I assume my place in line and tap my foot in irritation, checking the wall clock every ten seconds. How can it take so long just to get coffee? Come on, people!
8:51: I’m now the third person in line. More foot taping and loud sighing.
8:59: Drink in hand; I begin a great balancing act, trying not to slosh Caramel Macchiato on my black suit, as I refuse to drink out of a plastic lid. Burning, sticky coffee is splashing all over my hand, shit!
9:14: In lobby waiting for the archaic elevator that never bothers to show—I don’t blame it.
9:17: Taking the bloody stairs up six bloody flights.
9:21: Arriving at the BNE office, red faced, panting, and covered in sticky caramel, with clothes blotched in wet coffee. I enter the office, which is shabby and disorganized. Boxes, files, and stacks of loose papers everywhere. The fluorescent lights burn my eyes, and I’m about to turn around, thinking I might be at the wrong suite, when one of the clerks glances up and acknowledges me.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Lane Carson and today is my first day,” I say. The gal asks me to wait a moment, and I suck back my coffee, trying to absorb as much pleasure as I can because the day’s going downhill from here. A red-headed man comes around the corner dressed in a cheap, gray polyester suit and scuffed brown shoes.
“You must be Lane.” I recognize his voice from the phone call yesterday. “I’m Aaron Patterson, the director of BNE.”
I nod and arrange my features into the closest thing I can muster to a smile.
Aaron’s smile falters and he leans closer. “Lane, it’s in poor taste to show up late on your first day.”
“Yes, well, your elevator operates on sloth mode.”
Aaron sighs, but invites me to meet my direct boss. He leads me to a dumpy office, where I’m greeted by Magda, the collections manager.
Magda, a robust woman in her fifties, stands and offers me a warm smile and firm handshake. “Pleasure to meet you, Lane. Aaron tells me you have quite the impressive PR background. I do hope you’ll find collections equally satisfying.”
Don’t hold your breath. “Nice to meet you, Magda.”
“Welcome to the family,” Aaron says over his shoulder as he leaves us.
Magda smiles again and motions for me to sit. I pull up an ugly tweed chair and wait as she fumbles around on her computer. “So, Lane, we don’t have a desk set up for you just yet, and unfortunately I’m stepping into a meeting shortly; but you can review our company portfolio and website. Also, I’d like you to review these two collection folders and tour the call center down the hall. Any questions?”
Yeah, when can I go home? “I think that about covers it,” I say with false enthusiasm.
“Great. Oh, and you can take your lunch hour at one o’clock. Our office hours are nine to six, in case you didn’t already know.”
Six? Nobody bothered to bloody mention that tidbit of information, shit. Twenty-six thousand dollars a year for nine-hour days. Is that even legal?
Magda leaves me alone. I sit back with a huff and grip my coffee close for comfort as I regard her office. The poor woman isn’t even granted a window, and the walls are so drab it’s a wonder she can stay awake. I pull the portfolio closer and flip open the cover, to find some stats on residential break-ins and how BNE’s service offers a necessary peace of mind, blah blah. I can’t bring myself to waste another second on this shit. I flip it closed.
I wonder what time it is. I pop my phone out to see it’s 9:43. That’s it? Oooh, I also see I have a missed text from Billy.
Lane sorry to miss you last night but I’m making it up to you. Guess who has an audition today? It’s at noon downtown for a Budweiser commercial. You’re going to rock it!
What? Is he talking about me? I have an audition, just like that?
WTF? Where? How? WTF?
My phone pings with the reply from Billy.
I asked John’s assistant to let me know about open auditions for you! You don’t even need an agent…though you can send ME the 15%!!
I can’t believe I have an audition! My heart starts hammering in my chest, and I dial Billy for the details.
Billy says I have to wear clubbing clothes. The sticky, black suit will never do; which means I’ll have to bus home for a change of clothes and then bus back downtown. Billy also says commercials can pay upwards of five thousand dollars!
I shove the BNE folder away in disgust and go off in search of Magda. I finally spot her through a glass door at a conference table with some talking suits. She’s facing me, so I figure I’ll just stare her down until we make eye contact. I stand at a discreet distance from the door, trying to get her attention, which doesn’t work as she’s presenting to the group and seems oblivious to anything else. Shit, it’s 10:02. I need to leave. Oh, what the hell! I march up to the glass conference door and tap on it hard with my nail. All heads shoot toward the door, and Magda stops mid-sentence. She frowns at me and excuses herself from the group.
“Lane, is there something urgent? I’m making an important presentation.”
“It is urgent. I actually need to leave for a few hours, but I should be back by one or so,” I say, hoping she’ll understand.
She doesn’t appear to. She actually looks pissed. “I’m sorry; did you say you need to leave? As in, leave work? For three hours?”
“That’s right. I have a very important audition, and I just can’t turn down this opportunity.”
“An audition?” Magda echoes.
“That’s right. For Budweiser. Listen, I know it sounds far-fetched, but I have two small children and I’m supporting them on my own. I need to take every opportunity I can get.”
“Lane, this is absurd. I cannot possibly allow you to leave work for an audition. Ever!” Before I can protest, Magda retreats into the conference room, closing the glass door in my face.
Now what? I can’t not go to the audition; we absolutely need the money. It would take me months to make that in collections.
I find Aaron, who’s on a phone call that seems to drag on. I realize he’s speaking with a customer who keeps tripping their alarm. After listening to this nonsense for what feels like an eternity, I march back to Magda’s office, scroll a note about needing to leave with or without her approval, and promise to return by 1:30.
It’s 10:43. Just enough time to zip home, change, and bus back to the audition. The excitement and adrenaline of a real audition kick in, and I happily forget all thoughts BNE.
Nobody is home. Juliet must have taken Rory out somewhere, so I quickly change into a skintight, white mini and halter top. I volumize my hair and apply a layer of hot pink lipstick, and voila! I look the part.
Once downtown, I feel kind of silly in this barely there skirt and stripper heels, but I stride purposefully to the warehouse where the audition is taking place. Inside, there’s a cattle call, and I’m irritated to see I’m probably the oldest one auditioning. By ten years! Nonetheless, I decide the others have nothing on me, and I toss my hair over my shoulder and raise my chin.
Finally, just after 1:15 my name is called, and I enter a room the size of a gymnasium. The warehouse is virtually empty, aside from the two black women seated at a table in the open space. They glare me down and don’t even bother with a welcome or introduction. This is so intimidating.
“All right, we’re gonna play some music and we want you to dance for us like you’re in a nightclub,” one girl barks. The music starts blaring from this weak, little ghetto blaster, and I have no choice but to dance. I hesitate for a beat, then begin shaking my hips, all the while feeling ridiculous. Are all auditions like this? Here I am in this vast warehouse, and my audience—from the looks of it—is not appreciating my moves. And I can dance. They don’t motion to end the music though, so I close my eyes to separate myself from their menacing stares and imagine a packed club, cute guys, friends…
Oh no! My little skirt is wiggling its way up my torso. How embarrassing. Almost b
aring my butt, I struggle to shimmy the skirt back into place, all the while trying to keep my dancing rhythm. And so it continues; I shake my butt and move my arms to the music while being acutely aware of my rising skirt and tugging it back down in time with the beat.
After what seems like forever, the music abruptly shuts off. The dead air hangs.
“What would you do if you were at a club and a girl came over and splashed her drink in your face?”
What? “Well, I’d ask her why she did that,” I say with hesitation, not knowing what the judges want from me.
The girl with the cornrows leans forward accusingly. “Then you’d be starting something,” she says, raising her eyebrow.
I frown again. “Um, no. She already started it by splashing her drink in my face!”
“All right then,” says the other gal, “what would you do if you were at a club and you were dancing and some guy was grabbing your butt, and you told him to leave you alone, and he didn’t?”
“I’d hit him!” I say with absolution. Damn right!
“What?!” Both women look horrified, as though I’ve assaulted them. Abruptly they tell me to leave the audition, and I turn away, stupefied.
After changing, I head outside and text Billy, letting him know the audition was so crazy and that they kept quizzing me with these nightclub scenarios. Before putting my phone away, I check the time and am shocked it’s already quarter to two.
Back at the office, the elevator comes almost immediately, to my relief, and I ride the car up, dreading a sure-to-be dull afternoon of getting to know the property security industry. Ugh!
Inside the office, I’m making my way back to Magda when I hear Aaron calling my name. “Lane?” He ushers over with an urgency that halts me in my tracks. What’s up? “Lane, I’m sorry, but after the stunt you pulled today, I have no choice but to terminate you effective immediately.”
“What?” He’s firing me? “I explained I was leaving. I couldn’t turn down that opportunity.”
Aaron shakes his head firmly, and I realize he’s escorting me back to the elevators.
“Yeah?” I call, my voice rising. I feel the stares from the other colleagues, but I don’t care. “Only this morning, you welcomed me to the family. Some family!” I yell. And with a final glare at Aaron, I add, “This is bullshit!”
And the door closes behind me.
My phone pings as if on command, but I ride the elevator down in numbed shock.
Only once I’m outside do I bother reading the text from Billy. And when I read it, it all makes sense. I am officially the world’s biggest idiot.
Turns out John’s assistant got the information wrong. It wasn’t a Budweiser commercial, but a Budweiser promotional for which they wanted girls to hand out free beer in local clubs for $10/hour. Oops.
You’ve got to be kidding.
12
“Margo, just put some damn pants on and let’s go!” I holler from the attic door as I struggle to fit Rory into her Baby Bjorn carrier. I’ve used this once with Margo, I think, and no matter how I fiddle with the straps, Rory is sitting too high, obstructing my view. This is ridiculous. I feel hot and bothered, and sweaty, and bloody short fused.
Margo is sulking in a heap by the dresser, refusing to wear anything aside from her bathing suit. “I’m not wearing them!” she snarls in my direction, and I roll my eyes.
Total drama queen. I adopt a fake, patronizing voice and try again. “Margo, it is freezing. You want to go to the beach for your birthday, but you need to wear some pants, otherwise we can’t go.”
“I’M GOING SWIMMING!” She screams with such intensity, even I’m taken aback.
“Margo! You were with me when they closed the pool. It’s almost October, the pool is closed!” I let out a frustrated groan and grab my phone to check the time.
“NO!” Margo screams.
“We’re supposed to be there right now, come on.” I set Rory down, and she starts practicing her backwards shimmy crawl. I stalk over to Margo and grab her by the arms so we’re face to face. “Margo,” I yell, “get some bloody pants on. Or a dress and tights, I don’t care.”
Margo starts thrashing around, red faced, and I let her go in a huff and yank the dresser drawer open. I grab a pair of pink pants. Surely she can’t protest—they’re pink! I try unsuccessfully to wrestle them onto her, which only escalates things until she’s screaming and grabbing at my hair. She’s baring her teeth like a wild animal, like something possessed. I have absolutely never seen her like this. She starts sobbing uncontrollably, and I can’t decide if I feel angry because she’s being a spoiled little brat, or sorry for this whole fight. It is her birthday after all, or at least she thinks it is.
I stride across the attic back to Rory and hunker down beside her, then pull out my phone and text Billy, instructing him not to meet us at the beach anymore, but to come over ASAP. Margo continues to sob and hiccup and kick. Rory watches me with concerned blue eyes and points to her sister. I give her a small smile and shrug my shoulders. Rory seems to accept this and reverts back to crawling practice, and I try to remain calm while waiting for Billy. Finally, he texts, and I carry Rory downstairs to let him in.
“She’s possessed,” I announce, as I swing open the door.
Billy’s eyes sparkle in apparent amusement, and he waves me away as though it’s nothing. “She’s going through so much; this is totally normal.” Billy turns his attention to Rory and mushes his face against hers, and she coos and squeals as she reaches out for his hair.
“What do you mean she’s going through so much? She’s five, what could be so difficult?”
“Come on, Lane. Her father is gone and the only home she’s ever known is gone, not to mention the staff she knew. That was her world.”
I consider this as we mount the stairs. Margo doesn’t talk about that life much anymore, and she seems settled in her new school. Upstairs Margo’s quivering and hugging her knees to her chest.
“Hey love,” Billy calls, as he passes Rory to me and takes a seat beside Margo. She ignores him, but after a few minutes of gentle consoling, she nods at something he says and rises slowly to her feet. She pulls open a dresser drawer and pokes around, finally pulling out a pair of faded, pink tights. Billy helps her pull them on, and she pussyfoots over to the door, eyeing me like a timid animal, then swiftly grabs for her running shoes. I guess now wouldn’t be the time to fuss about wearing tights with no skirt or dress, and instead, mouth “thank you” to Billy. After successfully strapping Rory into the carrier, we’re all set to go to Margo’s beach birthday party—providing the drama stays at bay.
Outside, it’s absolutely freezing! The cold air whips at my face, and I shudder to think we’ll be spending the next couple of hours beach side for Margo’s party. This is when I wish I had money for Chuck E. Cheese—well…on second thought…
Storm clouds hover above, blanketing the morning with a doomed probability of rain. Margo dashes ahead, as Billy and I walk in stride down Point Grey Road toward Kits Beach, with Rory taking in the sights from her carrier.
Billy gives me a once-over and breaks into a mischievous grin. “I take it you won’t be up for beer commercial auditions anymore?”
I smile wryly and shake my head. “Just not the Budweiser ones.”
“Well, I hope you’ll consider pursuing the acting thing anyway.”
“Sure. Why not? It was mortifying but definitely an unexpected experience, and I have to admit the whole thing intrigues me.”
“If you’re interested, John—”
“Who’s John?”
“Oh my God, Lane, my boyfriend!”
“Keep your pants on, it’s not like it’s a unique name, okay?”
“Whatever. Anyway, John Childs, aka my boyfriend—”
“Of like, three weeks.”
“Longer than that. Anyway, let me finish. John was telling me about an acting class he’ll be teaching next week that sounds pretty…unorthodox. It might be good for
you.”
“I don’t have time.”
“You also don’t work. Of course you have time. Plus, it’s just a one-day workshop. And between your dad, Juliet, and I—babysitting should be covered.”
“Fine, I’m in.” This should be interesting.
We’ve entered Kits Beach Park, and Margo turns around and waves back to us with great enthusiasm. From her wide smile and jovial step, you’d never know she just had a mass meltdown. But I guess that’s kids for you. We pass Kits Pool where the seagulls have reclaimed their winter oasis and float around the once clear waters in peace. Up ahead, I spot a group at a picnic bench decked in a pink table cloth and balloons, which must be Dad and Juliet. For Margo’s sake, I even invited Laura, and was disappointed—but not really surprised—when she didn’t bother replying.
Margo races up to the picnic table, squealing and grabbing at the balloons. Juliet helps her untie a couple, and Margo gallops back to us and hands a balloon to Rory. “I’ll have pink, and you can have purple.”
“Thanks, Margo, that’s sweet,” I manage to say before she dashes back to the table. Rory grips the string and gazes up, mesmerized. Dad and Juliet are unloading salads, sandwich toppings, and treats from their picnic baskets.
George’s crotchety voice calls out to Margo, “Happy Birthday, kiddo,” and I realize with a start I totally forgot I’d invited him. I guess we all could have come over together—oops.
“George, this is my dad, Roger, and of course you’ve met Billy and Juliet.”
George nods at Dad and turns with fondness to Juliet. “You, my dear, are an angel.”
Juliet beams as she shifts over to make room for George.
Dad says, “Margo, my dear, somebody special wants to say happy birthday.” Then he leans over to retrieve something from under the picnic table. My heart sinks, as I know very well who that something is.
Dad pulls out a baby carrier, and for a second I think it’s Rory’s, until I realize with horror the carrier belongs to none other than my new brother. Sure enough, Riley appears looking just as wild and freaky as the last time I saw him; only this time he’s nestled into his carrier like a smug-faced infant. Actually, he looks even wilder with his out-of-control, electrocuted-looking yellow hair sticking out from the top of the carrier.
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 10