by Mary Carter
“You have a wonderful assignment for me?” I ask with a nervous laugh. Her answer is a cold stare. I shiver. She picks up the first message and reads it out loud. “Banco de Popular de Puerto Rico.” Uh-oh. “What does”—she brings the pink note closer to her face and wrinkles her nose—“Una cerveza por favor mean?”
“One beer please,” I translate for her.
“I know that,” she says in a controlled voice. “Why were you saying it?”
“It was a joke. The woman training me asked if I knew any Spanish.”
“She said you wouldn’t stop saying it.”
“I didn’t mean to. She just kept piling work on me, and then she would ask if I needed anything. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
Jane picks up the next message. “Bank of America. They said you spent all afternoon playing solitaire—”
“They didn’t give me any work—”
“I’m not finished. They didn’t mind the solitaire, but they weren’t happy about you screaming ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’”
“It was a really bad hand. Not that I’m excusing it. I’m sorry.”
“And last but not least, Tom Spencer from Spencer Insurance said that you propositioned him for sex.”
“What?” I leap out of my seat and grab the message. “That’s bullshit,” I say. “That’s total bullshit.”
She snaps the message back and accidentally scrapes me with one of her spears. It leaves a trace of white against the back of my hand like an airplane streaking the sky.
“So you didn’t say anything about stripping naked and standing on your desk?”
“It’s out of context. Totally out of context,” I say, flopping back down in my seat and stuffing the rest of the chocolate chip muffin in my mouth. “Have you seen Tom Spencer?” I cry, conjuring up his bald head and enormous gut. “Can you imagine anyone propositioning him for sex?”
Jane surprises me by throwing her head back and belting out a laugh. “All right, all right. I’ll give you that one.” She wads the message from Tom and flings it across the room. It lands in a potted fern.
“Thank you,” I say. “From now on I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear.” She picks up an assignment card, jots down an address, and hands it to me.
“Parks and Landon,” I read. “A law office?” I perk up immediately. This is definitely good news. She can’t be too mad at me if she’s sending me to a law office.
“You got it. It’s at least a six-week assignment. Maybe more.”
I do an incredible job of not screaming. I nod my head like I expected as much. Six weeks as a legal secretary! This was incredible. I start calculating forty hours a week times twenty-five dollars an hour in my head. Or do legal secretaries make more?
“Their file clerk is on maternity leave,” Jane says.
I nod and smile, but I’m really wondering why she thinks I care about their file clerk.
“Of course, I can’t give you your usual rate,” she says. I was right. Legal secretaries make more.
“How much more?” I ask, crossing my fingers that it is at least an extra five bucks an hour. What if it’s ten? An extra ten dollars an hour? I can pay off my credit card and maybe even take a little trip. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Ray and I could run off to Atlantic City for a weekend. What a perfect excuse for calling him. I conjure up the Saint of Raises. If it is ten dollars an hour more, I’ll never steal again.
“Not more. Less,” Jane hisses. I look around to see who she’s talking to now. I hate these new “in your ear” phones. They’re so deceiving. It almost looks like she’s talking to me. “Melanie, you know that a file clerk isn’t going to pay your usual rate,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why would the file clerk be paying my rate?” And then the horror hits. “You mean. Me? A file clerk?” I can barely get the words out; they’re so heinous, so ill fitting on my tongue. “Jane. I’m an administrative assistant,” I say, sitting up as straight as I can and trying to conjure up an administrative air about me. “I’m a legal secretary. Project manager. Um—consultant.” I flick out job titles and spit them across her desk like a casino dealer plucking aces from a deck of cards. “Once. Once I was a hospitality agent—for Estee Lauder—but that’s just because you were really stuck, remember? And even then you paid my rate. Because she loved me. Estee Lauder loved me,” I say, slapping the desk with my hand for emphasis. (To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure if the elderly lady I met in the elevator that day was really Estee Lauder, but she was her age, had an E embroidered on her sweater, and smelled like baby powder and dried roses, so it might as well have been her.)
“I’ve never been a file clerk. Ever. I type ninety-four words a minute, Jane. How many file clerks can do that?” I sit back and fold my arms across my chest. I don’t like to brag about my speedy fingers—but a file clerk! Come on!
“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything else right now,” Jane says, turning away from me again and going back to her computer screen.
“I see,” I say, stalling for leverage.
“Maybe if you do well on this assignment,” Jane says, letting the thought hang in the air like stale cigarette smoke.
“Jane. Please. Please. I promise you. My best behavior.” I clasp my hands in front of her. I’ve only been here fifteen minutes and she’s already reduced me to begging.
“I really need this job filled, Melanie,” she says, her jaw set in a stubborn line. I eye the roses and consider taking them back.
“Come on,” I say, instead hoping that logic will be the thread that sews this up. “There are a hundred temps who would jump at the chance to do this. Someone less qualified. Send them.”
“I’ve sent four temps already.”
“And?”
“This position has proven challenging.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I’ll take you off it as soon as something better comes in.”
“One week. And you pay my rate.”
“Two weeks and I’ll pay you as a receptionist.” I sink in the chair and nod. “They want you there by nine,” Jane says.
“Nine o’clock tomorrow,” I say. “No problem.”
“Nine o’clock today, Melanie.” She looks me up and down, and I’m thankful I’m wearing cashmere. “Be sure and dress a little more corporate tomorrow, Melanie,” she says, turning back to her computer. Our “little talk” was over. “Don’t forget,” she says as I am just about out the door, “you have two strikes against you—”
“And you play baseball,” I finish. Two weeks as a file clerk. She isn’t just playing “baseball,” she’s choking me financially. But what choice do I have? If she wants me to suck it up and be a file clerk for a few weeks, I’ll suck it up. “No worries, I’ll be perfect.”
“I don’t doubt it. Especially with Trina there to watch over you.”
I freeze in the doorway. “Trina who?” I say, trying not to betray the fear in my voice. Not Trina Wilcox. Not Trina Wilcox. Please, please, please not Trina Wilcox. I hold my breath. I cross my fingers. I pray to the Saint of People With the Same Names. Please, please, please don’t let it be Trina Wilcox.
“Trina Wilcox,” Jane says smiling at me. I’ve sent four temps. Filling the position has been challenging. Oh, God. “Do you know Trina?” Jane asks sweetly. I smile and nod but avert my eyes. Jane hates dissension in the ranks. “Is there a problem?” she asks. See what I mean? The woman is a bloodhound.
“No, no. Trina’s great,” I say with forced enthusiasm.
Jane nods in agreement. “They love her to death over there,” she says. “I think they’re going to offer her full time.”
“Oh.”
“Not that she’ll take it. I swear her modeling career is going to take off any day now. I mean, she’s perfect looking. An absolute doll.”
“I absol
utely agree,” I say (if by doll you too are thinking of Chuckie from the psycho slasher movies). I raise my eyes heavenward and beg the Saint of Evil Women for mercy. Trina Wilcox is friends with Kim. Trina Wilcox is Ray’s ex-girlfriend. Trina Wilcox hates my guts.
Chapter 4
Once outside I pour the entire box of Chicklets in my mouth and chew. It makes my jaw ache, but I welcome the pain. Trina Wilcox. The Wicked Witch of the West Side. I should turn around and go home. I should march back in there and tell Jane Greer that I absolutely refuse to work with Trina Wil(suck)cox. I should have taken my roses back when I had the chance.
I walk to the subway venting my complaints out loud like an escaped mental patient. It’s okay—the only people in New York who will look you in the eye are talking to themselves too, so no need to worry about looking like a nutter. (Another Britishism I’ve picked up. My friends wish I had never read Bridget Jones’s Diary. The only one I can’t seem to work into a conversation around here is gobsmacked. But give me time, I will.) I should never have agreed to be a file clerk in the first place. What was I thinking? I’m a twenty-nine-year-old file clerk. This isn’t how my life is supposed to be going. I’m supposed to be a famous actress with a loft in SoHo and if not a gorgeous husband and baby on the way, then at a least a semiattractive straight boyfriend who has his green card.
You have Ray, a little voice reminds me. Thank God for that. But it’s a little too early to call him my boyfriend, isn’t it? My stomach tingles at the thought of it. Maybe he is my boyfriend—but I’m not going to screw it up with labels. We’re both adults, enjoying a consensual, sexual relationship. We may be a little off on our expectations concerning consistency of contact, but surely that will work itself out. It’s not like I can force the man to call me. I’ve already left him two voice mails and an e-mail, so obviously the ball is in his court.
Unless he didn’t get my messages. Technology is an unpredictable beast. Here I am thinking he’s ignoring me when I should be blaming some satellite tower in the middle of god knows where (New Jersey—blame New Jersey!) screwing up my love messages to Ray! Focus, Melanie, I’m sure he received your messages. What are the odds that three out of three were zapped in yesteryear? Maybe I can’t control my love life, but I can certainly control my career. Jane had baited me into a game of chicken, and I had veered off the road before the first feather was even swiped. How could I be so stupid?
Maybe I’m worrying for nothing. Maybe Trina doesn’t hate me. This will be a chance for us to start fresh and really get to know each other. If she was hard on the other four temps, they must have deserved it. I mean maybe they filed the Z under the As. I would have fired them too. Besides I’m only going to be there for two weeks. Two weeks of perfect behavior and I’ll be back in Jane’s good graces. I have to think positive. That’s it. It’s decided. From now on, I’m going to have a positive outlook on life. I’m going to stop stealing, start auditioning, and stop labeling my love life. That’s it. That’s really all it’s going to take to make me happy. I’ve just been way too obsessed. Relax, Melanie. From now on you’re going to have no expectations. It’s the only way to enjoy life.
I glance at the assignment card. The law office is on 28th between Park and Madison. I could hop on the Number 1 train to Penn Station and walk a couple of blocks from there. I’ll just cut through the garment district and—
Garment district. The words have a psychotropic affect on me. The air around me shifts slightly, and suddenly everything burns just a little bit brighter. God I love shoplifting in the garment district. I could spend hours there staking out my next claim, lovingly running my fingers over beautiful, brand-new sweaters—slipping slim bottles of perfume into my pockets. I could really go for a little “lift” right now. It would make all the stress over Trina Wilcox go away for a while. Tempting thoughts swirl around my brain like a stuck record. It would balance out the universe. I don’t steal enough to hurt anyone’s bankroll. I’m not really hurting anyone. Nobody’s perfect. Think of all the other horrible things I could be doing instead. That’s true. I don’t even drive a car. I’m not one of the millions of people polluting the environment or getting behind the wheel after having a few drinks. And okay, maybe I don’t exactly abstain, but last I checked, drunk walking never hurt anyone except maybe the occasional pigeon. And really, how was I to know his little feet were stuck in gum? Besides, he should be grateful that I knocked him down. Otherwise he might have been stuck in that gum all night long.
Hell, I could be a drug addict or a porn star. I’m probably the only actress on the planet who doesn’t smoke cigarettes or snort cocaine! Stop it, Melanie. You are through with shoplifting. Get your mind on something else. I whip out my cell phone and call Kim. She’ll know whether or not Trina still hates me. I get her voice mail. “Hey Kim. It’s me. Call me ASAP. I’m on my way to an assignment and I’ll be working with Trina Wilcox. And I know it’s silly but—just wondering—is she over the whole Ray and soap dish thing yet?”
I giggle as I hang up the phone. It’s ridiculous to think that she’s still upset with me. Isn’t it funny the unnecessary stress we put ourselves under? Positive thinking 101 tells us that ninety percent of the things we worry about never come to fruition. There’s nothing to fear but fear itself! It’s eight-thirty and I’m on my way to an assignment. Okay, so it’s a demotion, but I’ll do a phenomenal job of filing (filing!) and surely I’ll have a new assignment in a matter of days. By next week I’ll be out of there. Maybe Trina and I will become great friends. Someday we’ll laugh over it. In fact, this is really the beginning of my new life.
There you have it, I’m going to stop stealing. Not because it’s that big of a deal, but because it’s time to wipe the slate clean and start a whole new life. Do you hear that, Saints? I’m done. From now on, I’m a law-abiding citizen! I pick up my stride and smile. Everything is going to be fine.
Thanks to the Saint of Trains on Time, I arrive at Penn Station in a matter of minutes. In fact, I have time for a latte. I shouldn’t buy coffee twice in less than an hour, but I didn’t even get a chance to drink the other cup, and besides, Starbucks is right across the street. I have plenty of time. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Starbucks! A Venti quad shot nonfat vanilla soy latte. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! God I love coffee. Smack! Smooch! I do a little espresso dance. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Somebody didn’t put the lid on tight enough. I’ve spilled coffee all over the front of Kim’s baby blue cashmere sweater. There is a large dark streak sliding down my left breast like the Oregon Trail. Damn you, Starbucks! Damn you for handing me hot, dark coffee and making me jump up and down with joy. I hate you. I hate you—you big, evil, corporate giant. I am going to sue you! Sue you, sue you, sue you.
I can’t show up for work like this. Water isn’t helping. The Oregon Trail has turned into Crater Lake. Stained and wet would be perfect if I were going to, say, The Rodeo Bar, but it isn’t going to cut it in a law firm. I should go home and change, but I don’t have time. On the other hand, if I show up looking like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest, it’s not going to reflect well on me either. Especially with Miss I-hate-you-for-stealing-my-latest-man-toy Wilcox. Imagine Ray being stuck with her. I did them both a favor. Everybody knows that musicians are temperamental and models are narcissistic. It’s that genetic recipe that gives birth to future politicians. I was saving them from themselves. But I have to face facts. Even if Trina is over the whole soap dish incident by now, she still wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to get me fired.
No. I definitely cannot show up at Parks and Landon looking like this. Then I see a sign with three, beautiful, little words. Well, technically, three huge words in fire engine red. Blow. Out. Prices. Fate has planted a sweet, little department store right in my way. I glance at my watch. It’s 8:35 and I’m still a good ten blocks away from the law firm. But I can always hop in a cab. That would leave me fifteen minutes or so to find a pretty scarf to cover my stain. That’s it, I’m just going to w
alk in and steal a scarf. Buy a scarf, buy a scarf, buy a scarf. I throw a prayer to the Saint of Freudian Slips—I really meant buy a scarf. You’ll see. I’m going to walk up to the register and pay for it like a normal human being.
Finding a scarf is not going to be a problem. Getting out of here in fifteen minutes or less is going to be impossible. The place is jam packed. We’re talking wall to wall breasts, hips, and stuffed purses laced with a symphony of cheap perfume. Women are juggling the merchandise like carnival junkies and grabbing sales as if stalking the last slab of meat for their starving villagers. It is a study of the disintegration of the human race. It is neither spiritually fulfilling nor feminine nor feminist. It’s discount shopping.
The aisles are stacked with ready-made tables and blinking red signs boasting slashed prices. The lines at the register trail the entire length of the store. Some of the sales associates are still smiling at their customers despite the line, but others glare at you as if they have a collection of voodoo dolls beneath the counter with your DNA. You know the moment you leave the store, the sales associate is going to whip out your doll and stab needles in your cushy little heart or add cellulite to your thighs. The stout white clock above the counter is moving like a sloth in quicksand on this day of days, Annual Clearance Day at Brewber’s Department Store.
My scarf floats on a hook just above a row of sparkling, beaded handbags. It’s swaying from the breeze of heavy, sweating bodies and thin, twittering sticks battling one on one for the goods. This is not a race of the fittest or prettiest but the quickest. The scarf is me hanging there—vulnerable, beautiful, and alone. It is a light, misty green color and so, so soft. The perfect soulmate for my cashmere sweater. Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t imagine wearing this sweater without it. In fact, after I get the sweater dry-cleaned, I’ll give it back to Kim with the scarf. Really, they were made for each other. If it were as easy to find a man as it was this scarf, I would never steal again.
