by Jessica Jiji
That’s when it caught my eye: There, supporting a potted ficus tree, was a thick manuscript that looked horrifyingly familiar. I almost couldn’t look, but I had to, and that’s when I discovered that Anderson Gallant had turned eight years of my love and labor, my creation, my baby, into a plant-stand. It was enough to make me want to throw the whole book off the balcony, except that with my luck, it would probably just get me a ticket for littering. So all I did was turn around and head home.
The rest of the day was a blur, and by evening, I wanted to crawl under the covers and stay there forever, but it was Thursday, my night to visit Mrs. Lilianthaller and her two toy poodles, Bogey and Bacall, and even though I wouldn’t get paid, I knew the spiritual reward would be worth it. Poor Mrs. Lilianthaller could barely walk down the block, and a few of us dog-walkers had each signed up for one night a week to give those puppies the exercise they needed. Both the elderly woman and her beloved canines were so grateful, and their smiles more than made up for the work of adding another dog to my long dog-walking day.
“Is that you, deary?” a tiny voice asked through the intercom, nearly drowned out by the happy barking sounds in the background. The door buzzed open, and before I reached the first landing, I could hear the furious scratching of doggie nails on tile as Bogey and Bacall bounded down the stairs, saving me the trip to the third floor.
“My little stars!” I cried, and instantly regretted it as they both leaped from the landing into my arms and proceeded to lick my face until it was soaked. “You guys need to slow down the welcome,” I said, putting them down and taking their leashes, “or I’m going to have to enroll you in Over-greeters Anonymous!”
Oblivious to the threat of therapeutic intervention, Bogey and Bacall wagged their tails with delight. As we set off down Fourteenth Street toward Union Square Park, I said, “At least you care about me.”
The sky darkened, and I turned up my collar against a sudden cold breeze mixed with exhaust from the avenue. Every time disappointment slapped me in the face, I would recover by imagining myself getting the last laugh when those who refused to recognize my talent saw my name at the top of the bestseller list week after week after week.
But this time, I couldn’t muster the energy. The pain of knowing that Anderson Gallant never had and never would help me get published was nothing compared to the harsh truth that this was my pattern. I used to think all the cheerleading in my head would help me get what I wanted, but now I realized it just allowed me to maintain my useless fantasies.
Union Square was bustling with commuters hurrying around with the focused looks of accomplished professionals. Entering the smelly dog run, I unleashed Bogey and Bacall and slumped on a bench, feeling all tied up inside. How many times can you bang your head against the wall thinking you’re going to break through, only to be left with a splitting migraine? There does come a moment when you have to cut your losses and move on to Plan B. God, how I’ve always avoided coming up with a Plan B! I even had a name for it: Plan Bury Me First. Instead, I subscribed to the beliefs of “I am what I imagine!” “I write the script of my own life!” and “What her mind can conceive, a girl can achieve!”
With the dust kicked up by the dogs flying around my face, I realized those were just delusional phrases. I am what I imagine—until I wake up. I write the script of my own life, and somebody tosses it under a plant.
You’re a good person, I thought, consoling myself. Look how happy you made Bogey and Bacall tonight. The dogs were wrestling with a Shepherd-Collie mix with joyful abandon. To them, this lousy, crowded city dog run was paradise. The pups weren’t always looking for greener pastures or reaching for something they could never get.
A ball landed near me, with Bogey making a dive for it. I pet the scruff of his neck. “Maybe you have the right idea,” I said. “Just chase what comes to you.”
When I got home, I followed my own advice, picked up the phone, and arranged to see my uncle the following Wednesday. For once, I was imagining something I could actually become: a staff reporter at Girdle and Support Hose Quarterly.
There was no time to worry about my career when I sat down with Trish the next day, because she was bursting with news about my blind date. “Six-foot-one, one hundred eighty-five pounds of solid muscle, and he knows how to cook,” she said, rooting around in her purse. It was our regular girls’ luncheon at Sushi and Slushies in the East Fifties.
I slurped on my pistachio-green bubble tea. “But can he kiss? He’d better not be thinking about cavities and molars when I open my mouth.”
“Are you ready to die?” she said with characteristic overdramatization, producing a snapshot. “The one in the middle.”
It didn’t really matter which was my dentist-date because all five guys in the photo looked pretty much alike: backwards baseball caps, baggy shorts, and each holding a can of Bud. Definitely not my scene, but on closer inspection I noticed that the one in the middle, who was obviously laughing, had a casual look of confidence about him. Translation: possibly attractive. “So why’s he single?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“Because,” Trish replied, “he’s looking for someone special.”
“So why would he want to meet me?” I asked with a snort.
“Oh, come on,” said Trish, furiously stirring her frothy pink drink. “You are so much more interesting than the types he attracts. You know, the mall addicts who spend half their life at the gym and the other half trying to find Mr. Right-Income-Bracket.”
Trish did have a point. For all my faults, I wasn’t your average subdivision single. “Did you tell him about me?”
“Of course. He’s totally into the fact that you’re a Manhattan artist who reads more than just shopping apps.”
By the time we paid the check, I had agreed to at least meet the guy. “I do have to come out to the Island on Wednesday,” I said tentatively. “Maybe we could hook up then?”
“Perfect!” replied Trish. “I’ll make all the arrangements. You just be there.”
“Well, what’s the guy’s name at least?” I asked.
“It’s…” she paused for a second, “Irwin.”
Irwin? I thought. A dentist named Irwin? What did I get myself into? And how would I get myself out?
Those were the same questions I pondered later that evening at yet another meeting of the Hell’s Kitchen writers group. Sunny couldn’t stop talking about how Portia’s success showed that we were all going to make it. “I embrace our lucky friend’s good fortune and call to the universe to embrace me,” said the wannabe published author of Daily Vows for a Happy Future.
“I think we should all join hands and say this together,” she suggested.
I think we should discuss my book, I thought to myself.
Everyone else loved her idea, though, and before long we were sitting in an awkward prayer circle avowing our universal embrace.
“I just felt the head of Simon & Schuster have a sudden urge to know who did Napoleon’s hair,” I said.
“Excellent, excellent,” Sunny replied, my sarcasm lost on her.
As we held hands and silently put our energies together, I took a hard look at my fellow aspiring artists. What a bunch of losers. Sunny was reciting those vows all the way to the unemployment line. Danny Z.’s theories, as I had already proved, would get you no closer to a man than romance amulets or love potions would. José was the best writer, but really, who would ever buy Planet Cucumber and the Wriggly Green Virus? Seth was supposedly “blocked”—his excuse for never showing up with any material. And Margo was just plain ridiculous. Love Between Consenting Parrots? What’s her sequel, Rape of the Unwilling Pigeon?
It was time, I knew, to escape this group of enabling, self-deluding, fantasy-feeding freaks. I couldn’t walk out just then, though, because suddenly the affirmations ended, and José pointed out that it was my turn for feedback. “Let’s polish this baby and get it ready for the bestseller list!” he said.
If only, if only, if on
ly, I thought.
That night in my mailbox, along with the usual old-school gossip magazine in hard copy, I was surprised to find a yellow package slip from the post office. The next day, it rested in my pocket like a mysterious promise during the morning walk.
I was showing Danny Z. the ropes so he could fill in for me when I went to the Island on Wednesday. “For this kind of money, I’d walk porcupines,” he said, obviously impressed by how much more could be made by waiting on animals than on tables. He might actually have the chance to take over, I thought, realizing that if the interview went well, I’d be giving it all up.
“Whatever you do,” I cautioned, “don’t call the dogs by the wrong name in front of the owner. That just feeds their fears that to you their precious little darlings are nothing but a paycheck.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” said Danny Z., saluting me under the flag in front of the post office. We exchanged kisses, but before parting he asked his favorite question: “So, what are you going to wear?”
I cringed. I’d been avoiding thinking about digging something out of my messy closet that would be suitable for an office. I sure as hell didn’t have any girdles. “What should I wear?” I asked.
“No parallel lines.”
“Not for the date!” I corrected. “For my job interview.”
“Ah, be yourself,” he said. “People want to see the real you: creative, inspiring, and pretty when you get your hair under control.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. Danny Z. could always be counted on to tell it like it is.
During the twenty-five minutes I waited in line, I considered all the possibilities of what this mysterious package might be. Probably not a bomb; I’m too unimportant. Possibly a free promotional gift from someone trying to sell me something—that could be good. Or maybe I entered a contest without realizing it and this was my prize! Unlikely, but still…
When the clerk produced a medium-sized package, my hopes lifted—until I saw the return address: 206 Locust Lane, Massapequa, Long Island, home of my obsessively perfect older sister.
I carried it home like it was a bomb and stared at it in the middle of my floor, wondering whether I should dunk it in the bathtub to defuse it. Curiosity got the better of me, and using the sharpest kitchen knife I could find, I slashed the package open.
Not an explosive device, I realized, fingering the outer layer of tissue paper that was obviously holding some kind of outfit. Before I could wonder whether Jenna had finally given me my favorite pink dress of hers, I saw the dull navy color underneath.
A suit. A hideous, conservative, I’m-in-the-mainstream-now, double-breasted suit.
Ugh.
But the letter was even worse.
Dear Laurel,
Congratulations on finally making a sensible move in your life. I know you’re new to this, so you can benefit from my knowledge, experience, and even clothes! Enjoy this suit, but make sure you return it dry-cleaned. And don’t mess up the look with a pair of suntan stockings or open-toed shoes.
I trust you know how to walk dogs, and I hope you take my word for it on how to make it in the real world. You know I only want the best for you because I care and I want to see you become successful.
Don’t disappoint Mom, Dad, or Uncle Lewis. We’re all counting on you to make something of yourself.
Sincerely,
Big Sis
I ripped the letter to shreds and stuffed the suit back into the box, which I kicked under the table, wishing it was Jenna’s head.
But that anger was followed by a spasm of guilt. After all, she’d just offered to lend me her clothes. What could be so bad about that? All she wanted me to do was make them proud…
But what about me? She didn’t care if I was happy as long as I fit the mold—good family, good career, middle-class aspirations, and a good husband—so that Jenna wouldn’t have to be ashamed of her semi-employed, failed artist, crappy-dressing, single younger sister.
Just like at her wedding. She not only told me exactly what to wear but also how to walk, who to talk to, when to shut up, and where to hide when she wanted me to disappear. Her picture-perfect image couldn’t be messed up by Laurel’s unsightly creativity. I had thought about writing her a special love story for a present but instead just picked something out of the registry. After all, everyone needs a cheese-cutter. Leave it to Jenna to want one made of solid sterling silver.
I set aside the morning of the interview to fully prepare. Remembering Danny Z.’s criticism of my hair, I made sure to get a professional blow-out. It left me looking a little corporate, but I figured that would work. At the nail salon, I selected a conservative pale pink over my usual hot fuchsia, figuring it would go well with the black and white jacket dress I’d chosen as the best compromise outfit to wear for both a job interview and a blind date. All I needed was a fresh copy of my résumé.
For once, my printer cooperated, coughing out the document without much of a fight. I was about to tuck it in my professional-looking fake leather folder when I decided to have a look.
My throat clenched. There in black and white—mostly white—was the pathetic story of my life since graduating college. Or non-story, to be more precise. Exactly two published pieces to my name: the Seventeen Magazine story I wrote in high school and a poem in the Hoboken Herald four years back.
Sure, I tried to spin my dog-walking gig as entrepreneurial pet-care management, but why would a real job be impressed by that? I could just hear the question: “So, Ms. Linden, I see you walk dogs, but what the hell do you know about copyediting?”
There was my college degree from Vassar, but how relevant was that? A major in Nineteenth-Century European Literature.
With the derisive laughter of experienced journalists ringing in my ears, I reluctantly dragged the box containing Jenna’s suit out from under the bed. With those credentials, I was going to need all the help I could get.
Strangely enough, the suit made me stand straighter, as though by dressing respectably I deserved respect. As I headed through Penn Station, instead of attracting smirks and dumb comments—why do people think they’re being original when they ask why I bought all those dogs?—I finally blended in with the rest of the working world. And at the ticket booth, for the first time in my life, I was addressed as “Ma’am.”
The ride out was comfortable, and I realized that if I got this job I’d probably always get a seat, since most people live on the Island and work in the city, not the opposite. In the future, I definitely wouldn’t be wearing my sister’s ugly cast-offs; with my new pay raise, I’d be able to afford all kinds of great clothes. I decided I would go for sexy chic—not Donna Karan, just DKNY: sporty minis with matching jackets that would work as well in the office as on Avenue A. Maybe the dentist drives a little aubergine Porsche, and he’ll take me back into the city where we’ll dance until dawn, I thought, adjusting myself to a future full of interesting possibilities.
Assuming I land this job, that is. I’d been so busy fantasizing about my new life that I’d nearly forgotten to prepare for the interview. After some deliberation, I decided to focus on how my years of writing experience would surely enable me to communicate to the Quarterly’s readers the very essence of the art of underwear.
By the time the train pulled into Massapequa, I was ready to face the chief editor. I imagined him sitting behind a large and imposing desk in a corner office with a beautiful view of a corporate park, but when I got there, I found no park, only a parking lot, and after being buzzed in, I saw that not only was there no corner office, the place had no windows.
I stood in the doorway, taking in the scene: piles of yellowed paper everywhere, two computers that made mine look like the latest model, and icky stockings and girdles draped in odd places, like over the company refrigerator.
A droopy woman beyond the help of even the most optimistic garment came wading through the mess and extended her hand.
“Thank God you’re here. Laurel
, right? Come on this—” she began, before breaking off into a hacking cough. She waved me past the front room and into a closet-sized cubicle where two overrun desks sat face to face.
“Mr. Burdowski will be back in a sec,” she said. “Make yourself comfy.” A phone started ringing, and she began lifting stacks of paper and dusty girdles in search of its source. Eventually the noise stopped and she shrugged. “Voicemail will pick up, and the password is somewhere, so I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Of course,” I affirmed.
“I’m Joan Malone, Office Manager,” she said. I had squeezed myself into a rickety metal chair. “And this,” she added, gesturing toward the dreary space with its free bank calendar and bronzed girdle on the wall boasting 2017 Industry Best, “is your new home away from home.”
“You mean I’ve got the job?” I asked, feeling confused. Just then, a slender, elderly gentleman walked in chewing on an unlit cigar.
“Mr. Burdowski, the new girl’s here,” Joan said.
“You mean you haven’t scared her off yet?” he asked. Well, almost, I thought. “Don’t mind Joan,” he added. “She’s normally okay, but she hasn’t been able to find her little blue happy pills in here for the last two weeks.” Joan grimaced.
“I’m going to level with you,” he said, lighting the cigar. “We’ve had three people quit in the past four months, and we’re two quarters behind on our quarterly publication. Louie says you’re a genius. Frankly, we don’t need a genius, but we do need someone who can add up the sales figures and make them sound interesting.”
“You’ll pick it right up,” Joan said.
“Well, enough fun,” the boss said, gesturing toward a stack of paper. “Here’s the figures dating back over the past six months. Should take you only about a week or two to spot the trends, but you might as well get started.”
I was dumbfounded. He meant now.
