Diary of a Working Girl (6 page)

Two dollars and fifty cents a word times three thousand words is . . . a lot! “I’ll do it. Corporate world, here I come.”

“Great. We’re so excited about it. I’m here for support if you need me. We’re actually all here for you. You’ve picked a topic that definitely hits home for everyone here. This industry is impossible for meeting men. All those parties, all those drinks. The gift bags are great, but you can’t very well cuddle up with one of those, can 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 38

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ya?” And then, as if she realizes she is showing too much emotion, she clears her throat and continues, “We’re rooting for you, Lane.

But, remember, you
have
to meet somebody. No pressure. But that’s the story.”

The first thing I do is consult my calculator. I do it again. This cannot be right. For
one
story—$7,500! I can pay off all of those bills, plus have some money to buy some new shoes and smart outfits. It will be great. And, I’m going to get paid an actual salary from the job I get, too. Cha-ching! I can’t believe this!

I can’t believe this. I have to get a job. I have to meet a man.

Not just any man. I have to meet The One. The One who, after twenty-six years, has still not shown his face. But now I only have two months in which to find his face. What have I gotten myself into? It’s 5 P.M. Too late to send my resume in today. I’ll finish it up tomorrow first thing, bright and early. Momentarily a vision of myself, rising at the cock’s crow, facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed races through my mind’s eye. Then the girl in the mental image barks, “Who are you kidding with this?” So, I settle on first thing, whether or not it’s bright and early.

My schedule for the following day all straightened out, I shift my energies to the present, where I have to take a shower and get ready to meet Joanne, so I can tell her how freaked out I am, have her advise me on why I should be happy, ignore her, and continue on with the same line of thinking.

I

When I wobble into my apartment that evening, filled to the brim with the power of three cosmos, I call my voice mail. Well, actually, first I call some guy named Swen, whose number is quite similar to the voice mail number.

“Late night again?” Swen asks. He recognizes me by the same 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 39

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question I always ask, “Why isn’t this working?” because I never really listen, I just press the numbers, and then wait for the messages, until Swen says, “You’ve got the wrong number again honey.” I always picture Swen in a smoking jacket, all patience and fluidity, running his fingers through his shoulder-length blond hair, sitting by a crackling fire after a long day on the slopes, even though I know there are no slopes in Manhattan.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. And that’s when I usually hang up. Except for when either Swen or I are feeling chatty. And, tonight both Swen and I are feeling chatty.

“How are things, lovely?” he asks.

“Swen, if you really want to know, I’ve made quite a mess of things today.” I explain the whole story to him—the article, the fact that if history repeats itself there is a possibility that there is nobody who can claim the title of The One. I tell him about the resume I have to put together and the fact that it is teeming with what
some
may construe to be lies. Swen proves a good listener, which is to say, he doesn’t simply fit the “ahas” and “rights” into the proper pauses, but actually takes it all in and produces an opinion.

“If you really believe in your heart that you can do it, then you can. You can do anything. It sounds to me like you have a warm, trusting heart, and that you just might be one of the last of a dying breed that believes in true love. And that is a fantastic place to be.

And now, you’ll just have more of a reason to trust that heart of yours. Just research this project the way you would research anything. And you’ll be prepared.” Like a horoscope, sounding all wise, but without the specifics. Until he says, “And if you really need to find love, I’m right here for you, darling.”

Sure, me and every other girl who dials his number rather than voice mail late at night.

Being that I imagine him such a ladies’ man, who most probably 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 40

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just read that entire speech from a well-handled booklet of “perfect pickups,” I think he might have some insight into what men find attractive and therefore he might prove helpful in the sartorial advice department. When I mention the camel-colored overcoat I’m thinking of investing in, he says it’s a good idea, and adds, “I always like a woman in a black dress and heels. It’s sexy, timeless.” This advice is so good I find myself wondering if Swen is gay, rather than a womanizing playboy. I shake the image from my mind. It’s nice to have him on hand for a fantasy or two, when one is needed.

As if sensing my hesitation, he leaves me with, “Don’t forget I’ll always be your M&M.”

Just how many times
have
I called him?

After I hang up with Swen, I try the voice mail again. This time I listen to hear the instructions, “Please enter your password,” before keying in the numbers. “You have six new messages,” the au-tomaton female says on the other end. Six. That is amazing.

Perhaps wind of my success has gotten out and now everyone wants me to write for them. I’ll probably be sent directly to Paris and Milan to cover the fashion shows. I’ll have to get a vanity case and Evian Mist to travel with on the plane. I’ll probably be Anna Wintour’s best friend by summer. She’ll be sending me e-mails informing me, before anyone else is aware, that gray is the new black.

If I’m that busy, maybe I won’t have to do the
Cosmo
piece after all.

One: “Lane, pick up, it’s Mom.” Or, maybe I will have to do the
Cosmo
piece after all. Two: “La-yne, c’mon. Just pick up the phone.” She never quite comprehends the fact that voice mail, unlike an answering machine, does not allow you to hear the person as they leave a message. Three: “Lay-ne, I’m getting very worried about you. It’s bad enough that I have to worry about my daughter being all alone in the world. You who never thinks any man is good enough for her. I wish I could sleep soundly knowing that 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 41

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you are with James. I hope you’re happy because my heart is palpi-tating. I might wind up in the hospital. Pick up.” (I smile here. No matter how irritating, and awful, it is still nice to know that somebody is worrying about you.) Four: “Lane, I’ve called all of the police precincts in your area to find out if you are okay. Call your mother!” Five: “Lane, the hospitals haven’t heard anything from you either. Call me!”

I don’t even bother considering a phone call. This is just what my mother does. She’ll have forgotten all about it in the morning.

She hasn’t really called the police or hospitals. She just says that for effect. This is her way of convincing me to get back together with James, accept the fact that he is a good, decent man—the perfect type for marrying. She wants me to settle down already, instead of filling my head with “unrealistic fantasies named after crisp chocolate candies.” I’m just ready to skip past message six, which, if history serves as any sort of indication, will probably have to do with the fire department, when Joanne’s voice comes on.

“Lane, I’m on my way home, and I just want to make sure that you know—before you stay up all night worrying about this whole thing—that you can do this. You will do this. Just have confidence in yourself. I’m not saying the whole predicament isn’t a bit ridiculous—because it is—but I think it will do you good to get out among the living again and see that you are a fabulous, worthy woman. Now go to sleep.”

How very un-Joanne. But, how very needed and appreciated. If I ever felt the urge to use that awful expression, now’s the time—

Grrrl power!

Despite Joanne’s fabulous advice, I am not yet ready to go to sleep. I haven’t seen Chris in way too long, and the last few times I have, I’ve been a horribly selfish girl, only thinking about myself and my problems. A visit is in order. So, I grab my keys and head 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 42

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up to his apartment. He doesn’t sleep, which serves as a thoroughly awful condition for him, but serves as a wonderful condition for me, should I wake up in the middle of the night, unable to get back to dreamland.

“Come in,” he screams when I knock at the door. He knows it’s me, because I am the only one who comes to his door in the middle of the night.

“Hey,” I say and we swap double air-kisses—not so much because we are fabulous, but because we are both part of the fabulous world and love/hate it together. I drop into my “spot,” his extremely cozy chair-and-a-half and slip my shoes off. “What’s shakin’ bacon?” he asks.

“Oh this and that,” I say.

“And which this are we upset about now?” He looks up from the photos he’s looking through on his table.

“Actually, none at all.”

And this time he turns from the table and walks right up to me.

“Lane, am I sensing that you are happy?”

You know what? I am. And although it is somewhat to do with the possibility of meeting a man, it’s much more to do with a sense of purpose. I have a big responsibility and I feel something I haven’t felt in a while—great. “I am, my darling.”

“Well, I’m uncorking the bubbly. It is definitely time to celebrate,” he says. Chris keeps these fabulous champagne glasses in his apartment, which he only uses on the most special occasions, and he pulls them down from the rack above his sink now.

“The special flutes?” I ask.

“My darling, I am so glad to have you back.”

It’s amazing how much you take your friends for granted sometimes, when you can’t think of anything but being alone. But, when you get out of that horrible stage and into life again, for 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 43

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some reason, they are still there and willing to forget how insuffer-able you have been.

So, I tell Chris the whole story and if it’s possible, he is more excited about it than I am. And, unlike Joanne, Chris has been to the Traveler’s Building and has seen the throngs of men walking around. “You, my dear, are going to have a blast,” he assures me.

The rest of the evening is spent in a thoroughly enjoyable fashion—playing poker using a currency of Polaroid shots of bare-chested male models Chris will be shooting next week.

“I’ll raise you one Tyson.”

“I’ll see your Tyson and raise you a Marcus and a Scott.”

You might not understand the value of one over the other, but believe me, we surely do. It only takes eyes, and we have been playing this game for so long that we don’t ever dispute the worth.

During fashion week, when others are taking pictures of the clothes to remember the looks they’d liked when order or article-writing time rolls around, Chris and I snap faces, asses and, if visible, bare chests that we’d like to order.

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T h r e e

You’re Gonna Make It After All

Two cups of coffee and fifteen cigarettes into the following morning, I am faxing my resume to the Financial Professional Recruiting Agency, to the attention of a Ms. Banker. When I telephone an hour later to make sure that she has received it and to schedule a meeting, the first thing I ask is, “Isn’t it such a coincidence that your name is Ms. Banker? Do people ask you that all of the time?”

“I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean, Ms. Silverman, but I think we have more important things to discuss.”

“Do you have something for me, then?” I knew it. See, when you just put your mind to it, you can do absolutely anything. So quick and painless. Success, love, riches, here I come.

“Not so quickly, Ms. Silverman. Do you think people trust the Financial Professional Recruiting Agency because we throw just anyone into positions at the finest financial institutions in the city?”

Is this a trick question? “Er, no?”

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“That’s right. First we’ll need you to come in and perform some computer skills tests. You do know Word, Excel, and PowerPoint, correct?” When I was typing Excel and PowerPoint into the computer skills section of my resume, I was a bit worried, only because I have never used either one in my lifetime, but since all of the job listings in the
Times
had called for them, I’d figured I ought to just add them, and then learn them if the need ever arose. How hard could it be really? They make Windows applications so simple that a monkey could use them. I mean, look at that America Online commercial with the monkey. He had no problems whatsoever sending a message to his friend to announce he’d passed his driving test.

“Of course,” I say with such authority that
I
actually believe that I could sit right down and figure out quadratic equations with my eyes shut.

“Great. Can you come in this afternoon? Say two o’clock?”

I

In the advertisements for these agencies, they should really warn you how depressing the offices are. It’s all puke green cinderblock walls, like in a prison, boring office carpeting that doesn’t even match, and a receptionist so rude that I can’t imagine a recruiting agency hasn’t found a better replacement. The worst part, though, is this one painting on black felt of a single clown, frowning as he looks up at his balloon that’s drifted up out of reach. Someone should do an article about this. “Job Hunting Nightmares,” or better yet, “Recruiting Agency Blues.”

After I dash through my application and pass it on to the receptionist (that is, once she’s through telling the person on the other end of the telephone about this blouse that she bought at Joyce Leslie that rang up for only $6, even though the tag said $25, what 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 46