by Jessica Jiji
“I thought this was a job interview…” I stammered.
“It was,” he replied.
“You’re hired!” Joan said with a smile.
“Well,” I began, “I do need to give some notice to my current employer.” Say goodbye to all my little mutts? No more Lulu yapping at my feet? None of Kingpin’s sloppy kisses? Never again seeing Cadbury’s bright eyes when I walk in the door? I ached at the thought of leaving them.
“This position has been vacant for so long, what’s another week?” Joan asked, taking my side.
“Fine, a week,” conceded Mr. Burdowski. “But familiarize yourself with some of this,” he added, handing me an accordion folder stuffed with paper.
As I moved to leave, Joan grabbed my arm and whispered conspiratorially, “You know, one of our former writers went on to become editor-in-chief at Lingerie Wear Daily.” When she saw that I wasn’t bowled over, she added, “But the best perk here is”—she wiggled her dandruffy eyebrows—“he’ll let you take home a support garment if there’s one that you like.”
It was a nightmare, but if it was anything like the temp jobs I used to do, I knew I could get the work done in an eighth of the time they expected and spend the rest on my own personal projects. In effect, I’d be getting paid to sit at a computer and develop my oeuvre.
I didn’t have too much time to consider the particulars, because when I looked at my watch I realized I had only fifteen minutes until my rendezvous with Irwin.
Conveniently, it was right across from the train station, but when I saw the small, fluorescent-lit Spiro’s Diner I had to wonder why he’d been so eager to take me there. There was one vehicle in the driveway, and I prayed it wasn’t Irwin’s because far from being an aubergine Porsche, it was a bland, grandpa-like Chevy Impala.
I closed my eyes and hoped for the best, but when I entered the generic restaurant, which looked twice as large as it really was because of the preponderance of mirrors, I was met by an eager hostess with more frosting in her hair than on the cakes swirling around in their glass stand.
“Party of one?” she asked.
“Actually, I’m here to meet someone,” I said, looking around nervously. There were only a few people in the place, and just one anywhere near my age. Although I could only see him from behind, one thing was clear: He was as bald as an eagle.
“Dr. Turnov? He’s right over there,” said the hostess, pointing to the cue ball.
“Oh, I don’t think…” I began.
“Total sweetheart,” she winked. “Gave me these caps half off,” the hostess added, mouth wide open to show me.
That’s when I saw her: my image in the mirror. A corporate clone reproduced from the mold of society’s expectations: all unique attributes carefully painted over in the mid-range colors, my naturally wavy hair blown out into a helmet, accordion folder full of meaningless data under my arm, the dull navy suit making me look like every other commuter on the 7:23 train. All in all, Jenna junior—exactly what I’d vowed never to become.
I suddenly felt dizzy. Everything around me seemed to blur into spinning images: that horrible little office entombing me for the next thirty years; every morning being greeted by Joan Malone’s hacking cough as she searched for the damned phone; Burdowski handing me piles of papers with that same turdy-looking cigar hanging from his fingertips; the bald dentist husband smelling of antiseptic and driving me from mall to mall in the awful Impala; my hair one huge, frosted cake.
No! I almost shouted out loud.
No, I decided then and there.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong woman,” I said, and, pivoting decisively, I walked out the door, dumped the accordion folder in the nearest trashcan, mussed up my hair, and took off running for the next train to Manhattan.
As the city came into view, corny as it sounds, Frank Sinatra was blaring in my head: If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere, it’s up to you, New York, New York. It was the same song that had inspired me when I had moved to the city all those years ago, breaking away from the suburban swamp and leaving all the mediocrity behind in my pursuit of artistic excellence.
I nearly kissed the sidewalk as I emerged from Penn Station, and when I got home, even my crumbling apartment felt like a palace of freedom.
I peeled off the odious suit and jumped in the shower, eager to scrub off every last remnant of Plan B, but after dousing my hair in apple-scented shampoo and covering myself in body wash, the water suddenly shut off.
Again.
For the third time that week.
And the eighth time that month.
As far as the year went, I’d long since given up counting.
Shivering, naked and covered with soap, I felt as vulnerable as a newborn and started to cry. There was no use pretending my life was glorious. Sure, it would make a great story on the “Today Show,” but the “Today Show” only featured people who succeeded. Their early years of struggle were character-building steps on the path to greatness. But unless you make it, character-building is just a fancy word for hell. It killed me to admit, but my parents were right: I had accomplished virtually nothing in eight years of trying. Without even realizing it, I was headed from wannabe to couldabeen.
I toweled off, still crying, and decided to curl up in bed. I certainly didn’t have the stomach for any research on Napoleon and instead opened my hard copy of Us Magazine, hoping for a good article on the hidden heartache of a rich, beautiful celebrity to cheer me up.
It was comforting to read about bulimic TV prodigies, botched plastic surgery, and the bitter divorces of famous couples, until I got to page seventy-two. There, in all her splendor, was Xhana, the hot new African opera singer who had been discovered by none other than Lucien Brosseau.
The sobs came in floods. I threw the magazine across the room and screamed “WHY?” Why did I have to see that now, when I was least able to take it? It was as if life had chosen the worst possible moment to kick me where it hurt.
- 6 -
The next day, I woke up with red-rimmed eyes and, feeling numb, went about my routine. In the afternoon, I dropped Jenna’s suit off at the dry cleaners, knowing that the fourteen dollars to clean it was only the beginning of the price I’d have to pay. “How could you do this to Mom and Dad?” she’d surely ask. “How could you embarrass Uncle Lewis like that? Don’t you have any respect?” The only thing that would shut her up would be a publishing contract, and unfortunately the day’s mail brought no miracles. There was a copy of Celebrity Style, but fearing another Xhana sighting, I dumped it straight in the trash can. Other than that, just two bills and the usual plea for money from my college alumni association. My phone showed three messages, which I ignored, knowing they were from Jenna, Mom, and Trish, who would no doubt all want an explanation.
Seeing the Vassar logo on the envelope reminded me of those carefree years when I truly believed anything was possible. At college, I received the kind of direction, encouragement, and praise that had been absent from my life since graduation. Feeling nostalgic, I opened the envelope. For a change, it wasn’t a fundraising solicitation.
Need a new Big Sister? screamed a headline across a bright red flyer.
Did I ever.
I read on:
Vassar’s Old Girl Network is ready to help. Register now, and we’ll match you with a mentor tailor-made to meet your needs. Then join us for crumpets and tea and get started on a new life.
What the hell, I thought. I filled out the survey and mailed it on the way to my afternoon rounds.
The tea was held a few days later at the University Club on Park Avenue. As I entered through the big oak doors, I felt a familiar hopeful feeling, like I was twenty years old again and earning all A’s. At the registration table, a bubbly redhead looked up my name on a list. “Laurel Linden, now you are lucky: Cathy Grayer is your big sis. Nicest, most sensible, intelligent person you’d ever want to meet.” She pressed a nametag on my lapel and told me to proceed to table twenty-one.
The room buzzed with excitement as enthusiastic young women paired up with seasoned professionals offering sound advice. Cathy Grayer greeted me with a firm handshake, poured some tea, and started in with the questions.
“You say you’ve been writing for eight years, but you haven’t published anything?” she asked, as if it was impossible for such a fate to befall a Vassar graduate. Reluctantly, I explained my situation, even going so far as to describe my latest attempt to secure a new job. “I just couldn’t see myself sitting there day after day writing about girdles,” I confessed.
“But how are you ever going to get published unless you accumulate some clips?” she asked, sitting straight up in her houndstooth suit garnished with a bejeweled butterfly broach. “Sure, a little industrial newsletter doesn’t seem so glamorous, but next thing you know you’ll have a chance to write for a larger circulation commercial journal. That’s the only way anyone is ever going to take you seriously: when you have a byline. My advice to you is to show up next Monday at that job like a real Vassar girl would and start yourself on the path to publication.”
Feeling hot tears about to burst forth, I thanked Cathy Grayer politely and stumbled off toward the bathroom in search of some privacy. I was full-on sobbing by the time I got there and felt embarrassed to see that I wouldn’t be alone. A small, vivacious brunette in a tailored, light green dress was applying clear nail polish to a run in her stocking.
“Swear to God,” she said, “I’m going to break my addiction to this college nostalgia bullshit.”
Through my tears, I smiled.
The woman turned to face me and realized I’d been crying. “Oh, you look exactly how I feel!” she said. “Utterly depressing, isn’t it?”
For the first time in ages, somebody was validating my feelings, and I couldn’t hold back the dam that had bottled them up.
“Depressed is better than how I feel now,” I said, and before long, I had recounted my conversation with Cathy Grayer. “So do you really think I need to go work for that girdle magazine?” I asked my new friend.
“Absolutely not!” she said, slamming a bangle-laden hand on the marble counter. “That would be the stupidest move possible. Who is ever going to take you seriously as a novelist if all you’ve ever written about is latex?”
“But nobody takes me seriously now!” I explained. “I’m a dog-walker, not a novelist.”
Her large, expressive brown eyes bored into me with a confidence that was almost frightening. “Vanessa Pixley,” she announced, grabbing me by the shoulders. “And I’m here to tell you that your great potential can be realized.” Letting go, she snapped a business card into my hand. “When you’re ready to believe that, you just give me a call.”
With that, she left, and I felt like maybe I’d met a real big sister.
I didn’t know if it would be too soon to call the next day, but I did anyway. My timid introduction was met with a warm and welcoming invitation to lunch. “How about Aquavit at one-thirty?” she asked.
I knew I couldn’t afford one of the best restaurants in New York and hesitated, wondering if I’d reached out of my league.
Sensing my rectitude, she added quickly, “My treat.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Of course,” she confirmed. “It will be my chance to hear all about your fascinating novel. And together, we’re going to figure out how to get you published.”
That phone conversation finally gave me the courage to face what I’d been avoiding.
“Hi, Trish,” I said, sitting at a Starbucks in between shifts. “It’s me.”
“Now you decide to call? It’s too late. He hates you.”
“Big tragedy,” I said, taking a sip of my latte and feeling carefree. “Why didn’t you tell me he was bald? And his name is Turnoff?”
“It’s Turnov. And anyway, look who’s talking! You showed up in a double-breasted suit with your hair in a bouffant. I told you he likes artsy types.”
“He saw me?”
“You were pretty obvious about walking out on him.”
“Well it’s not like I’m ever going to hook up with someone named Irwin Turnov. I mean, Trish, give me a little credit.”
“Oh right, I forgot you’re dating Lucien Brosseau. But how come you weren’t mentioned in the article in Us?”
Figuring no one could go lower than that, I called Mom. I was wrong.
“What did Uncle Lewis ever do to you to make you embarrass him like that in front of his closest business associate? Do you realize that man is one of your closest relatives? Okay, so you want to be a failure, but do you have to drag down the rest of us with you? This family hasn’t been so humiliated since Jenna gave your cousin a job doing reception at the fitness studio and Mindy spent the whole time eating greasy fast food in front of the students!”
Vanessa wouldn’t think that was such a crime, I thought.
There was no one left to call but the calorie policewoman herself.
“I tried, Laurel. You can’t say I don’t believe in you,” Jenna said.
“Believe in me?” I’d finally had enough. “You call trying to make me be something I’m not believing in me? If you believed in me, you might have once come into the city and visited my apartment. Or come to my writing group like I asked you to fifty times. You might have actually read Napoleon’s Hairdresser. It’s not like I didn’t give it to you Velo-bound and everything.”
For once, Jenna was silent.
“It sounds like an incredible book, and I can’t believe you finished it in only eight years. I mean, look at Flaubert—he spent thirty years on Madame Bovary, so you’re way ahead of the game,” Vanessa said at lunch the next day. Seated in such a fancy restaurant, with such an elegant woman taking me seriously, I actually had hope of believing her.
“You think?” I asked, seeking reassurance.
“Honey, in actuality, publishing is all about contacts, not talent. The fact that you have very little to show for your efforts only proves that you’ve been devoted to your art instead of marketing.”
“Maybe I just suck,” I said.
“Give me a dollar!” Vanessa commanded. “I’m going to charge you every time you make a self-disparaging remark.” I gladly handed over a single, feeling happy that she was really on my side. She tucked it into a small, sleek, black satin pouch produced from her red handbag.
“Laurel, you don’t even see how great you are. For eight years everyone has been against you, and you’ve never once given up on your dream. You’ve gone out there, you’ve made your career, you’ve supported yourself and pursued your craft. It’s only a matter of time until someone discovers your creation.”
I felt myself glow inside. Seeing my life through Vanessa’s eyes, the glass was way more than half full.
“You deserve to be published,” she continued.
Full of champagne.
“But let me ask you this: Do you really want to realize your dreams?”
“Who doesn’t?” I asked.
“Then say it: Yes, I do!”
“Yes, I do!” I repeated, feeling giddy, as though I’d downed the champagne all in one gulp.
“Congratulations,” Vanessa said. “You’ve just taken the hardest step. Now, here’s the next one: When you get home, I want you to throw out everything in your apartment that makes you feel unworthy.”
“Are you kidding? There’d be nothing left,” I protested.
“Another dollar!” she commanded. “Don’t make me rich off of your pessimism. Now try again; can you do it?”
“Definitely,” I answered. “I’ll have a bonfire.”
First off, the Us magazine featuring Xhana and Lucien. Added to that were 117 rejection letters from agents, all of Portia’s chapters of Wild Asparagus, and a folder full of articles my mother had cut out about successful young professionals, with Clowny Zary at the top. Too bad I’d already taken Jenna’s suit to the cleaners, but I still had enough hand-me-downs from her to add to the pile, all of t
hem dreadful conservative outfits meant to make me fit in the working world.
I brought this history of loserhood to the alley behind my apartment and set it aflame, watching the papers crinkle and turn black.
“What the fuck is going on?” someone screamed behind me. “You trying to get the fire department on my ass?” It was the super. Funny, he never showed up when my lights went out.
“Relax. Everything’s in a metal garbage can.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Starting a new life,” I proclaimed.
To my total shock, when I got upstairs, my father was sitting on the hallway steps outside my apartment.
Not another intervention, I thought.
“Surprised to see your old man?”
“Well, yeah, Dad.”
“Happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought, I miss my sweetie. I bet she hasn’t been out to a nice restaurant in a long time. How ‘bout I take you to Peter Lugar’s?”
Shock number two. He could barely remember my birthday, and now he was offering to take me to the best steakhouse in New York for no particular reason?
“Actually, Dad, I had a big lunch. But come inside.”
He followed me into the small apartment and made himself cozy on the ratty couch. I handed him a stack of takeout menus, and pretty soon we were chowing down on spring rolls and pad thai.
“So what really brings you here, Dad?” I asked.
“Well, this whole business about your uncle,” he began, and I felt my defenses rise. So it was another intervention. These people could never think about me just for me, only them.
But my father didn’t seem like he was about to launch an attack. Instead, he put his arm around me and said, “Tell you the truth, I never liked the jerk.”
I laughed, remembering how Dad always rolled his eyes whenever Uncle Lewis launched into another speech about the garment industry.
“I’ll deny this if you tell your mother, but I’m happy you turned down the job,” he said.
I hugged him tightly. “Oh, Daddy.”
“That kind of work’s not for you,” he went on. “Smelly little office out on Long Island.” He patted my shoulder. “Walk your dogs. Get fresh air and exercise. Write that novel of yours. Who knows? Maybe it’s even kind of good.”
