by Anne Wagener
Instead of opening up a vista to the clear, starry night, the window across the hall reflects the airport surroundings back to me in mockery: fluorescent lighting, rows of blue vinyl chairs, lighted signs, silhouettes of tired people. Every now and then, I can see the outline of a plane in the distance as it cruises along the tarmac like a creeping giant. I slump against the desk and reread what I wrote in the tiny notebook last night.
Being with Charlie had awakened something dormant in me, something akin to the spark I used to feel when cracking open a Norton anthology. I experience an almost libidinous longing for those anthologies—they even smelled good, felt good to the touch with their tissue-thin pages and confident serif font. And now I’m surrounded by books but also trapped by them. I clutch the edge of the desk with my fingers, trying to get my mind around this physical reality. This can’t be my life. I have an urge to run down the hallway. To bolt.
The restlessness sends me hurtling in one direction only: toward the Internet. I open up a browser window on the ancient computer behind the register and Google: “What should I do with my life?” My top ten results include some career books from Amazon, a self-assessment quiz on Oprah.com, and a few ads that promise twenty dollars an hour for work-at-home jobs. I try again, this time typing “writing jobs, Washington D.C.” into the search window.
The first result is the local City Paper. I grab the edges of the keyboard in excitement, as if I could shake a job opportunity into my lap. Instead, a few crumbs from someone’s last forbidden behind-the-counter snack fall onto my khakis. I brush away the crumbs and click through to the City Paper jobs page.
Seeking Entry-Level Writer to Document Local Ephemera (and Take Long Walks on the Beach, Obvi)
Us? Red-hot local paper. You? Cucumber-cool writer who rescues dangling modifiers in distress. Structure and rules thrill you. Must love deadlines. Only logophiles need apply. P.S. If you really want to knock our Crocs off, enter this magical contest. The winners’ résumés will magically land on top of our pile. B-T-Dubs, we don’t really wear Crocs. And neither should you, dear applicant.
I hover my mouse over the contest link. Click!
Attention, post-millennial generation (or whatever you’re calling yourselves these days)! Tell us about the craziest job(s) you’ve had since graduation, for a chance to win $500, be published in a special-edition City Paper, and possibly score yourself a rewarding job. Ten essayists will be chosen; all entries will be eligible for our annual print compilation, CAPITOL SCRIVENINGS. We want to hear about the good, the bad, and the ugly. Especially the ugly—we’re vicariously creepy and morbidly curious like that. Essays should be 1,000 words or less and have impeccable grammar. We expect nothing less from our city’s recent grads. Looking forward to hearing your stories! Submit online by August 5 at jobfiasco.citypaperdc.com.
I gape at the screen. Simultaneously, I imagine Charlie cheering me on. “You can bolt out of here,” I almost hear him say. “Word by word.”
For the next hour, I fill the little blue notebook with observations about the airport and about Susan’s wedding, stopping only to make a sale or direct someone to the nearest Starbucks. By twenty minutes to closing, I’ve even got a first line: “After graduation, I decided to sell my body—as a hired bridesmaid.”
Time for a quick e-mail check. In order to have an essay’s worth about my bridesmaid job, I’ll need more clients. My inbox holds a flurry of responses to my latest bridesmaid ad, accompanied by a series of Google calendar reminders. Shit. Another reason I need clients: My next car insurance auto deduction is scheduled for next week, and I have only eighteen of those hundred and eighteen dollars in my account. The week after that, rent’s due. And I still have to feed myself—however sparsely—and drive myself to work. On the way back from the wedding, and again on the way to work today, Wulfie made a sound like a hyena being flogged, which makes me think our time is limited before a visit to the car hospital might be necessary.
I scroll through all the new messages several times, but none is from Charlie. Panic flickers—maybe Charlie is just California Charlie, Check Ya Later Charlie, Can’t Stay Charlie. In an attempt to distract myself, I click on a message from [email protected].
It’s surprisingly spare, but Anal Retentive Bride (aka Alex H.) requests that we meet up Friday at La Madeleine, a French patisserie in Reston, to “discuss action items and formalize our arrangement.” Her e-mail signature boasts a quote: “Efficiency is doing things right; effectiveness is doing the right things. —P. Drucker.”
I ignore her pretentious use of language and alarming choice of e-mail address and focus on the part where she mentions payment. Practical Lin helped me work out a standard and à la carte menu of services, along with a disclaimer that all bridesmaid gear would of course be comped. I’ve got a flat rate for the rehearsal and ceremony and a per-hour rate for “additional services” such as bridal gown shopping, vendor booking, venue scouting, et cetera. Alex is offering to double the flat and per-hour rates across the board. Three hours with Anal Retentive Bride and I’ll be able to pay my next bill. How bad could it be?
Alex Hansen is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She sits across from me at La Madeleine. Between us sit two plates of cinnamon-glazed French toast and two mugs of gourmet coffee. I can’t take my eyes off her red-lipsticked lips. No doubt the color is named something sassy, like Volcanic Blaze.
Her eyebrows are perfectly shaped—Lin would approve. She’s pulling off legit sleek hair that looks effortless. She probably wakes up in the morning looking like a shampoo model. I tuck a few loose strands into my messy bun self-consciously, afraid she’ll veto me on appearance alone.
Alex’s mesmerizing lips tell me about her dream wedding vision, which is dripping with hydrangea and buttercream and chocolate fountains. “My fiancé’s been working in Tampa for the past few months, which has been hard. But I didn’t really expect him to help with the wedding planning.”
She smiles matter-of-factly. I smile back, but I can’t help thinking—in preparation for marriage, the biggest compromise ever, the woman is expected to take care of every last detail? What, like just because we have ovaries, we all have a knack for selecting the perfect party favors?
I tune my antennae back to the Alex Channel. She pushes strands of jet-black hair behind her ear and meets my gaze, taking a sip of the gourmet coffee and leaving an unabashed Volcanic Blaze lip print on the cream-colored mug. “Let’s start with the basics. Read this and sign it.” She slides a piece of paper, dense with text, across the table. The top reads: “Bridesmaid Contract.” I take a deep breath and wade into the small type, my heart rate increasing with each word. The payment will be remitted weekly, with a lump sum on completion of my duties, which include . . . quite a long list! As I get to the last item, I glance up and see that her eyes have been following mine down the page.
“Look, I’m going to need extra help beyond the ceremony. I don’t have any girlfriends to speak of—girls don’t like me for some reason.”
Well. Can’t imagine why.
I scan the list again, forking a giant mouthful of French toast and chewing slowly. She’s requesting assistance with bridal gown shopping, fittings, and the start-to-finish execution of a bridal shower (Paris-themed). She estimates she’ll need eighty hours of help, which amounts to three months’ rent. It’s either that or I sublet the sofa to the Grover Cleveland impersonator who’s continued to e-mail me. “I need that leg up to break in to the D.C. professional impersonator market,” he wrote yesterday, offering to give free impersonations for friends and out-of-town visitors.
Back to Alex’s contract. The final line reads: “I pledge that I will keep my identity as a bridesmaid for hire in the strictest confidence. No one involved in the wedding or otherwise will be privy to the fact that I am not an actual friend of the bride.”
She gives me a tight smile. “I d
on’t want anything—anything at all—to get in the way of my perfect wedding. You understand?” She slides a manicured hand over mine. Even though she’s been gripping a steaming mug, her hand is cold.
I give her a smile I hope doesn’t look frenzied. “Um, sure.”
Under her careful watch, I sign my name across the bottom with her red pen and then wince. It looks as if I’ve signed in blood.
“Now. What’s your size? I need to order your dress, stat. It’s a cappuccino tea-length with pink frost piping.”
Wait, is she talking about the cake or the dress? “I’m an eight.”
She scribbles some notes on a steno pad in handwriting that looks typeset. My inner psycho detector is jumping up and down and waving a pink frosted flag.
“Now, you’ll also need these.” She hands me another two pages. The first is entitled “Alex Fact Sheet.” She’s made a bullet-pointed biography of herself, starting with her birth: “Alex Hansen was born in Boston, Massachusetts, to two proud parents. She was the family’s first and only child.”
The second paper is entitled “Wedding Timeline.” These are the tasks that she—uh, we—need to complete each week leading up to the wedding, which is a few months away. As I look over the fact sheet, I see that Alex needs to speed up the planning so she can be married on her parents’ anniversary.
She smiles matter-of-factly and raises her chin as if she’s about to give a speech. “You’ll see it all on the fact sheet, but you’ll be posing as my work colleague, the secretary at my accounting firm. We bonded over lunch and Starbucks.”
At the mention of Starbucks, my thoughts fly to Charlie. Has he e-mailed me his screenplay yet? Or is he too busy having his leg vigorously humped by Gus, the family dog?
Whoops, back to the Alex Channel: “We’ll meet again Saturday morning at five for the bridal gown sale.”
I frown. I’m on B shift Saturday, so five p.m. won’t work. But she said morning. She couldn’t have said morning. “Wait, five—a.m.?”
She runs her fingers through her hair. “Clearly you’ve never been to one of these. You have to get in line early. Bring coffee if you need to, though keep in mind we’ll be in line for about three hours, so make sure your bladder isn’t too full.”
For a second there I thought she was going to tell me to wear a diaper.
“On the back of the fact sheet, you’ll see a list of specifications for the dress and some links that’ll give you an idea of the styles I like. Oh! And you might want to wear red or hot pink so I can spot you easily in the store.”
She extends a hand. My palm is sweaty as it fits into her firm grasp.
“Thank you. I know it will be a pleasure doing business with you.”
Hopefully my smile isn’t as unsure as my handshake. As I watch her retreat, dark hair swinging rhythmically across her back with each spike-heeled step, I wonder if it’s too late to retract my soul—er, signature.
I pull the blue notebook out of my purse and jot down my observations about Alex along with a note to incorporate a Faust reference. If I’m signing over my soul, it should be for something much more scintillating than rent money.
I turn back to my plate of French toast. I’m midbite when my phone buzzes: a text message from Charlie.
Promised Mom I’d go to Baltimore to see Great-Gran tomorrow. How’s Sunday night for our rendezvous?
Sunday I’m not working, thank God. I grin, my thumbs flying before I have time to think. He used “rendezvous” in a text message. He’s got my nerve endings, my heart, my thumbs.
Sunday’s great. Bridal gown sale tomorrow at 5 a.m. with a new client. Wish me luck.
You need more than luck. Flask of gin?
YES.
Plan to put finishing touches on screenplay while Gran naps. Will e-mail before Sunday. Send me your stories, too—[email protected].
Can’t wait.
Me neither. See you soon, bridesmaid lady.
Nine
The next morning, my alarm screeches me awake at four fifteen a.m. On a Saturday.
This isn’t worth it. Not for a thousand dollars, not for a million. I don’t need a car, do I? I can take the bus to work. And I’ll call that impersonator to help with the rent. I’m sure he’s an upstanding guy.
It’s still the middle of the night, for crying out loud! And I do feel like crying.
My reward for getting myself upright is a cup of hazelnut coffee. Lin, God bless him, has programmed the coffeepot with a four twenty brew time. His latest notebook installment says, “Steve’s meeting my parents tonight! Wish me luck. You know how Mom is . . . Our game plan is to have him cook her a traditional Vietnamese dish. Keep your fingers and lady parts and toes crossed. And mine are crossed, too, for your gown sale (with the exception of lady parts). See you tonight. XOXO”
I run my fingers across his neat script. Steve meeting his parents already—I can’t even process that right now; it’s too early. I cross the fingers on one hand and grab a travel mug with the other. It’s my only chance for making it through today. With my bridesmaid and bookstore shifts combined, I won’t be back to the apartment for seventeen hours. But if I don’t die in a bride stampede, I’ll get to read Charlie’s screenplay.
I’m out the door by four thirty-five. The June wind yawns hot morning breath on my face.
Outside Filene’s Basement, a line is already snaking across the front of the store and growing by the minute. The brides radiate an adrenalized energy that’s mildly terrifying. All colors, shapes, and sizes of women surround us, Goth chicks next to women who look like they stepped off a runway. Groups in matching shirts huddle together, strategizing: “Sarah’s Magnificent Maids” mingle next to “Andrea’s Bustle Bitches.”
I imagine the field day we’d have with this in gender studies class. Our desks in a circle, we’d huddle forward and rant: So this is the baseline of femininity. The place where being bestowed certain chromosomes will ultimately take you. This is the dream that’s been pounded into us. Find the guy. Find the dress. Or hell, maybe the other way around. The Disney Princesses told us so.
But this isn’t college. This is my job.
I join Alex in line. “You’re right on time,” she says with more dry observation than gratitude. She’s sporting a pair of stilettos and looks way too damn perky for just before five in the morning. I glimpse the binder under her arm and realize I’ve completely forgotten to bring my own binder. I’ve also forgotten to memorize her dress specs.
“So,” I begin, clutching my thermos and trying to sound eager, “could you go over again what you’re looking for? I meant to bring my binder but wasn’t fully awake when I left.”
Alex nods but doesn’t look pleased. She puts her hands on her hips, and that’s when I see it: a silk fanny pack. I didn’t think anyone—much less beautiful women—wore those horrid things anymore. Though Alex’s version looks like it cost an arm and an ovary. Am I dreaming? What’s she got in there—pincushions? Duct tape? A gun?
Until now, I couldn’t decipher why Alex would go through the chaos of a department store sale. But as I take in the whole picture, from the fanny pack to the hawklike determination in her eyes, I understand. This is about the dress, yes, but it’s also about Winning. With a capital W.
I gulp and try not to ogle the fanny pack as she hands me a bulleted list of specs. “Here you go—you’ve got three hours to review it.”
I am in no way prepared for what happens at eight a.m. For the past three hours I’ve been creating a mnemonic device to memorize details about Alex’s dream dress. I’ve just settled on “The 12 Days of Christmas”—inserting “scalloped neckline” in place of “five golden rings”—when the momentum of hundreds of women pushes me smack against Alex’s back, forced to inhale her floral perfume. For a moment, I enjoy this strange permitted intimacy, drinking in her perfect femininity. I always fee
l clunky and awkward around women like Alex.
The momentum heaves me forward and then backward, accordion-style. A few women are shrieking with excitement. Others seem oddly quiet. It’s as if each woman has a little translucent image of the perfect dress floating above her head in a bubble. Now that we’re melded together, the translucent dresses sway, skirts brushing each other as bodies press together. I’m the exception: Above my head is an image of my bed, the comforter turned down, ready for me to jump in. Charlie’s in there, too.
Without warning, the line heaves forward. This time, there’s no backward thrust. Under her breath, Alex says, “Here we go.” I try to visualize Alex’s perfect dress, but Charlie’s still in my bubble. I superimpose the dress on him, and he sashays. “Does this make my butt look big?” he jokes. Oh, Lord—I forgot how nice his butt is. Slightly perky, not too flat, not too big. Just enough for a girl to get herself one nice handful per cheek.
We pitch forward into the store. The shrieking intensifies, forming an aural rainbow, from guttural grunts to pitches approaching the range only dogs can hear. I have not had nearly enough coffee for this. The brides swarm, pulling dresses from the racks without discrimination. Zeus help me, I’m in the zombie bride apocalypse.
I look up for a dressing room sign—Alex wanted me to stake one out while she took a first cruise of the shelves—but the whizzing chiffon mars my vision. It’s as if I’m underwater, unsure which way is the surface. A strapless bra flies through the air, followed by a beaded gown. One of Sarah’s Magnificent Maids intercepts the dress and is promptly tackled by a half-naked bride who shouts “Mine!” The bra lands on my shoulder and I shimmy away from it, ducking between two dresses into the center of a display rack.
Two seconds of delicious dark quiet pass before manicured hands pluck the dresses off the rack, exposing me. I clamp my eyes shut and press my fingers against my ears until Charlie, still in my mental bubble, nudges me with the blue notebook. “Open your eyes. You can’t document this until you immerse yourself in it.”
