Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “We have an entry-level spot open,” Mr. Richards—or is it Richman?—says. “We’re looking for one, maybe two years of experience.”

  “That’s me.” I proceed to tell him my job history, and soon I notice his eyes slowly roll back until I can see the whites. Then they close. I stare intently, afraid he’s dozed off.

  He snaps up. “You went to Syracuse.” He smiles. “My daughter is at Ithaca. Gets mighty cold up there.” Mr. Richley is droning on. “The job is in trafficking. You’ll report to the vice presideennnnn…” he trails off and his eyes roll. And very, very slowly, they close. Soft grunting noises come from his half-open mouth until it, too, closes. Then he snaps awake. “…president of marketing.” He talks with his eyes shut.

  I eye him carefully. He must have some kind of disorder. I start to talk about working as a trafficking assistant, so I understand the job when his eyes open. “That’s why we called you,” he says, and I’m listening, but not really because I’m waiting for him to nod off. He starts to tell me about the firm, then he nods very slowly and his eyes flutter and he’s mumbling something annnnnnd theeeenn they close. I breathe deeply, afraid I’m going to start laughing. “So.” He blinks. “Oh, wait, I lost my thought.” He starts talking again, but I can’t hear him because I’m focused on his eyes, waiting for him to trail off…“Well?”

  “Well what?” I ask politely, my head cocked. I clutch my suit in my sweaty hand.

  “What do you know about telecommunicaa…” Mumbling, he loses himself. His eyes flutter as he grunts.

  “Communications,” I cut him off. Dreamy, he nods, his eyes closed. “I worked at a PR firm for a while,” I say. “I learned a lot about telecommunications. I did a lot of things. With communications…and…uh…telecommunications.” I cannot believe I just said that.

  “We’re involved in all areas…so…”—I try hard to pay attention—“…the work is very technical. Ideally, we want som…momom momo…”—he dozes off—“and…mmom…momo…”

  His mumbling becomes hypnotic and I sway as I watch him. I am listening so intently, I begin to drift off, and as he mumbles “mmom…momo…” I actually hear myself mumbling “mmom…momo…” right along with him—out loud.

  “What?” he asks sharply, snapping up.

  “What?” I say, startled.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I don’t know,” I blurt out. Oh God, please let this be over. “I lost my thought.”

  “Oh.” He shuffles some papers, his mouth set. “We’re seeing a number of people.” He sticks my résumé in a folder. “Why don’t you leave a number?”

  I can’t believe this! I wasn’t making fun of you; I got caught up in the moment! “It’s on my résumé,” I say, trying to be cheerful. This isn’t my fault, Mr. Richter. “My address is in there, too.” I point to the folder.

  He doesn’t even look down. He nods, looks me straight in the eye. For the first time in the past hour, he’s fully awake. “We’ll call you,” he says.

  “Sounds like sleep apnea,” my mother suggests when I tell her about the interview. “You don’t want to deal with that every day.”

  “But I mumbled out loud! Right along with him! Right to his face!”

  “Frannie, it wasn’t meant to be.” Then she tells me that Carol, her assistant, is leaving for her honeymoon. “Why don’t you fill in for a few days?” she asks. “I don’t mind if you look for a job as long as you don’t tie up the phones.”

  “But I wanted that job, Mom. I want a real job.”

  “You’ll find a real job. And in the meantime, you can work for me. It’s only for a few weeks. Besides, if you’re serious about finding a real job, you have to get up before two.” She smiles slyly. “You can get up when I get up—at seven-thirty.”

  I groan.

  Two days later, I’m wearing Carol’s maroon On-Target jacket, looking at a receipt from Dr. Wallace B. Frank, a marriage counselor. I found the receipt tucked away in a file marked Personal. Apparently, my mother and father went to see this guy four times last month. I know it’s not a big deal, it just bothers me they didn’t tell me. I want to lean forward to study it, but Carol’s jacket is two sizes too small and every time I move, I’m afraid I’ll split it down the back.

  When I said I’d fill in for Carol, my mother said I’d have to wear a maroon jacket like everyone else in the office. I found it amusing the way she hovered over me, barking orders like a drill sergeant. It reminded me of how she planned family trips; low-calorie salad dressing bottles lined up on the kitchen counter, fat-free muffins cut up in plastic Baggies, sugar-free sucking candies stuffed into her purse. “Yes, ma’am,” I saluted. The phones lit up and I stuttered, “Good morning, On-Target Realty,” and accidentally disconnected someone. I looked at her sheepishly, but she wasn’t amused. “I’m not joking, Frannie,” she warned, “this is business.”

  I crumple the receipt into the pocket of my jacket. Business or not, you sure can stumble on a lot of secrets in a four-person office, especially when one of those persons is your mom.

  On-Target Realty is located in Great Neck. Years ago, the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, hired my mother to be an agent/office manager. She hired Carol, a woman she met at the gym, to be a secretary, but from the looks of it, Carol also takes care of her personal life.

  I really don’t know how my mother makes money for the company because she never shows houses. Usually, she’s on the phone with her sister and her father. But she does get paid to do something, I suppose. Two years ago she hired her hairstylist Collette to help design a company logo. Then she ordered business cards and memo pads, and had the great idea of making everyone wear maroon jackets like the gold jackets worn at Century 21. “If you look like a Fortune 500 company, you’ll get paid like one,” she said after she returned from a marketing seminar. Mr. Bennet finally got her to stop agreeing with everything he said by saying “Roger, J.B.” and referring to the four-man company as The Firm, but the maroon jackets stayed.

  “Abigail Friedman, please.” I disguise my voice since I’ve already called Abby three times this morning. She’s an associate with an entertainment law firm in New York that represents major sports figures and celebrities. When she took the job, we had visions of her hooking up with the Jets or jamming with the Stones, but so far the only famous person she’s seen is the back of Dom DeLuise’s head when he was sitting in a conference room.

  “May I ask who’s calling?” her secretary says.

  “Nancy Drew.”

  A minute later Abby gets on the line. “Very funny,’’ she says, laughing. “Our secretaries read, you know. And I told you not to call me until this afternoon. I’m filing a complaint which is due at noon.”

  “What kind of complaint? Ann Taylor sold out of the blouse you want? Abbeee, I am sooo bored. Let’s meet for lunch. I’ll come into the city.” Like my mother, I’ve done nothing all morning but talk on the phone. In between my personal calls, I’m making cold calls, asking people if they are thinking of selling their homes. I never should have said I’d do this.

  “Right. I’ll just tell Woody Allen’s assistant I can’t meet with him because I have to meet you for a turkey burger. Did I tell you that I’m finally getting my own client?”

  “Who? The Muppets?” She doesn’t answer. “Who then?”

  “I’m not telling you now.”

  “Fine, be a baby. At least go with me tonight to see Shelly. Abby, she keeps asking for you. She’s been there a month and you’ve only been twice.”

  “I thought she was supposed to get out already. My dad keeps telling me how much he needs her. I’m sick of hearing what a great little worker she is.”

  I look around the office. You and me both. “She’s getting used to it. I guess that means she’s getting better. Look, she needs us.” Twisting, I take off the jacket.

  “I can’t go tonight. Maybe Monday.” Then for the third time today, she tries to get me to go out with one of the lawyers in her off
ice. “Frannie, Baldwin’s a nice guy.”

  “I refuse to go out with anyone who has a last name for a first name.” I say this with hesitation because I’ve never turned down a date in my life. But there must be something wrong with him because even though she has a guy, Abby would never set me up with someone she’d want for herself.

  “Oh please. It’s his mother’s maiden name. He’s from Boston and his family is really rich. They were Pilgrims or on the Mayflower or something. What’s the big deal, anyway? It’s just a name. Remember when you made everyone call you Veronica?” I went through a period when I hated the name Frannie. I especially hated Francine. Veronica sounded more sexy, more intense. Sometimes, I even had my friends call me Ronnie like I was a rocker-chick in a heavy metal band.

  “I have another call.” I put her on hold. “On-Target, may I help you?”

  “Is Marsha Hunter in?” It’s a man’s voice. Very deep, very sincere. “This is Daniel Reynolds returning her call.”

  “Well, then you must be important.” I look behind me. My mother is on her knees, peering underneath the Xerox machine. “Mrs. Hunter is very busy, but I’ll see if I can put you through.”

  “I appreciate that. And let me tell you, you’re doing a fine job. Every salesman knows that the only way to the boss is to flatter her assistant. How am I doing so far?”

  “Fine. But where’d you hear that? Swimming With the Sharks?”

  “How to Get a Job in Five Easy Steps. This is step two.”

  “What’s step three?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t read that far.”

  I laugh, but not as hard as he does. I imagine that he’s big and burly with a sexy smile and a lock of hair curling in his eyes. I want to whisper something lascivious. Step three is a warm bath at your place. I settle back. The phone is the greatest invention. You can have complete relationships without worrying about the size of your thighs. “Step three is not appearing too eager,” I say firmly. “Hold on.” I turn in my chair. “MOM! PHONE!”

  “Frannie, really. This is an office.” As she sits down, she points to my jacket.

  “Sorry.” She’s trained Carol to say “Please hold for Mizz Hunter” in a high-pitched, Girl Friday voice, but when I see her standing on a chair in the kitchenette, it’s difficult for me to take our professional relationship seriously. I realize Abby is on hold. When I try to get her back, her secretary is waiting. “Ms. Friedman had another call. She’ll be right with you.” As I wait, I realize everyone in the world has someone to answer their phone. Except me.

  Abby gets back on, rushed and important. “I gotta go. I haven’t done anything all day but talk to you. I’ll call you tonight. Oh, one more thing.” Her voice sweetens. “Baldwin says Friday night is fine. Ciao, Veronica.”

  In my mother’s office, Mr. Bennet is laughing at something I can’t hear. It’s almost time for lunch, and I want to ask them to watch the phones so I can go out for my tuna on rye, but I feel funny interrupting. I stand in the doorway and rustle some papers, but they either can’t hear me or have chosen to ignore me.

  My mother has several pictures on her credenza. There’s one of Shelly, me, and Abby in my parents’ kitchen; one of my grandparents at a wedding; one of my mom and Aunt Lillian on a cruise ship; and one of my father that I brought from home. “Where did this come from?” my mother asked when she noticed it.

  “The den.”

  “I know where it came from. I meant, why is it here?”

  “I didn’t see one, so I brought it in.”

  “I have one of Daddy, but the frame broke.” She eyed me suspiciously. I wondered if she was worried that I noticed Mr. Bennet flirting with her, his big belly poking out from his maroon jacket. He always strolls into her office and stands over her. Sometimes he doesn’t say a thing; he just watches her. He chuckles at her jokes in long, drawn-out wheezes that last beats longer than any normal laugh I’ve ever heard. Maybe when I saw Johnny hovering over her, his belly practically lying on her desk as if it dropped from his body, it bothered me a little, especially the time he was touching the lapels of her jacket and she shifted slightly, but didn’t move. He didn’t know I was watching. He touched her like she wasn’t wearing a jacket at all.

  Mr. Bennet stands behind my mother’s chair, looking over her shoulder at a spreadsheet. “Look.” She gestures. “If we cut back, we can bring Daniel in. We need another agent. Meg and I can’t handle it all ourselves anymore.”

  “I know, Marsha,” he tells her, “but do we have to discuss this now? I’m hungry. Let’s eat and then we’ll talk about it.”

  “He keeps calling, and it’s not fair to put him off. Just make a decision already.”

  “I’ve made a decision. We need another agent, I agree. But I don’t know if it should be Daniel. Why do you like this guy so much, anyway?”

  “Because he’s smart and dynamic. He’s a real salesman. We need him.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Bennet says, sounding hurt. “A real salesman.”

  I clear my throat, and they both look up. “It’s twelve.” I point to my watch. “Tuna time.”

  “Frannie, will you cover the phones?” Mr. Bennet asks. “Your mother and I have a lunch meeting.”

  “Fine. I’ll starve.” My mother gives me a mean look. “I’m just kidding,” I tell her. “Go meet.”

  I return to my desk and they spend more time in her office. I can’t see what they’re doing, but it takes a long time before they’re ready to leave. I imagine Mr. Bennet pushing her up against the wall, rubbing his belly against her, the flap of his maroon jacket riding up, while my mother makes squeaky noises, struggling to get away. I lean back, but don’t hear any signs of a problem, so I work on my résumé, debating how to change the employment history around so it doesn’t appear like I can’t hold down a job.

  When they finally leave, Mr. Bennet keeps his hands to himself, but I can see through the glass windows that the minute he’s out the door, he propels my mother to his car with his hand resting against the small of her back. They look goofy in their twin maroon jackets, and he keeps smiling up at her as she maneuvers herself into the car. She waves to me from the front seat.

  I print out a copy of my résumé and study it. God, I’m such a loser. And a liar. But if I told anyone my real job history, there’s no way anyone would hire me. I have nothing to do until my mother and Fat Boy return, so I start listing all the guys I’ve slept with. Not only do I have a difficult time remembering their names (not that I knew all their names to begin with), but I become panicked that I’ve never been tested for AIDS or herpes or hepatitis or genital warts, or any of the other diseases that make sex such a daredevil sport. So, just for kicks, I open a new document and rewrite my résumé, describing my job history the way it really happened.

  Francine Vanessa Hunter

  739 St. James Drive Lindsey Point, NY 11223 (516) 555–3433

  Objective

  Position in creative field that requires a real people-person. Job should not require individual to wear a headset.

  Education

  B.A., Syracuse University

  Major: Getting stoned, having sex, sliding down snowy hills on cafeteria trays.

  Minor: Communications

  Financed 100 percent of education. Thanks to my parents’ inability to save money and the Student Loan Service, I will be in debt for the rest of my fucking life.

  Experience

  Present Rascals Steakhouse, a Division of Cuisine America, Food Server, Lindsey Point Mall You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure out what I do.

  One Whole Year! Revlon Incorporated, Administrative Assistant AKA Secretary, NY, NY Reported to the VP of sales who traveled all the time so no one was around to monitor my phone usage. Got free makeup, tote bags, umbrellas, and T-shirts. Laid off, which sucked since the makeup made great gifts and the cafeteria lunches were killer.

  Eleven Days Something Painful I’ve Blocked Out Four Months Jamaica Time Shares, Sales Assistant,
NY, NY Sold time shares in St. Thomas, Jamaica, and Bermuda. Took job thinking I’d get one free. Fired for insubordination and excessive personal phone calls.

  Two Months Tom and Susie’s Pet-O-Rama, Sales Assistant, Lindsey Point Mall Thought it might be fun. Liked it for about an hour. Forgot to lock the cages and the animals escaped. Let out an expensive parakeet, which was found stuck in an air conditioning vent. Bloody pieces of bird pulp got caught in the ridges of the vent, feathers were everywhere. “Your heart’s not in it,” Susie said when she gave me my last paycheck. “Think of it this way, Frannie. Most of us are on AM. You, my dear, are on FM.” I took my check and thanked her. “Who needs therapy?” I told her, using the check to wave goodbye. “I’ll just readjust my frequency.”

  One Excruciating Year Nine West Shoe Stores, Sales Assistant, Lindsey Point Mall Nothing more need be said.

  Seven Months WPGN Radio, Sales Assistant, Brooklyn, NY Sold radio time for a small station. Commute sucked. I quit, thinking I had experience and would find something better. I was wrong (see above).

  Six months Wayne & Malice Public Relations, Trafficking Assistant, NY, NY Responsible for trafficking ads through art and marketing departments. Sounded like a much better job in the paper. Worked on an American Express campaign that involved pictures of real people using their AMEX card in restaurants all over the world. Accidentally added the client’s only set of negatives to another client’s courier package which was sent to a remote island in Japan. I was “let go.”

  “Abigail Friedman, please. It’s Sandra Day O’Connor.”

  As I wait for Abby to pick up, a man strolls into the office. He’s tan and handsome, in the silver-templed, older-man way I’m beginning to like. I smile and hold up a finger.

  “I’m here to see Marsha Hunter.” He rests his hands on my desk and leans forward. “I’m Daniel Reynolds and you must be Marsha’s assistant.” He smiles when I nod. “You’re as pretty as your voice.”

  Maybe it’s the suit, but there’s something sexy about this guy. He’s the kind of guy—man I guess—whom I wouldn’t normally notice since my taste leans toward twenty-six-years-olds wearing baseball caps high-fiving each other around a keg. But look at me now, all flushed and moon-faced at the sight of his double-breasted navy suit and perfectly polished loafers.