by Naomi West
"Do a little shopping tonight," he says, now knowing my answer is "no." "We can advance you a little money for essentials."
He moves towards the door.
"I'll leave you to it," he says, one foot already out of the door. "Get settled and be at the offices tomorrow at nine sharp."
With that, he steps over the threshold and out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.
Now I'm alone.
I look around the apartment once again. It's dingy and run-down sure, but it's something. It's a place of my own—a place to get started in this new country.
And a job! I realize that I have a job waiting for me. A place to live and a place to work—already within a short time of being in America I have two things that most immigrants spend years trying to achieve. I silently thank my father for forcing me to stick with my English lessons, spending endless hours drilling conjugations into my head, going days speaking to me in only English, and forcing me to read books by writers like Dickens and Trollope. As a young girl, his lessons drove me to tears at time, but I realize now that he wanted nothing more than for me to have the most useful tool that I could possibly have to be successful.
I begin to feel overcome with emotion. Sitting down on the couch, I begin to think of my parents for the first time at any length since I've arrived. They were taken from me so suddenly, without warning. Many children's parents die at an old age after prolonged illness, their deaths being conclusions to lives well-lived. But my parents were taken both at once, the car accident stealing them from me instantly. One moment we're driving together as a family, and the next I'm in a hospital, lying in a cold, sterile room, my arm and leg broken, and a team of doctors standing over me with somber faces.
Tears begin to well in my eyes as these memories flood into my mind, unbidden. I slump over on the couch, pressing my face into one of the ratty pillows and letting myself cry for the first time in weeks. The tears flow hard and seemingly without end, my body wracking with sobs as I weep in the silent, stark room.
After a time, I feel that I've wept every tear I can. I force myself off of the couch and into the bathroom, looking at my face in the mirror, my eyes red, my cheeks wet. Drying my face off, I walk over to the windows of my apartment and look out over the city. The sprawl of Philadelphia before me, I make a solemn promise to myself and my parents that I'll succeed in this country, no matter what it takes. I won't let the love they gave me go to waste.
I'll make it, and no one and nothing will stand in my way.
Chapter Four
Michal
It's the next morning and I'm waiting in my office for nine to roll around. The previous night was spent getting the rest of the girls sorted out and putting most of them in simple jobs doing mindless assembly work or shelf stocking—the types of jobs where they won’t have to interact much with the public. This keeps the girls out of trouble for the most part and reduces the risk of them getting spotted by a random playboy who'll steal a girl—or maybe even two—out from under us before we've gotten a chance to put them to good use.
But I digress.
My mind is still occupied by Alina and I'm chastising myself for fantasizing about her like I'm a school child having his first crush. Despite myself, I'm eager to show her the ropes at our office; my father seems to think that she'll be the cream of this particular crop of young beauties. We'll have to wait and see, I suppose.
I get a buzz from the receptionist, who lets me know that Alina's here. I tell her that I'll be out in a moment and make myself a fresh cup of coffee from the Keurig in my office before heading out. As I walk down the hall, I find that I'm walking at almost a hurried pace, as if my body is leading me to her as quickly as possible. I stop, shake my head, and resume walking with slow, measured steps as I turn the corner to the reception area.
And there she is, waiting, as beautiful as before.
"Good morning," says Alina, rising from her seat and walking over to me.
I gulp involuntarily. She's dressed in a tight-fitting, coal-black pencil skirt that shows off the incredible curves of her body. On top, she's wearing a white blouse with subtle blue stripes, the shirt fitting well and hinting at her breasts underneath, which, judging by what I can see, are undoubtedly incredible. Her blonde hair is done up and a pair of glasses are on her face, giving her an appearance that's both studious and sexy. A pair of tasteful, black heels complete the look. It is clear that she took my advice to pick out something for today.
"Welcome," I say, hiding my attraction as best I can. "I hope you're ready to get started."
"I am," she says with a smile, her big, blue-gray eyes looking up at me from behind her black frames.
"Well, then," I say. "Let's start by showing you to your desk.”
I lead her to the elevator, the silver doors sliding shut as we step in. A button press and a brief descent later, and we're on the floor just below mine. The doors open to a bustling office scene, dozens of employees of my father's firm darting here and there and the din of white collar work filling the air.
There's a large, curved desk sitting against the wall facing this floor's reception area, the words "Nowak Construction" written in ornate, gilded letters above it.
"Construction, huh?" asks Alina, her eyes making a slow sweep of the area. "You guys design anything interesting?"
"Not unless you’re fascinated by generic municipal buildings."
I stroll over to the desk and place my palm on it.
"This is your area," I say, turning to face her, my eyes snapping down to her body.
Cut it out, I think, as though arguing with my lust.
"Looks great," she says, following me over and placing her purse on top of it.
"You ever worked a job like this before?" I ask.
"Well, to be honest, I've never worked any job before."
"Really?" I ask, surprised by this answer.
"Really. I'd just started my first year at one of the local schools before …everything happened. And my dad was very insistent that I not distract myself with a job during the last years of primary school. ‘Education is everything,' he would say."
"A smart man.”
"He was. But not having worked a single job has its drawbacks as well."
I turn and lean against the desk.
"You'll be fine. It's mostly just a matter of answering phones, directing calls, keeping appointments, and directing people to offices. And smiling. My father's very big on his receptionists having a, ah, sunny disposition at all times."
"'Sunny'?" asks Alina, picking up on my word choice.
I nod. "My father is big into professionalism, and, well, the girls he employs looking … a certain way."
"That's the impression that I got," she says, and I sense that she's thinking back to the rooms of girls that looked just like her.
"We're Poles, like you, and he loves his Eastern-European beauties."
"What, so you're saying I only got hired for my looks?" she asks in a playfully confrontational tone, her mouth in a lovely, little smirk.
"Amongst other things," I say.
"Such as?"
"Your command of English. And your professionalism. My father seems to think that you could go a long way working for him."
"And what do you think?"
"I think he's right. This is an opportunity that most young women in your position would kill for. You put in a good month or two and we'll sponsor your work visa. You put in a good half year, and we’ll see if we can't trust you with some more responsibility. A good full year, and you'll be doing work a little more challenging than reception, for a much higher salary."
"I don't know what to say," she says, seeming overwhelmed by her good fortune, her big, blue-gray eyes going soft.
"Just say you'll do a good job."
I'm keeping my words terse and short. I hate to admit it, but being around her is getting more difficult by the second; it's taking all of my focus to not let my eyes drift down her body. Not
to mention keeping the lies straight about what she can expect from this job.
"I'll do my best," she says.
"Good."
A moment hangs in the air while we regard each other. She’s looking up at me with those eyes, gazing at me expectantly, with her lips parting just a bit. I snap my eyes away from hers quickly, hoping to break the tension that I'm feeling.
"I'm going to step outside for a smoke. Get settled in, and I'll come check on you in a little bit."
"Just sit here and answer the phone, then?" she asks, turning her body and beginning to walk around the desk.
"Yeah. I'll send one of the other girls by to show you how the phone system works. Shouldn't be too hard for you to figure out; you seem pretty sharp."
"Thanks," she says, taking her seat behind the desk and crossing her legs in a way that shows off some thigh. "For everything."
"Don't thank me," I say. "Thank my father. He's the one who seems to think you're a good pick for this gig."
"Well, thanks to you both for taking a chance on me; I'll do my best to make sure you don't regret it."
I want to say something else, but instead, I simply nod and head off. I take one last glance at her body out of the corner of my eye as I start off towards the main office floor. As I walk, the eyes of the girls working flick up to me, their lips pressing together and curling up as their eyes move up and down my body, all of them expressing interest in the same obvious manner.
Doesn't matter if they're small-town Polish girls fresh off the boat or college-educated office workers from the city, girls see the boss's son and they all act the same way, I think, shaking my head, a smile on my face.
On the way out, I find Jessica, one my father's executive's assistants, and place my hand on her shoulder to get her attention. She spins around in her chair, seemingly ready to snap at the man who dares touch her, but when she sees that it's me, she's all smiles on that pretty face of hers. Her big, green eyes look up at me over a mouth of cloud-white teeth.
"Hey, Jess," I say. "Go take fifteen minutes and help the new girl out front get settled in. And be nice about it."
"Fine," she says, her expression deflating as though she were expecting me to ask her out for drinks.
Geez, I think. You sleep with a girl a few times and she thinks you're going to take her home to mom.
"And I'm serious about being nice; you scare this one off too and you're not gonna like what happens after that."
"Or what—you’re gonna spank me?" she says, her tone challenging.
"Nothing you'd like as much as that," I say, looking around to see if anyone heard her off-color remark.
"Fine," she says, pouting like a little kid.
A half smile on my face, I shake my head as I walk away. When I'm not five steps from Jessica, I find myself casting another glance back to Alina. I can see her blonde hair from here, and she already looks busy getting herself acclimated.
I weave my way through the office, the clatter of fingers on keyboards, employees chatting with one another, and phones ringing already giving me a headache. Employees are nodding and waving to me as I pass by, taking every opportunity they can to make themselves known to me. Soon, I arrive at one of the balconies and I step out, the noise mercifully diminishing as soon as I shut the door. I don't want to be disturbed, and I won’t be, since every employee now knows not to bother me during my smoke breaks.
I think about Alina again as soon as I burn the end of my cigarette lit. I take a long drag, letting the smoke fill every bit of my lungs as I look out over the city. And as I smoke, a tinge of sadness comes over me as I think about Alina.
You see, it always starts like this. We get our crop of girls, and one, maybe two, of them seem extra promising—bright, well-spoken, and attractive. Maybe the kind who could really make it in this country. But things always end up the same way; I've seen it enough times before to know that it can’t go any differently.
It ends like this: a pair of lifeless eyes staring back at me in some forgotten back alley.
I shake my head as the many memories come flooding back and I bring another drag down into my lungs. This is just the business and it can't go any other way. Even girls like Alina aren't safe, despite the feelings of protection I tend to feel for the stars of the class, so to speak.
I've tried to keep them safe before and it just makes things worse. The girls get chewed up and spit out by our organization no matter what, and putting my standing with my father on the line for the sake of one or two of them has only caused problems. So, despite how I may feel about them, I stay back and keep myself protected.
Looking down at my cigarette, I see that it's already nearly done. They never seem to last long enough. I jab the butt into the railing, the orange embers cascading down, and toss the butt down onto the streets below.
Oh well, I think, opening the door and stepping back into the office. Nothing to be done.
My mind calm and clear once again, I begin walking back toward the front desk to check up on the newest girl with no future.
Chapter Five
Alina
One month later …
Taking a quick glance at my new phone, I see that it's nearly nine PM. As I keep my car driving straight down the sparse city boulevard leading to work, I wonder what it could possibly be that Mr. Nowak needs me at the office for at this hour. But that's all the text said: "Alina, come to the warehouse, now. – I.N."
It isn’t as though I haven’t gotten used to his demanding nature by this point. Iwan Nowak is a courteous man for the most part, with an especially gentlemanly manner with women, especially the young and pretty ones, but behind this old-fashioned front was the cold, calculating mind of a businessman; I could just tell. And this is fine with me; men like him are successful for a reason, and being tough and uncompromising when necessary is an important personality trait to have when it comes to getting ahead in business.
It's a bit of a Slavic thing, too. Our part of the world has been through quite a bit of trauma, especially over the course of the twentieth century, and men and women his age tend to be a little harder than most. For this, I don't blame them one bit. But this still doesn’t mean that I enjoy coming to work this late.
I turn towards the building where my office is located, the lights of the place out, aside from those that I can tell are on my floor. For some reason, Iwan told me to meet him not at the office, but at the storage warehouse near the building—the large, industrial area where they keep construction equipment that isn’t in use. Looking up at the illuminated floor of the offices, I wonder what's going on up there at this hour and why whatever Iwan needs me for can’t simply take place there.
Putting all of this out of my head, I remember that going out of my way to be a diligent, reliable employ will likely pay off dividends in the future. Not to mention the fact that they’ve been good to me so far; my apartment, this car, and a good, reliable paycheck- all are afforded to me by Iwan. Showing up after hours and in good spirits is the least I can do to show my thanks.
Plus, it's not as though I have anything more important going on than lying around in my dingy apartment watching Netflix anyhow.
I drive past the office building, taking the turn onto the narrow road between buildings that leads to the warehouse. The skinny street is lit by thin, orange light illuminating the road in small pools from the street lights above. I roll down the window a bit and notice that the sounds of traffic are now far away. Even though I'm downtown, where I am feels lonely and isolated, and a slight chill comes over my skin. I realize that I don't like where I am, not one bit, but I take solace in the fact that I'll be with Iwan soon.
Driving straight and slow, I arrive at the warehouse. It's a squat, dingy building surrounded by dim, white lights, with a handful of parking spaces out front. Iwan's car is there, a dark green, old-model Jaguar convertible, along with a pair of other luxury cars. I pull into an open spot on the other side of the lot. It sounds silly, but I don’t f
eel like my low-rent economy car had any business being near cars like those.
Killing the engine, I listen to the air outside. It’s still and quiet, the low rumbling of a truck clanging down the road several blocks away barely a murmur. I can't hear Iwan, and I surmise that whatever he's doing, he must be inside waiting for me.
Taking a breath, I step out of the car, pulling my leather work bag off of the passenger seat and holding it close to my body. My skin breaks out in gooseflesh and a sense of danger snakes through the pit of my stomach. Part of me, the flight-or-flight, animal part of my mind, is warning me to leave, telling me that there's something wrong here and that the smart thing to do would be to get back in my car, drive home, and make up some excuse about having a flat tire or something.
