In fact, many romance novels begin this way—with the woman in a new job or situation. Now that I’m going to be making my own money, I can buy these juicy books with impunity or find them in my local library. Off I go, picking up my powdered potatoes, ramen noodles, and saucy romances at the supermarket. I never take notice of authors or publishers; I just grab the first book I can find with the hottest cover—heaving bosoms, long Cher hair, naked calves, and windswept clothing. I try to find stories that relate to my situation. There are so many Fauns out there, like me.
Faun usually works for her future Mr. Right at a less-than-ideal job. They say most love affairs begin at work. For me to reach this ecstatic destination, I decide to find a transitional job as a secretary, like Tess, like most heroines. There are several reasons why this is appropriate: 1) I type one-hundred-plus words a minute. 2) I love organization. 3) Eventually Melanie Griffith shows off her smarts and wins the heart of Harrison Ford. 4) I made absolutely no career plans while I was in college so I’m kind of fucked. Everyone says that Latin is so helpful in life, but it isn’t. Translating Cicero and Ovid did squat for my SATs. Catullus’s pathetic—and by pathetic, I mean totally awesome—love poetry to Lesbia helped not a whit in my job search.
I’m envious of my brother, Patrick, for knowing what he wants to do and going for it. He’s doing a play now, Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding, and auditioning for everything under the sun. His life is about finding acting jobs. Perhaps like many of my generation, Generation X, I have a lot of potential but no real passion aside from watching television and reading. Well, that may not be true, and my circumstances aren’t deplorable. I am fluent in French, I can sight-read Latin, I am a professional-level calligrapher, and I pick up languages easily. I’ve lived overseas and am presentable. Sadly, this doesn’t translate into a lucrative profession right out of Oberlin (no one warned me about this, by the way), but someone will want me. A college counselor said I might like advertising or publishing. For three minutes, I chose advertising (because that’s what Timothy Busfield and Ken Olin do in thirtysomething). When I asked what I’d need to bring to an interview, the agencies said my portfolio would be a great start. “Don’t you have any boards?” one agency receptionist asked. Oh sure. Boards. So I made “boards,” basically other brilliant ads pasted on cardboard and somehow engineered into my own work.
Secretarial work is easier than jumping right into a lucrative career. I love administrative work anyway. It seems so glamorous to work in an office. I fantasize about wearing my sneakers to work and changing into pumps, just like Tess. Being a secretary will give me time to reflect on what I really want to do. Maybe I could write an amazing novel in my spare time.
When my father asks me about my long-term plans, like when I am going to get health insurance, I explain about having a practical job before launching into a real job.
“What if something happens to you?” he asks. Ever since he married her—that woman who used to be fun but who now finds me disruptive—I am expected to follow a linear pattern.
“I’ll try not to get hit by a bus. And if I do, I’ll pay for it, don’t worry.”
“You need health insurance.”
“It’s hard to get a job out of college.”
He doesn’t seem to understand this until a year later, when he reads a New York Times article that states exactly what I said, that my generation is having a tougher time finding employment right out of college. Good thing I don’t confide my real dreams to him. One of the few times I tell him I want to be a writer, he says that this would be like winning the lottery—i.e., don’t even bother. Sure, he’s being practical, but after Working Girl, it’s hard not to dream.
Plus, romantic heroines often have side jobs as an outlet for their creativity. They work in an office to pay the rent, but in their spare time, maybe they bake muffins for their friends and this somehow takes off into a Mrs. Fields thing. Or the heroine makes her own candles and soap, which mushrooms into her own cute store with her name over the door. I once made a candle in Brownies. It was fun but uninspired, as in the Brownie leader provided the wax, string, and molds. We mostly just dipped the string into the hot wax. Where would I sell my candles anyway?
Temping is the way to go for now. In Cleveland, my new home, I go from company to company. I’m bound to gain valuable experience and meet Harrison Ford “at the office.” The perfect career will make itself known. Perhaps my fairy godmother—every romance has one, an older woman with watery blue eyes and sage advice—will guide me on the professional path. In the meantime, I try to replicate Tess’s wardrobe, buying a black skirt and cream-colored blouse. At my first job, in a law office, I change out of my sneakers and try to navigate my way in wobbly pumps. I wear a pair of my mother’s pearls—though I’m not sure she’s aware I have them.
As I answer phones at Temp Job #1, I watch the daily soap opera that is corporate America. I see the tragic love story between two lawyers. Lawyer 1 and Lawyer 2 used to be lovers until she ran off and got pregnant with twins by someone else. Lawyer 1 watches 2 run to the bathroom, heartbreak etched on his face. He wishes he were the one married to her now. It’s been a good two years since they were together. Now they work in the same office day after day as her belly grows with children! I nearly cry watching Lawyer 1’s pain, then type up his notes, swimming in the memory of his mournful gaze.
Just when I start to make some friends, the job ends. I pack up and go to the posh British Petroleum Tower, located in the heart of downtown Cleveland. It’s a tall, clay-colored building—you can’t miss it—and the second I walk in, I feel like I’m on the set of Working Girl, or, better yet, a Jackie Collins novel. I can already see it. A Hollywood director—they are all painfully good-looking—wanders into my building to meet with one of the executives on my floor. He needs BP’s backing for his next blockbuster. On his way to meet Mr. BP, he sees me sitting there so innocently typing away. He thinks, For months, I’ve been trying to find the star for my new movie and here she is. Even though I’m not an actress, he casts me—turns out I’m Katharine Hepburn—and during filming falls in love with me. One year later I’m in my second trimester, an Oscar nominee, and throwing swanky parties in the Hollywood Hills.
Well, Cleveland isn’t that glitzy. Still, my head spins as power suits swarm around me. This is where oil gets traded, the place Oberlin protested during the antiapartheid controversy. I don’t broadcast where I’m working, especially since I secretly like the ambience and the people. The head honcho is on the fortysomethingth floor, and his secretaries have secretaries, and they all whisper, as if not wanting to disturb the master at work. It’s like a little secret club up there. I love it.
Everyone is so nice to me as I settle into my cubicle, put my sneakers in a drawer. My two cubicle-mates are lovely women, sassy and full of wit. They take me under their wings, crack jokes throughout the day. What impresses me is that they type like demons, fingers flying over the keyboard. Transfixed, I watch them and try to mimic their speed, which must be close to two hundred words per minute. One of them just had a baby boy. Another is phone-flirting with one of the British traders from New York City. She’s planning on flying down to meet him in the city—a blind date. They’ve only spoken on the phone, had this whirlwind courtship without ever seeing each other in person. British Trader is about to get the shock of his life since my cubicle-mate has this Playboy Playmate look about her, with intelligence to boot. It’s a real romance happening right in front of me.
Aside from this drama, the work is easy and I mostly report to these women with thunder fingers. During my eight-hour day, I relay messages back and forth to traders using this electronic device that’s sort of like a calculator with letters that makes noises. The memos I whip up come from deciphering chicken scratch on a legal pad, though I understand nothing about the business. I have ample time to read the New York Times from cover to cover. Might as well improve my mind while I’m at
it. The traders are men, mostly cheerful, not the type to grope, which I find surprising. With the exception of my Playboy Playmate colleague and her long-distance-trader love, I notice no smoldering glances across the room, no drink invites or chatting up around the water cooler. I’m just the temp.
Honestly, it could be a lot worse. I never have a bad day working there, though it gets old. Simple office job? Not so simple if you feel like you’re wasting your life, day after day, and returning to an empty apartment. I look forward to small things, like this new legal show called Equal Justice, starring Sarah Jessica Parker, Jane Kaczmarek, Cotter Smith, and this hot new actor Jon Tenney. After a long day in the office, I run home and get ready to watch, hoping that my new JT (John Taylor is on the back burner) will have more airtime. Because my brother is an actor and I have no exciting news to report (about anything), I tell him about my latest obsession.
“I’m so in love with one of the actors,” I blurt out, forgoing niceties. You can do that with siblings. “Have you heard of Jon Tenney?”
There’s this pause on the other end of the line before he blows my ear out. “Oh God. Jon?! You like Jon? Ewwwww!”
“Whaddaya mean? He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s a good friend of mine. You’ve met him.”
“What? He’s my future husband is what he is.”
The wheels in my head turn. What a twist of fate this is, just when I’m bored in Ohio. I could marry my new favorite actor on TV and move to Los Angeles, somehow slip into becoming an actress myself. I must use my brother wisely, though he doesn’t seem excited about the idea of me and Jon (note to self: Brothers never help fix you up).
A couple weeks elapse, with me wanting to call Patrick and ask him more about Jon, my imaginary boyfriend. My mind races with what kind of wedding invitations we’ll order, if I’ll take his name when we marry. Imagine the squealing when I come home to a large manila envelope in my mailbox with the return address: J. Tenney. My hands shake as I open it and find a large photo of Jon Tenney and a real honest-to-God letter. I read it several times, looking for hidden meaning, using my book on handwriting analysis to dissect his psyche. Of course I compose a response, a long one, detailing my entire life, my problems, my upbringing, and my wish to come to California, and suggesting that maybe we could meet for coffee. Damn Nici and the Harlequins. My brain is abuzz with Jon and Equal Justice and our inevitable marriage.
My response to Jon goes unanswered, and, gradually, I come down from cloud nine. I will not be a movie star’s wife—and I will no longer use my brother to further my love life. As the months tick by, I grow frustrated by the daily grind of waking up, getting coffee, doing repetitive tasks that don’t tax my brain, eating the same lunch, going home, watching TV, falling asleep. This transition could easily turn into a permanent situation. Terrifying.
I take to drinking wine and scrawling in a notebook like I’m Hemingway. The “real world” is not the dating party of college, and I don’t like it. This can’t be how I end up. It seems outrageous that my suitors don’t magically appear as I step outside on my way to the bus. My summer of hope evolves into a dreary January. Something has to change. Anything. I can only take so much red wine and ramen noodles.
• • •
Of course I should be careful what I wish for.
My life does change in one night, over the course of an hour and a half. I randomly become a traumatized crime victim. More on that later. It seems like a story one should tell over and over again. I’ll only do it once. Suffice it to say, I come home one January morning from the hospital, disheveled. I can’t bear to look at myself.
The positive: I’m very happy to be alive. The negative: Aside from the obvious, I regret all the energy I devoted to finding/keeping a boyfriend. Romance is a waste of time. There are bigger goals—such as taking care of myself, getting a better job. I don’t want to be a loser, especially since I lost my latest temp job due to my little vacation in the ER.
I want to feel better, so I focus on the immediate things that make me smile:
Joan Rivers, who has her own talk show. I watch her every day and laugh my ass off.
Cigarettes and water. The perfect blend of dirty and clean. I need both.
Ice cream. It’s the only thing I can stand to eat.
Pasta. Okay, that’s delicious, too.
For now, I can’t read romance novels. Because every heroine has a gritty backstory, I may fit even more into the mold, but it’s a painful way to become my beloved quintessential romance heroine, Faun.
My mother cancels her much-needed vacation to Costa Rica to be with me. She pushes my hair back and looks seriously into my eyes—things she hasn’t done since I was a kid.
I can see she’s deeply worried, like I’m the bad-luck child who keeps getting into trouble. She feeds me, makes my phone calls, advises me on my next step, tells me everything will be okay, and takes me out for walks. Basically, this is the montage for regaining strength, going out into the world again. My mother pretty much saves me from rotting in my apartment. Frequent calls from my brother, Patrick, have their restorative properties, too. My mother and brother become the two people I call in case of any emergency. They are always there.
The bottom line is that adulthood doesn’t begin as planned. My dream to be Tess McGill ends, and I pick up The Bonfire of the Vanities. No Harrison Ford for now.
• • •
A couple weeks later, when my mother leaves, I realize it’s time for me to work again. Kelly Services, my temp agency, assigns me back at BP, that large oil company housed in that lofty downtown building of mauve marble. The edifice blankets me against the dirt and violence. I rush to my place of employment and lose myself in typing and answering phones, only this time on a different floor and for a different boss, a redhead, like me. Lindsay is stern, a female lawyer working in a mostly male field. Every day she is professional, discerning in her judgment. Now and then, she and I exchange personal information, but very rarely. I respect how she keeps boundaries with me. She knows about my troubles, gives me some leeway, but expects me to put in my time. Her expectations mean a lot to me, and I work hard for her.
This is the part of any romance novel that is never included, the mundane details, the forging ahead, the suffering that doesn’t involve pining for a boy. I’m by myself and a mess. I desperately want to move back in with my parents, but that’s not an option, so I put one foot in front of the other.
It is an absurd time for a boyfriend to appear.
For a boost, I sign up for a spring creative writing class. I took the fall semester and really enjoyed it, even wrote a couple of short stories. It meets in a school at night, a few blocks from my apartment. It’s not the safest part of town, and I regret signing up for the class. Why bother with this when I could be lying on my couch and crying? The group will consist of retirees who want to crank out a book before the memories vanish—and maybe one cute guy sitting in the back, keeping to himself. What are the chances I’ll find a sanctuary with this motley crew?
Turns out, it is the best decision. I slowly crawl out of my depressing hole. In a small classroom, with colorful collages on the walls, a blackboard, and those precious little desk chairs, I find some measure of peace—and distraction. Our teacher has spiky, fake-blond hair, that scattered aura of a busy writer homing in on her talent. She is a published author, writing children’s books. I enjoy listening to her Australian accent for a few hours. We’ll see if I learn anything.
“Okay, you’re going to write a two-page essay, arguing a point,” the teacher tells us.
My classmates, the motley crew, are the same types as last semester. The man who likes to play golf. The wig-wearing lady in the scooter who beat cancer a couple times and has more energy than I do. A few women close to my mother’s age, looking to express themselves. And then there’s the cute guy, Zack, who has signed up again. He sits toward the b
ack, off to the side. I sort of noticed him a few months ago, the first time I took the class. We don’t really talk.
During our short break, I go outside to smoke. A couple people join me in my nicotine refuge. Zack comes out, but he doesn’t smoke with us. I have this sense that he wants to be social but isn’t quite sure how, which makes me like him even more. Maybe he’s that beta male I sometimes catch in a romance novel—the guy who doesn’t treat you badly, who listens to you, wants to spend time with you, is tender when you need him to be. Okay, so maybe Harrison Ford is that beta male in Working Girl. Just nice, a total curiosity.
I learn that he works as a freelance writer and loves music. He has hazel eyes set close, a wiry build, a spectacular smile, and thinning blond hair. Generally, that boy next door you should marry. He is twenty-seven, so cute, with this halting way of speaking, as if he’s working to get the words out. Shyness worse than mine.
These strange feelings take root, like actual attraction, and I’m ashamed of how I feel. How could this happen to me again? I’m supposed to be in hibernation, focusing on healing. But my hormones melt me like a fever and even though we don’t have an organic way of starting up a conversation, I psychically command our romance to happen. I am just that powerful.
One Wednesday night, I return home to find a message on my answering machine.
“Um . . . I . . . uh . . . am leaving a message for Patience . . . Smith. She’s in my writing classes at the community center. Um . . . so I was wondering if you’d like to see a movie with me on Friday . . . um . . . after work. . . .”
He’s too amazing for words, so inept in the manner of an awkward, infatuated boy with rescuer fantasies. This rush of romance happens at the darnedest times, when I don’t want or need it to. Lucky for me, during those awful periods, I tend to look fantastic. I’m super-skinny, like at a weight I haven’t seen since the eighth grade. My hair is long and red. Who wouldn’t want to date me, setting aside my currently gloomy narrative?
Romance Is My Day Job Page 7