of lingerie; her expensive driving moccasins—surely she’s a rich girl without a care in the world. She probably doesn’t work at all, just has Daddy pay the mortgage on direct deposit until her trust fund kicks in. I’m shaking my head in disgust at what men see in women, and why they don’t see it in me, and how disgustingly shallow I’m being to make such assumptions, when suddenly, there’s a shot of 151 in front of my face.

  “Bottoms up, 151!” screams Jenn’s new beau in case I don’t recognize this liquid poison. Oh, friends now, are we?

  The one other time I’d ever had this shot, I was playing hostess at a New Year’s Eve party. It was during the first of my relationships with a Not-Funny-Enough, Not-Smart-Enough guy, who I stayed with because he was sweet and in love with me. One thing I knew I was handing out pigs in filo blankets, the next thing I knew it was noon the following day. Therefore, the shot strikes me as just what the doctor ordered for this occasion. I clink cheers with the two idiots I’m making company with and let the warm liquid burn its way down my throat. A bit dribbles down my chin and I go to wipe it, but a pile of napkins is thrust in my direction before I make contact.

  “Can I get that for you?” asks a redheaded guy.

  Can someone really ask that in an attempt at a pickup line? Surely this could be awarded some type of cheesiness citation. But that quickly, I’m already feeling the effects of the alcohol and I’m actually delighted at the attention.

  “Sure.”

  The couple in the corner is kissing now, and I sense they might just be doing it to show me how happy they are. If they’ve picked up on my vibe I certainly deserve it. Redheaded Guy dabs at my chin, taking his time, probably less interested in the spill than the chance at picking up a desperate girl. He expertly trails a cocktail napkin along my cheek and down my jaw until he reaches my neck. This feels all wrong, but I don’t stop it. I am disgusting and cheap for allowing this public groping from a perfect stranger, but I can’t bring myself to care.

  Somewhere around “wiping” my shoulder blade, my cell phone rings. Whatever I may have said about getting past everything and tomorrow being the start of a brand new me, well, I forget all about that. This might be Liam! Without a moment’s hesitation, I grab my purse, take a look at Jenn, who is already lip-locked (even in this state, I am insightful enough to guess she’s probably here for reasons similar to my own), and run out the door to answer the call in quiet.

  “Thanks!” I yell to Redheaded Guy, who looks crushed.

  By the time I’m out in the street, I’m sure it’s Liam.

  It is.

  “Hello?” I say, trying to keep the world straight by leaning against the brick wall.

  “How’s it going, sweetheart?” he asks.

>   Now that it’s really him, I’m not sure what to say. I’m angry, right? But the way he said sweetheart is sending all pins and needles and warm fuzzies into my stomach, and I remember this feeling, it’s like coming home, and it is fantastic. Does this mean it was, after all, just a case of Liam mistakenly writing the wrong number? Or is he calling to seal the deal now that he’s given me ample time to find out the truth?

  Remembering how upset I was earlier, I swim past the pins and needles and find my woman-scorned tone. “Liam, I want you to tell me right now what the hell is going on here.”

  I’m not sure how he will react to this because I have never used any tone other than the sex-kitten variety on him before. But whatever effect the woman-scorned voice may have had is somewhat diminished by the long pause that follows. I’m deciding whether this is a guilt-driven or shock-driven pause when the silence is broken by laughter. I look around but nobody’s there; I work it out. It’s Liam laughing! His light tinkle grows to a full-blown cackle, punctuated by breath-catching sighs.

  Laughing? Wait. This could be a good sign.

  Perhaps a great sign.

  Is it possible he has no idea why I would be angry? That he thinks I’m putting him on? Obviously, you cannot feign this type of laughter. “Lane, you are really too much sometimes darling.” Now it’s so clear. I was being paranoid. I let my paranoia take over and run wild with the whole thing.

  A wave of relief comes over me, as if I’ve woken from a nightmare to discover that whatever horror I’d endured wasn’t real. Of course! It really was just that he’d mistakenly written the wrong number. Hadn’t that been exactly what Joanne was trying to get at when she asked how quickly he’d written the number? And I’d just ignored the question, assuming she was being negative. That Joanne! (I now choose to ignore her final summation of the situation, which involved the word “asshole” on the grounds that I was telling the story only from my point of view, which is only one side of the truth.)

  “You’re bloody hysterical, Lane. You know that? I wish I could give you a big hug right now.”

  “I wish you could, too,” I say, trying to sound cute.

  “Are you waking up for work now?” I ask, imagining it must be like five in the morning there, and his hair is probably so adorably pushed up on one side.

  “What? Now?” he asks. I’m suddenly confused and paranoid. His voice is rather clear for just having woken up.

  “No, yeah, well, I set my alarm to make sure I’d catch you when you’d probably be coming home. I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about you, chocolate cake, and your bed. And your floor. And … “

  That last and can only mean one thing, and that is exactly what I’ve been dying to hear. I really couldn’t have fantasized about this telephone call any better than it’s going, except that I probably would have added, “I love you, Lane,” somewhere in there.

  Still, this is perfectly fine. I am worlds ahead of where I’d been just seconds earlier. I almost feel normal again (albeit blind drunk), and so I leave all the negativity (and my off-again friend Jenn) behind and walk home talking with Liam on the cell, discussing all of the things we wish we could do to each other. And I start to tell him the story about The Wizard of Oz, and the scare-kids and the kid-crows, and he’s listening, he really is, but he has to cut me off in the middle to get ready for work. Which is totally understandable, right? At least I got a bit out. I’m sure I’ll get a chance to finish up the bits about the wedding scene and the Tiffany diamond Scarecrow offers to Dorothy the next time we speak.

  So I lay down in my bed once again, the most important thing is I’m sure Liam and I are absolutely perfect once again. Where hours earlier I lay in the lowest of spirits, I feel that once again, all is as it should be.

  By the Grace of God I make it to work on time the following morning. I’m so hung-over I can barely see, and even though there is no glimpse of sun in the sky, I’m parched and achy and wearing the darkest sunglasses I own (okay, the only sunglasses I own, but you get the point). And now that everything is back to normal on the Liam front, I really have to get serious about the project we’re working on, as tomorrow afternoon is our meeting with the telecom companies. I have to make all of the final decisions, proof all of the copy, and make sure the order is perfect before it goes off to the printer. It’s a long day, and it’s not really until noon that my brain is at a fully functioning level. John is sweet, and gathering I have drunk my sorrows away, he keeps a constant flow of filtered water arriving at my cubey.

  Tom, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be himself today. The only conversation we’d had was first thing in the morning, when I’d returned his jacket and let him know that everything was just fine with Liam; he’s a smart guy and I know he’d caught on. I’m not kidding myself about that. He was a bit short with me—avoiding my face when I spoke to him, making a big show of sorting through some papers, and since then his door, which is normally open to us at all times, is firmly closed. Perhaps he’s angry that I took off early yesterday in the middle of such a big project over something that was obviously blown out of proportion, and I can’t blame him. So I make sure to work very hard today to show him I’m still dedicated. I’m sure if the meeting goes well this will all blow over. It’s after midnight by the time I have the proofs one hundred percent ready. I have never been pegged as detail-oriented, but I’ve taken extra-special care on this project with every single dot of ink that will wind up on the page. With a project like this, there is so much riding on the deal—employee bonuses, jobs even—that you can’t help but feel a strong sense of responsibility, above and beyond the sort that comes with naming the wrong shade of lipstick that Sarah Jessica Parker wore to the Oscars.

  But all of that extra time making sure each statement follows the Strunk and White guidelines, that each date is formatted uniformly, and that every page looks absolutely eye-catching, our print department will now have to work overnight to get the piece done. I use my womanly charms to ease the situation, arriving with a big smile and sodas for all, and keep the guys company for the first couple of hours—handing out cookies and candy from the vending machine. And while I’m sitting on a high stool, watching the guys work, I wonder if perhaps I’m not dragging this day out because when I no longer have this project to use as an excuse for procrastination, I will be back to panic mode with only one week left before my article is due.

  Before I know it, it’s 2 p.m. the following afternoon, and I’m in the conference room, removing the cellophane from the sandwich and salad platters I’ve ordered for the meeting. At each place, I gently lay down a copy of our proposal, which really is stunning and convincing. The solid metal cover—in the shape of an old-fashioned telephone, bound with an actual, real telephone cord, looks just perfect.

  An hour later, we’re beginning and there are over fifteen people gathered to listen to what Tom has to say. He looks very professional in one of the suits we bought at Thomas Pink, and when one of the women from AT&T compliments him on his tie, he looks over at me and winks. I feel a wave of something unfamiliar during the second she takes to smooth her finger down the tie—something like pride, but with a tinge of something else that causes me to monitor this woman and her freakishly long fingers until they are firmly curled around her coffee mug at the other end of the table. I mean, Tom has a girlfriend and, I can’t help but think, this is a business meeting; she could be a bit more professional.

  Tom takes full control of the meeting. We’d gone over his spiel last night, after most of the company had left for the evening, John and I acting the part of the potential clients. We were so giddy and overtired we couldn’t help ourselves asking stupid questions like, “This presentation is all well and good, but what type of dressing is on this salad?”

  As I said, Tom wasn’t in the greatest mood. He didn’t even crack that half-smile once. But today, he couldn’t be more smiley or gracious. In fact, when he gets right down to business, I am blown away. I’ve never seen hi
m do his thing before, and it is impressive. He is charismatic; he knows what all the charts mean; he has the answers to every question: “The largest portions of users …” “In American and international studies conducted via … ”

  With each point he makes, you can see the faces at the table take on a look of surprise and interest, as if they’ve just heard something they weren’t expecting to. And although I’m here mainly just to take minutes and act like an important part of the team, to make our department seem much larger and stronger than it actually is, he never once treats me with anything less than the highest respect.

  The meeting is long—literally six hours—and by the time we’ve wrapped it all up and called cars for the attendees, it’s ten o’clock. I figure that Tom will be wiped out, but just the opposite; he’s electric with energy from our apparent success. I’m awestruck by how dedicated he is to his job. It’s like, well, like me on those rare occasions work and luck coincide and I get to give my all to something I feel passionate about. I know that feeling of getting what you want because you worked hard for it. You can see that he was made for his job. He shines under the pressure; thrives on the challenge. Tom Reiner, managing director extraordinaire.

  When we are back by our desks and packing up, he walks over to the cubes and says, “We really must celebrate. C’mon, we don’t have any work tomorrow anyway. And besides, we deserve it. You guys have done a fabulous job and Mr. Tamaka has already called me from his cell phone, hinting that this is pretty much a done deal. I couldn’t have done it without the two of you. I promised you a fabulous dinner, and that’s what you’re going to get.”

  “I would love to,” John says. “But my girlfriend and I are celebrating our anniversary tonight.”

  John has a girlfriend? Of course John has a girlfriend. He is sensitive and intuitive and sweet. I, on the other hand, am a shallow jerk, suspecting that he is hopeless with the ladies. I look at him now, smiling. He really is such a sweetheart, and surely, a fantastic boyfriend. I remember the other day, when I was so upset by Liam, John was supremely sensitive to my feelings. He knew exactly what to say, and what not to say. A girl would be lucky to have someone so intuitive and caring to go home to. I look at him now and notice the slight lines around his eyes and his mouth—smile lines. John is a wonderful catch—not the kind you come across every day. I guess if you let them, people can amaze you.