“You’re Tiffany, right?” I ask when our eyes meet.
“Yeah, you’re Tom’s new assistant, right?” she asks, sticking out her hand.
“That’s right. Lane,” I say as we shake. She’s got her dark hair back in one of those lazy buns I reserve for the gym or an evening in.
“This is a great place to work, isn’t it?” I ask.
“It’s okay,” she says, shrugging in that way only someone with years of familiarity with a place can, and I’m left wondering if she’s blind despite the eye contact. A job at a mall store can be okay. Waiting tables can be okay. But a job living, breathing, doing just about anything amongst all this testosterone—well, that can’t be described as anything less than spectacular.
‘“What do you do here?” I ask, taking in her outfit—slightly pilled black pants and a shapeless gray top.
“I assist Larry Waters, one of the VPs,” she says, after a long exhale.
I switch to undercover mode; this could be a good opportunity to gain a bit of insight into the dating scene around here. “I can’t believe how many men work here,” I venture, omitting, almost without effort now, the verbal exclamation point at the end. Which I hope does wonders to conceal the embarrassing exclamation point now contained in a permanent thought bubble over my head. Five times today alone I’ve told myself, you’re not fifteen, Lane. So what? Is all I manage to come up with, so I tell myself I might as well throw myself in and enjoy it.
“Yeah, but they’re all assholes,” she says, again with that hint of experience and disinterest. She rolls her eyes and taps one finger on her cigarette, which sends a little tornado of ashes spiraling up over the two of as.
“They can’t all be assholes,” I shrug. I hate when people generalize. And then I realize I have probably been generalizing ever since I laid eyes on this place. Just because a guy looks all grown up in a suit doesn’t mean he really is, right? Sure, I know that but I can’t help but flirt with the fantasy anyhow. I’ve always been the sort who has to learn the hard way.
“Yes. They can,” she retorts, stating it as fact as one might argue four quarters equal one dollar. “But,” she continues, “That doesn’t stop people making out in the stairwell or hooking up at happy hour. I’m sure you’ll see.”
I’m never one to be swayed by other opinions, especially when they run so contrary to the one I want to be correct. It’s one of the things that makes me so good in the idealized magazine industry: the truth is, sometimes the fashions don’t actually fall neatly into ten trends, not every woman you interview is going to agree with your editor’s thesis that leggings make them look ten pounds lighter. But God help you if you hand in an article with a messy truth like that! My hairs stand on end at the idea of something stamping out everything I’m working towards before I’ve even begun.
She stretches her back and sighs as if preparing for another humdrum day.
“Hey, are you going up?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she drops her cigarette to the ground and stomps it out.
Ten men look to see what the women are doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone shuffled her aside and said, “Allow me, please.”
“Why don’t we eat lunch together later?” she asks, in her first positive note, before we part at her cubicle. Her face lights up when she says, “I can let you in on all the gossip.” Aha! So here’s what turns Happy Birthday Tiffany on.
“Sure, that would be great,” I say, excited at the prospect of initiation into that other sacred office rite—gossip. Heading to my cubey I imagine Tiffany’s gossip will top any from home. “Did you hear they’re ordering in a new brand of sport drink at the deli?” and “our mailman was fired for being too slow” isn’t exactly inspiring stuff.
In the end, I have to take a rain check on the lunch date with Tiffany. My smart and well-traveled boss hasn’t had an assistant for a couple of months now and the mountain of receipts growing on his desk nearly touches the ceiling.
When he first introduced me to the Leaning Tower of Pisa that is his overdue expense receipt pile, Tom confessed, “I wanted to wait until day two to show you this; otherwise, I thought you might run screaming.”
Without intending it, my bulging eyes and gaping mouth score some guilt points from my thoughtful but sneakier-than-he-might-look boss.
“Fine. You’re right. I should have warned you. We’ll call it even on the shopping spree, okay?” He smiles.
I shake my head; the assistant scorned.
“I’ll make it up to you though technically, this was in the job description. Still, it might have been described a bit out of proportion—you know, the way people claim to be masters of certain computer programs when they’ve tried them once or twice.”
I squirm but quickly recover when I see his smile has grown. “Let’s see … lunch?” The idea of another lunch fighting over pretzel bites could be considered enjoyable if not exactly romantic. But there’s the tie and that evil girlfriend, so I think better of the idea of Tom and romance. Besides, Tom, sweet and smart and funny as he is, just isn’t my type. Still, why can’t I enjoy lunch with him? All work and no play, and all that.
“You drive a hard bargain. All right, lunch is on me. Order in from wherever you like. Menus are in the bottom drawer on the left side of your cub-icle. You can even have them bring you a glass of wine—but you didn’t hear that from me.” He winks then looks at the pile. “I gather you’ll need it.”
Of course I knew he meant I could order lunch. Not us having lunch together. That’s much better, I tell myself. More efficient.
I realize later, the no drinking rule isn’t so much enforced as it is considered reserved for times when one really needed to bend it. The problem isn’t so much that the pile towers over my head, but rather the fact I can barely count to ten, much less learn to convert pounds and yen into dollars to figure out how much Tom’s really spent on his international trips. I start neatly taping the receipts onto letter-sized papers, which I then organize by weeks. In itself this is rather simple and cathartic, and after a few hours, mind-numbing and, well, dangerous-if you consider the three Band-Aids that now serve as accessories to my ensemble (white Hugo Boss pants suit from the Century 21 extravaganza and a black shell, with kitten-heeled mules, beaded turquoise necklace, and simple silver drop earrings).
I am just finished with taping the first three weeks of receipts, and although Tom has been the picture of appreciativeness, popping his head in with lunch menu suggestions, treats from the vending machines, and little paper signs that say “Thank You,” embellished with poor attempts at stars and hearts, I need to take a break from the monotony. I head to the copy room to switch over to the riot-a-minute task of running this first bit through for Tom’s records.
The “Law of Offices” tacked up over the copier on an apparently post-paper-jam crinkled sheet of copy paper dictates, “Whenever you need to copy something, this stupid machine always breaks.”
I am knee deep in the thing, doors and drawers open everywhere, when I realize the Law of Offices may be less of a joke than a matter of fact. Little sprinkles of black stuff are settling all over my hands and arms when I hear a voice from somewhere outside of this machine that I now fear may become my second home, if I can’t figure out how to get my hand out of the little nook I have jammed it into.
“Don’t you know what you’re supposed to do when the copier breaks?” the voice says.
“What’s that?” I ask, although I doubt he can hear me with my face inside the machine.
“Run away, run away,” he says. “It’s the only way to make it to the top. Otherwise, everyone will know you’re the loser who fixes the copier and they’ll call you in for backup every single time the fucking thing breaks. Before you know it, you’re retiring as the copy guy.”
I consider that this is actually very good advice, except for the fact that I don’t know the loser who currently holds this position to get me out of my bind, or get my hand out of the copier for that m
atter. By some miracle (I may be using all of mine up this week), I give one hard tug, and my hand comes free, saving me a pretty humiliating explanation that I’m not sure I could even come up with at this point.
Trying to regain my cool, I turn around to inquire, “So who’s the loser that currently holds that position? I need backup.”
He’s cute—in a smug way I don’t normally like. His tie is swung over his shoulder. You can’t pull that off unless you’re a little too arrogant. I normally never like guys that know they are good-looking because, well, they know they are good-looking. And, in my experience, this means they’ll never let you forget that, or the other fact surrounding good-looking men: that they know there’re a million more where you came from—and if you don’t like what you’re getting, he can simply turn the corner and pick up the next girl in line.
But I’m a different person now, I remind myself. And that means I shouldn’t judge people on first glance anymore. That’s so PWW (Pre Working Woman), and I’d like to think she went out with that stack of press releases I tossed last night.
“For future reference, it’s Donny Gold in accounting. But I think he’s just in it for the chicks, so be warned. This time, since you’re new, I’ll help you our. But for the record, I never did this, and I have no idea how to use this thing. I’m Seth, by the way.”
“Lane.” I extend my hand, and I’m thinking how exciting this, my first possibly romantic encounter, could turn out to be, how absolutely perfect this could turn out, when he notices the particularly unromantic Band-Aid collection on my hand.
“Nice look,” he says, his gaze tipping up to my face and back down to the accessories in question, as if he’d done this a million times and could turn just about anything into an opportunity to turn a girl on.
“Thanks. It’s all the rage in Milan.”
I watch as he bends over to check out the copier situation. And the view of his end doesn’t elicit any complaints from my end. Looking directly at his behind like this, though, I can’t help but hear Tiffany’s comment in my head, “They’re all assholes.” With a butt that cute, surely a guy couldn’t be all bad, right?
So what department you in?” he asks.
“Mergers and Acquisitons,” I say, finally getting the hang of the name after answering the phone that way no less than twenty times.
“Cool. I’m in accounting. Those are, like, two separate worlds around here—like the Jets and the Sharks. We’re not really even supposed to be talking to each other.” He puts his finger over his mouth as a sign of secrecy.
“Really? Why’s that?” I ask in a breathy voice, getting swept away with idea of intrigue and secret meetings à la James Bond—complete with slick form-fitting leather skirts and décolletage-revealing evening gowns.
“No, not really. It was a joke, Lane.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s right; only the investment and trading sides are protected by, um, smoke walls,” I say, trying to impress him with my vast knowledge of the financial world. I tug the sides of my blazer to show I mean business.
“I think you mean firewalls,” he says, turning around and smiling.
He pivots back to the copier, and within seconds, a crinkled, burnt paper emerges from deep inside. “I’ve found your culprit. Looks like it was stuck between your A and B slots, right by the corpus opperendi.”
“How’d you know all that?” I am truly amazed.
“Again, it was a joke, Lane.”
“Oh.” I return his smile.
He snaps a succession of drawers and doors shut, slips his paper onto the glass and successfully makes a copy.
“You do impressive work,” I comment.
He shows no hint of being flattered. Instead, stony, he issues a reminder. “Like I said, this never happened.”
“And what if I do, say, accidentally, let it slip?” I venture.
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to take your chances.” He shrugs and disappears out the door.
Again, I note, very cute butt.
Asshole?
By the time 5:30 rolls around, I’m done with mindless copying, taping and organizing, and my head is so fuzzy from focusing on the same thing for so long that there’s no way I can attempt the conversions right now. Instead, it seems quite the natural time to write my daily journal entry.
This may be the first time in my life that I said I would do something every day and actually did it. Sure, this is only the second day, but I’m still impressed with myself. I can’t help but feel that the dedication is partially due to the fact that the job, itself—the rhythm and climate of action and momentum around me. Still, despite what I said yesterday, the job is boring and unchallenging, and so I need to remind myself that I am actually a writer, with a real career that actually means something to me, and that the pursuit of that career is why I’m here in the first place.
I’m just typing all this into a clean page of Diary of a Working Girl, when a little envelope appears at the bottom of my screen. I have an e-mail! Tom has yet to e-mail me, and nobody else I know has this address, so I’m guessing it’s probably some announcement about new coffee in the kitchen, or some warning about leaving dirty mugs in the sink, from someone who has an even less brain-taxing job than mine.
But, I couldn’t be more wrong. It’s from the copy guy, Seth.
Lane,
I very much enjoyed being your knight in shining armor in the copy room earlier. I hope you are impressed with (but discreet about ) my technological genius. I must admit, I was not very impressed with your technological abilities. But, lucky for you, I am willing to overlook that. I do hope, however, that you are genius in the area of sparkling dinner conversation because I would like to see if you are free on Thursday evening.
—Seth
Seth,
I’m glad to hear you are willing to overlook my inefficiency in the area of copy machines. Did you stop to think that maybe I’m simply following your advice and concealing a stroke of technical genius? I am not making any promises in the area of dinner conversation, but I will let you know that I am expert in the area of accepting free dinners (before you wonder about the meaning of this for the next twenty-four hours, yes, I am a gold digger and I expect you to pay for every cent of the meal; I may even order a steak ). I would be delighted. You pick the place. I’ll meet you at the scene of the copy disaster. Say six?
Best,
Lane
Now, before you think me the absolute smoothest woman in the world, you must remember that A) I am a writer, and therefore, more than able in the words department; B) I have a job to do here, and therefore must put any neurosis or self-doubt that might normally accompany male endeavors on the back burner; and C) I am now part of this new, non-beauty world, and without those models and editors swanning around my confidence has skyrocketed.
Day Two and I already have a date. A date! That is, I have a date with a very cute guy—really, I guess he’s not all that smug—and it happened so quickly. I’m not going to get carried away, though. This is a professional undertaking. But he does have really nice lips. You know, I bet he’s a great kisser. Sometimes you can look at someone’s lips like that and just know. And when that happens you just have to tell someone. I need to tell someone. It’s never any fun to have a date without the opportunity to gloat about it and dissect the possibilities from every angle with your friends. So I sign on to my instant messenger to contact Chris.
Before I share this exchange with you, a caveat: Exclamation points cannot under any circumstances be omitted from electronic correspondence. They are the very cornerstone of the entire communication framework, along with funny faces and the need to act much bolder, funnier, and wiser than you actually are.
Lame200l: Hey baby!
Photoguyforguys: How’s the working woman today?
Lame200l: Daahling, I couldn’t be better
Photoguyforguys: So are you gonna tell me why or am I going to have to guess ?
Lame2001: Well, it’s a
lot more fun if you’d just guess.
Photoguyforguys: For the love of God!
Lame2001: Patience is a virtue, dear…
Photoguyforguys: One I’ve never seen you exhibit…
Lame200l: What about that time I was on a waiting list for TWO WEEKS for that Laundry dress? Huh? And then I had to wait to get it hemmed!
Photoguyforguys: This is becoming tiresome. Would you just get on with it already?
Lame2001: I thought you’d never ask. Well. I have a date!
Photoguyforguys: (Warning: Cheesy saying ahead.) You go, girl! Who with?
Lame200l: He’s in accounting. And he has a very nice butt! His name is Seth.
Photoguyforguys: Boring name AND boring job. How Lane, I mean um, lame.
Lame2001: You’re just jealous!
Photoguyforguys: You got me.
Lame200l: I knew it. You are sooooo transparent.
Photoguyforgus: And you’re not, Miss Boy-Crazy Stacy?
Lame2001: You have a point. Still, I’m an instant success.
Photoguyforguys: Well, you are very qualified for the position…wish I could get paid to date!
Lame2001: Let’s hope I’m qualified! Toodles! And, oh, photo 26—exact look-alike!
Diary of a Working Girl Page 10
