by Ber Carroll
‘This ticket says you’re going back home in the fall.’
‘Is that a problem?’ asked Sarah earnestly.
He frowned. He looked quite ferocious. ‘Seems like a waste of a green card to me. Why are you going back?’
‘I own a shop. In a place called Carrickmore. My staff can’t run it indefinitely.’
He glared at her, beads of sweat lodged above his fat upper lip. The airport’s airconditioning system was down. Staff and passengers alike were feeling the heat.
‘Why bother coming here at all?’
‘I want to work somewhere else. Try something new.’
‘Who are you staying with here in NYC?’
In her growing intimidation, Sarah didn’t know what he meant. ‘NYC?’
‘New York City,’ he growled.
‘Tim Brennan – a friend from college. He’s meeting me outside.’
Finally, begrudgingly, he stamped her passport and let her through.
Tim was one of the first people she saw when she got to the arrival’s lounge. His pale face was easy to pick out in the crowd. He wore a white shirt, a light blue tie and black trousers. Sarah thought he looked very suave.
‘God, I’m glad to see you,’ she said and gave him a big hug.
He returned her hug with such warmth that it was obvious he was very glad to see her too. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your hotel,’ he joked.
Tim’s apartment was in Greenwich Village. He shared it with his girlfriend of three years, Louise, and his mate, Charlie.
‘Isn’t there a lift?’ asked Sarah as they trawled up endless flights of stairs.
‘No – it’s a walk-up,’ Tim puffed as Sarah’s suitcase bumped along behind him.
They got to the top. Tim bent over, hands on his knees, and exhaled slowly.
‘Don’t be shocked when you see inside,’ he said when he caught his breath.
‘Why?’
‘Because in this city you don’t get much for your dollar by the way of accommodation.’
‘Oh.’
His warning was justified. Sarah’s first impressions of the hallway were of peeling paint and badly fitted carpet. The kitchen was shabby and the bathroom looked like a converted cupboard.
‘Where are the others?’
‘At work.’ It was 7 pm. ‘I’m the only one who works nine to five around here,’ he added.
‘Are these the bedrooms?’ Sarah asked, looking at two adjacent doors on the right-hand side of the hall.
Tim opened the first door. ‘Louise and I are in here.’
Sarah had a quick glance at the unmade bed before he clicked the door shut and opened the next.
‘Charlie is in here at the moment, but he’s willing to move out to the living room if you want to take it.’
‘There’s no window,’ said Sarah in wonderment.
Tim shrugged. ‘That’s not unusual in New York.’
Sarah turned back towards the living room. Despite the flaking paint and awful carpet, it felt comfortable. A murky brown sofa was the only piece of furniture; the TV was perched on a cardboard box and books in uneven stacks on the floor.
‘How would Charlie fit in here?’
‘He’d be happy down there.’ Tim pointed to the end of the room and Sarah saw that it had an L-shape. ‘It’s quite private round the corner there. But, of course, the bedroom has a door, so there’s more rent for it . . .’
‘How much?’
‘Six hundred a month.’
‘I’d better get a job, then.’
Sarah was soon to discover that getting a job in New York was easier said than done. She scoured the advertisements in the newspapers, but nobody was looking for graduates. She phoned every recruitment agency in the directory.
‘I’m looking for something with a bank,’ she told them.
‘You don’t have any previous experience,’ they replied and that was the end of the conversation.
She spent precious dollars printing out her CV and mailing it to all the banks in the city. A few days later she received dozens of replies in the post, saying thanks but no thanks.
Tim became her only hope. He worked in EquiBank, one of the most elite investment banks in the world.
‘Did you give my CV to your manager?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But he says we’re overstaffed at the moment.’
‘How long before he starts recruiting again?’
‘A few months, I’d say.’
‘What will I do until then?’
‘Wait tables,’ Tim shrugged. ‘Just like Louise, Charlie and everybody else in this city waiting for their big break.’
Tim knew what he was talking about. This was his third summer in New York and the first time he’d scored an office job. EquiBank was his big break and he was going to stay in New York indefinitely to make the very most of it.
Sarah took his advice and the next day she hit the streets looking for work. Just two blocks away from the apartment she happened upon Palazzio’s, a busy café with a large sign on its window that read, Staff needed. Apply within.
It looked charming, with its green awning and square wooden tables.
‘Is the manager around?’ she asked one of the waitresses.
The girl, Mexican in appearance, jerked her head towards the back of the premises.
‘His office is out there.’
Sarah walked past the kitchen and, from a quick glance, noticed that most of the kitchen hands were young women with smooth brown faces. They talked in a foreign language as they prepared the food.
The office was a desk in a room full of clutter. Amidst brooms, buckets and highchairs, the manager, a short, fat swarthy-looking man, talked on the phone. Sarah listened as he swore profusely at the unfortunate person on the other end.
‘What do you want?’ he barked at Sarah when he was through.
‘A job.’
His sleazy eyes looked her up and down.
‘You must wear black, be on time and pay for all breakages.’
‘What if it’s the customer’s fault?’ she asked.
‘Don’t care,’ he snapped. ‘It’s five dollars for glasses, seven dollars for cups and plates.’
‘What’s the hourly rate?’
He laughed nastily. ‘Zilch, zero, sweet fuck all. Your tips are what count – so you’d better use that Irish charm to the max.’
‘Is that legal?’ she asked, thinking that he surely had to pay his staff a minimum wage.
‘Fuck legal,’ was his reply.
Sarah was sorely tempted to respond with ‘Fuck you’ but she wanted the job. Not because of the money, although her traveller’s cheques were running down, but more because she was dying to experience life in mainstream New York.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Sarah Ryan.’
‘I’m Lorenzo – and I take no shit. You and I will get along just fine if you remember that.’
He threw a black apron her way and that was how Sarah started work at Palazzio’s. She worked from eleven in the morning till midnight, six days a week. She fetched coffees, ice creams, nachos and hoped that her big smile would earn a big tip. One day Al Pacino came in and left her twenty dollars. It went into the kitty to be shared with the other staff.
The longer Sarah worked for Lorenzo, the more she realised that he wasn’t just unpleasant, he was actually a little crazy. He was having an affair with the head waitress and they would often retreat to his office to snort coke. The cops came in regularly and drank free coffee in return for turning a blind eye to Lorenzo’s illegally parked car. Their presence did not in any way deter Lorenzo from doing lines of coke out the back.
The long hours at the café, combined with the five-hour time difference, made it hard to find the right time to call Kieran. Sunday was the only day they could connect, but Kieran was usually hungover from the night before and not very communicative.
‘Where did you go last night?’ she’d ask.
‘The St
ar – the usual.’
‘Big night?’
‘Yeah, feeling grisly this morning.’
‘No training today, then?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither. But I’m going to join a running club as soon as I get a normal job.’
Then she’d tell him funny stories about the café and New York. But he didn’t show much interest. All too soon, he’d say, ‘Well, I’d better go. Have a few things to do.’
Sarah wondered what it was he had to do that was more important than talking to her.
Her phone calls to the shop were equally unsatisfactory.
‘Everything’s grand,’ Brendan would say when she asked how things were going.
‘Are the takings up or down?’
‘A little bit down . . . but only a fraction.’
‘Is Mary around?’
‘She’s out the back.’
In truth, Sarah was uneasy about Kieran and the shop. However, she knew only too well what would happen if she didn’t keep her thoughts positive.
The next morning she got up extra early and went for a jog in Central Park. She wasn’t alone, the park was full of runners, and she felt like part of a greater group. She breathed in the nature all around, the leafy trees and abundant shrubs and flowers, and the tension eased away. She felt strong again. Confident. Regardless of what was happening at home.
Sarah asked Tim about EquiBank nearly every day.
‘Still no vacancies,’ he’d reply with a sympathetic shrug.
But one day he announced, ‘The manager said he’s put you to the top of the list – apparently he rates persistence highly.’
‘I hope it won’t be much longer,’ Sarah sighed. ‘I don’t think I can stick it at Palazzio’s.’
Not only were the hours back-breaking and the pay woeful, but Lorenzo was snorting coke as if it was going out of fashion. When he was high, he was greasy and overfamiliar with the female staff. When he was low, he was angry and abusive. Sarah didn’t know which was worse.
In the end it was a row over tips, instigated by a group of German tourists, that brought a finish to her career as a waitress.
‘They didn’t leave a tip,’ exclaimed Maria, the head waitress.
Sarah, already on shift for more than ten hours, shrugged wearily.
‘I smiled. I gave them good service. I can hardly hold a knife to their throats and demand a tip.’
‘Go after them,’ Maria ordered.
‘What?’
‘Go! Go!’ Maria waved her out the door.
Sarah ran outside. She spotted the tourists and sprinted after them, her apron flapping around her knees.
‘Excuse me,’ she panted, veering in front of them, blocking their way. ‘I’m very sorry but you forgot to tip.’
Five pairs of eyes stared incredulously, making Sarah wish that she could climb into one of the nearby steaming manholes and disappear underground.
‘It’s not obligatory to tip in Germany,’ said one of the group, a young man with Arian good looks.
‘I know. But this is New York,’ she explained, her face reddening with embarrassment. ‘If you don’t tip, I don’t get paid.’
An older man shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t work in a job where you don’t get paid.’
How could Sarah refute such logic?
‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
She turned on her heel and headed back towards Palazzio’s. Maria would be furious that she was returning empty-handed. The rest of the waiting staff would be furious that there would be less in the kitty to share at the end of the night. And Lorenzo would be furious because he didn’t have any coke left.
Sarah, deeply mortified that she had sunk low enough to give chase for a tip, decided there and then that she’d had enough of Palazzio’s. She strode straight past the café and kept going till she got back to the apartment. Then she rang Tim.
‘I’ve just had to run after some German tourists because they didn’t leave a tip,’ she yelled. ‘Tell your manager that he must give me a job. He fucking must have something that I can do.’
‘Calm down, okay?’ Tim replied. ‘I’ll ask him again. Give me a minute.’
She heard voices in the background. Tim’s was forceful.
He came back on the line. ‘The boss says you can start in the settlements department on Monday.’
Yelling obviously paid dividends in New York: you had to show attitude to be taken seriously, to get what you wanted.
‘Thanks, Tim. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
*
Before starting her new job, Sarah decided to spend the last of her traveller’s cheques on new clothes.
‘I need to look the part,’ she said to Louise, Tim’s girlfriend. ‘Want to come along?’
Louise’s reply was short. ‘No, thanks.’
Sarah had made many attempts to get to know the other girl better, but it seemed that living in the same apartment wasn’t enough to forge even a superficial friendship.
‘Whatever,’ she shrugged and went shopping on her own.
From Tim’s descriptions, Sarah knew that the dealers and their assistants spent a significant portion of their salaries on designer clothes. With this in mind, she went to Barney’s, New York’s quintessential department store. Feeling decidedly out of place amongst the impeccably groomed sales assistants and well-heeled customers, she tried not to gasp when she saw the price tags on the clothes.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
‘I’m starting a new job on Monday,’ Sarah explained to the heavily made-up middle-aged assistant. ‘It’s in a bank . . .’
The woman nodded and took Sarah by the arm. ‘We have a sale rack over here – it will be easy to find something to suit a figure like yours.’
An hour later, Sarah left the store five hundred dollars poorer. The sales assistant had assured her that the jacket, trousers and skirt were a ‘steal’ for that price. Sarah, having seen the prices before the markdown, had to agree with her.
Sarah got up extra early on Monday morning to make sure she had first call on the bathroom. She showered, blow-dried her hair and was halfway through her make-up when Tim knocked on the door.
‘Are you going to be much longer?’ He sounded grumpy.
‘Coming,’ she replied, hurriedly brushing some blusher across her cheekbones.
‘I hope you’re not going to take this long every morning,’ he remarked, a towel slung around his neck.
‘Sorry.’ She shot him a smile. ‘I just want to make a good impression on my first day.’
Back in her room, she slipped on the new knee-length black skirt and matching jacket. She studied her reflection in the mirror and, pleased with how professional she looked, told herself that the suit had been worth every cent.
Tim was in the kitchen. The shower seemed to have restored his usual good humour and he chatted easily while he downed a bowl of cereal.
Too nervous to eat, Sarah sipped a cup of tea.
‘Ready to go?’ he asked, pushing back from the table.
‘Think so.’
The bank was a ten-minute ride on the subway. Sarah and Tim had just got on the train when they heard an ear-piercing scream. They, and all the other commuters, turned to see an enormous rat inside the doorway of the carriage. The whistle sounded and the doors started to close. The rat looked like he was planning to stay for the ride to the next stop. Tim stomped his foot at it. Once. Twice. Finally, the rat spun around and scurried out through the narrowing slit between the doors.
Sarah shuddered. ‘That was disgusting.’
Tim hunched his shoulders as if it was no big deal. ‘The subway is supposedly infested with them.’
The only benefit of the incident was that it made Sarah temporarily forget her nervousness. They got off at the World Trade Centre and emerged into the heart of New York’s financial district. Sarah remembered how nervous she was.
‘This is my f
irst real job – what if I’m bad at it?’
‘You’ve managed a petrol station and grocery shop.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘This will be a piece of cake by comparison.’
‘Do I look okay?’ She paused outside the EquiBank tower.
He squeezed her hand. ‘You’ll knock them dead.’
The foyer was a vast marbled area and the security staff issued Sarah with an access card before Tim took her up in the lift.
‘The boss’s name is Josh Grimshaw. He’s doom and gloom – his name suits him – but he’s not the worst of them.’
They rode the lift to the nineteenth floor and Sarah used her newly acquired access card to open the glass security doors. Josh Grimshaw’s office was the first inside, in prime position to keep tabs on who was coming and going. He was a slender man with stooped shoulders and deep facial lines. He was aged somewhere in his sixties, his thinning hair more white than grey.
‘We settle the deals that are done upstairs.’ He cast his bespectacled eyes upwards, as if the traders on the floor above were the bane of his life. ‘We’re a processing department – administration, bottom of the food chain.’
Surely all jobs in the bank, even administration, are important? Sarah thought.
Tim went to his desk and left Sarah with Josh. He introduced her to a handful of people before leading her to a long narrow room, its walls lined with filing cabinets.
‘These are the deal tickets.’ He pointed to a stack of paperwork on the table inside the door. ‘You tear off the edges . . .’ He demonstrated by tearing the perforated sides off one of the documents. ‘Top copies go to the traders for signature, then on to the other party. Middle copy gets filed. Make sure you don’t punch holes over any of the print. That’s about all you need to know.’
Sarah’s induction to EquiBank was thereby complete and Josh returned to his office.
The windowless room felt stifling and Sarah slipped off her jacket. She hung it off the back of a chair and flicked through the stack of deal tickets. She started to arrange them in alphabetical order, then changed her mind and re-sorted them by dealer name. It crossed her mind that she was probably the best dressed filing clerk in New York City.
Sarah’s first venture onto the trading floor was something she would never forget: the buzzing phones, the clatter of voices, the flickering screens. Numbers were called out, phones hung up and keyboards tapped. People sat elbow to elbow, many of them with two phones going at once. Every few seconds someone would scream a string of expletives but nobody took a jot of notice.