by Nancy Krulik
“Oh, you know Al,” Celia said. “He’ll never change. He’s watching me like a hawk and making me crazy. Every five minutes it’s, ‘Did you drink enough milk? Have you had your protein today? Dried apricots have a lot of folic acid.’ He’s making me crazy. But what can I say? I love the jerk.”
Sami giggled. “If you think it’s bad now, just wait till the baby’s born.”
“I know, I know.” Celia chuckled. “Look, Sami, I gotta run—I’ve got my monthly checkup at Dr. Gladstone’s in twenty minutes, and if I’m a minute late, Al’s going to have the whole police force out looking for me. Besides, you shouldn’t waste a second more talking to me. You’ve got some pavement to hit. Now grab that portfolio I gave you, get out there, and put Elk Lake on the map!”
Sami smiled. Putting Elk Lake on the map had been a joke between her and Celia ever since they’d been in third grade and discovered that Elk Lake was too small to show up on any map of Minnesota. Back then, the girls had vowed that when they grew up they were going to become so famous that everyone in the whole state—or even the whole country—would know where Elk Lake was. Celia was going to dance her way to stardom, and Sami was going to design all her costumes. But with Celia married and about to be a mom, it now fell to Sami to fulfill their childhood promise.
“It’s as good as there,” Sami promised Celia as she hung up the phone.
Two
Midtown Manhattan in July was not a pleasant place to be. It was the height of the day, and the noon sun beat down from above onto Sami’s head. More heat came up from the sidewalk and was trapped by the skyscrapers that stood tall on either side of the street. Cab drivers with their windows open to save money on air-conditioning screamed at messengers sweating their way through the streets on bicycles, and throngs of people pushed past one another on their way to their air-conditioned offices.
But Sami tried not to be affected by the heat as she walked along Broadway, clutching her black leather portfolio tightly under her arm. She was too focused on the task at hand to even think about the temperature. She studied the large numbers on the glass doors that lined Broadway. 1379, 1381, 1383, 1385. Ah, here she was. 1385 Broadway. The famous Bridal Building. It was one-stop shopping for any bride: gowns, bridesmaids’ dresses, veils, flowers. Celia and Sami had read all about it in the bridal magazines they’d pored over in the weeks before Celia and Al’s wedding. At the time, it had seemed like a fantasy world. Now, as she stood in front of the door, the fantasy was about to come true.
Sami walked into the lobby with a determined look on her face. She tried to appear as though she fit in with the other workers strolling in and out of the lobby. With any luck, she would be one of them soon. She quickly scanned the directory posted on the wall and spotted a familiar name—Très Joli Bridal Fashions. Celia had loved the Très Joli dresses in the magazines. They were simpler than most: white gowns with minimal lace and beading, classic cuts with a slight twist, making each one a little different from the one before it. Sami had based her design for Celia’s gown on some of the Très Joli dresses, so it was only natural that she head up there first. She quickly stepped into the elevator and pushed the number 8.
The ride up to the eighth floor seemed interminable. She shared the elevator with two maintenance men who smelled as though they hadn’t bathed in at least a week. Sami moved cautiously over to the other side of the elevator, taking care not to step on the toes of a woman in a tight black pantsuit and stiletto heels, and making sure she didn’t bump into the two overweight men in shirtsleeves who were arguing over whether the Yankees should consider trading one of their starting pitchers.
With each opening and closing of the elevator doors, Sami’s heart pounded a little harder. She was certain that if the ride took much longer, she’d have a heart attack, right here in the small, cramped elevator of the Bridal Building.
Luckily, she made it. Sami got out of the elevator and scanned the glass-enclosed showrooms: Francine’s Flowers. Dream Wedding Veils. Samantha’s Gowns. Très Joli Bridal Fashions—this was it. Without giving herself a chance to back out, Sami opened the glass door and walked inside.
The reception area at Très Joli Bridal Fashions was quiet. There was no one sitting on the black leather chairs that lined the walls, each positioned beside a stack of Très Joli bridal catalogs.
“Do you have an appointment?” a middle-aged African-American woman in a pale green suit asked sweetly as she walked out into the reception area.
“No, I—”
“We don’t show the gowns without an appointment during the week,” the woman interrupted. “Come back on Saturday. You don’t need an appointment then.”
“Oh, I’m not here to look at gowns,” Sami assured her.
“Then why are you here?”
Sami lifted the heavy black leather portfolio onto the reception desk. “Actually, I’m a designer.” She gasped a little, hearing the words come out of her mouth. It was the first time she’d ever identified herself as a professional. It sounded strange, but also impressive—and not at all false.
“Oh honey, you’re in the wrong place,” the woman said kindly.
“But I think if you’d just take a look at my designs, you’d see that I have that Très Joli feel,” Sami pleaded.
“I’m sure you do. The thing is, our gowns aren’t designed here.”
“But this is the Très Joli showroom, right?” Sami asked.
The woman nodded. “Exactly. We show our gowns here. But we don’t design or make them here. Our home office is in Paris.”
Sami blushed. “Oh, I had no idea. I mean, the address in the magazine was 1385 Broadway and—”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the woman asked kindly.
Sami shook her head. “I’m from Elk Lake, Minnesota.”
“Minnesota, huh,” the woman mused. “You do sound a little bit like that wrestler who became a politician. You know, oh what’s his name …”
“You mean Jesse Ventura.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Sami laughed. Right now, former governor Jesse Ventura was pretty much the only person from Minnesota anyone outside of the state had ever heard of … but she was determined to change that. Someday people will associate Minnesota with Sami Granger instead!
“What’s your name?”
“Sami Granger.”
The woman held out her hand. “Ella Carmichael. Pleased to meet you, Sami.” Ella stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward the black leather chairs. Sami followed and sat down beside her. “Do any of the bridal companies have designers here?” Sami asked anxiously.
Ella shook her head. “Not in this building, hon. I’m sorry. It’s all showrooms. We mostly sell to retail stores. On Saturdays we open up to the public. That’s when the brides come pouring in, looking for bargains. But the dresses aren’t designed or made here.”
Sami blushed harder and closed her portfolio. “Oh, I should have researched this better. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Ella replied. “Most kids your age wouldn’t have been brave enough to come to New York on their own, never mind march into a showroom with their designs in hand. You’ve got guts, that’s for sure. Unfortunately, you don’t have the know-how. Now I …” Before Ella could finish her sentence, the phone on the desk rang.
Ella jumped up and hurried over to look at the number that flashed across the screen on her phone. “Excuse me, it’s my boss,” Ella said as she picked up the receiver. “Hello, Mr. Loehr. Yes. I have it right here. Of course I can bring it to you right now. I’m just finishing up with something.
“I’m sorry,” Ella apologized as she grabbed a folder from her drawer and hurried off to a room down the hall. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“I think I may already have,” Sami murmured as Ella left the room. She waited for a moment, making sure the older woman didn’t return. Then she ran behind the desk and looked at the old-fashioned Rol
odex that was sitting there.
Quickly, Sami looked at the list of names printed on the Rolodex cards. Ella was certainly well connected in the design business. Most of the numbers and addresses in her Rolodex were for bridal companies, but there were some other types of design houses as well: Mollie Mack, Ralph Lauren, Tara Davis Designs, Stella McCartney, Phat Fashions, Ted Fromme Fashions. It was an eclectic mix, to say the least. Quickly, she pulled a pen and paper from her bag and scribbled down as many addresses of design houses as she could find in the Rolodex.
Sami felt a little guilty as she speedily copied the numbers onto her paper. It was almost like she was stealing from Ella. Okay, not stealing exactly, but at the very least she was being extremely sneaky and underhanded. She could just hear her father now. “That’s not the way I raised you, Samantha Granger,” he would say.
But this wasn’t Elk Lake, Sami reminded herself, in a desperate attempt to justify her actions. This was New York. And the only way she was ever going to get ahead was if she could point herself in the right direction. What was it Ella had said? Oh, yeah: “You’ve got the guts. Unfortunately, you don’t have the know-how.” Well, Sami had now found out everything she needed to know.
Suddenly she heard footsteps from the room down the hall. Ella was coming back. Quickly, Sami hurried toward the elevator. Silently she made a promise to herself that she would thank Ella someday.
Someday when she was famous.
There was little sense in Sami hitting the pavement in search of a job that day. As she left the Bridal Building with Ella’s address list in hand, the strain of traveling for four days straight was starting to get to her. Best to get a good rest and start out fresh in the morning.
By the time Sami returned to the Beresford Arms, the neighborhood was teeming with tourists out for pretheater dinners a few blocks away on “Restaurant Row.” They seemed happy and excited to be in the Big Apple for their vacation—just the way Sami had felt when she’d gotten off of the bus a few hours earlier. Sami sighed. Has it only been a few hours? It felt like years since she’d arrived at Port Authority.
She walked through the dingy lobby of the Beresford Arms and over toward the stairway. But the path to the stairs was blocked by a couple making out on the first-floor landing. As they kissed, the man was breathing heavily. The girl, on the other hand, had a decidedly bored look on her face.
“Hey, take it upstairs, Chelsea,” Bud shouted from the lobby. “Ya rented the room, now use it.”
Chelsea sighed, took the man by the hand, and started up the stairs. “C’mon, you heard Bud. We gotta go somewhere more private.”
Sami gave Chelsea and her “date” a head start before she climbed the staircase to the second floor. She didn’t feel like running into them again. After she was certain they’d moved on, she hurried up to her room and closed the door behind her.
She undressed quickly and spent as little time as possible taking a shower. The water came out rusty, and the tub was old and stained. To make matters worse, Sami couldn’t help but think about what had gone on in that shower over the years.
Getting out of the shower, Sami slipped into her favorite nightshirt—her father’s old button-down striped shirt. It was nice and roomy, and very comfortable. Sami had never been able to figure out why women would want to sleep in itchy lace when they could just grab a man’s shirt to sleep in.
Her stomach growled slightly. It had been hours since she’d eaten anything. That’s when she remembered that Celia had packed her a tin full of cookies and other sweet treats for the trip. They made a delicious, if not exactly nutritious, dinner. But Sami was far too tired to go out and get anything else. She sprawled out on the bed and was soon asleep.
Three
Tara Davis Designs seemed as good a place as any to start her job search. Sami had always admired the company’s simple, all-American look. In fact, she’d patterned some of her own sleeveless tees and soft wraparound skirts on their simple designs. There was plenty in her portfolio that would fit in with their stylish yet comfortable Rose Petal clothing line.
Unfortunately, Tara Davis Design’s corporate offices were all the way uptown in the Seventies. It was a long walk from the Beresford Arms. She decided to take the subway just like any other New Yorker. Just the sound of being called a New Yorker was magical to Sami. Besides, if she was going to make her life and her career in this city, there was no time like the present to start traveling underground.
The subway was everything Sami had heard … and less. The stench was almost unbearable in the heat—a mixture of urine and sweat. And the station was filthy. Someone had drawn a mustache and beard on a movie poster featuring Julia Roberts’s smiling face. A photo of Shea Stadium had been defaced by another graffiti artist, who’d written the less-than-original slogan “The Mets Suck!” in big black letters. Sami clutched her portfolio tightly and stood close to the wall—taking care not to let her body actually touch the filthy white bricks. Despite the fact that it was already ten o’clock, way past rush hour, the train platform was still crowded. Sami made sure to stay away from the edge, for fear of falling onto the tracks.
When the train finally came, Sami hurried to find a seat. She squeezed in between a sweaty, heavy-set man in a pair of shorts and a white tank undershirt and a teenager in a black leather halter, jean shorts, and combat boots.
Just then, two men in matching black T-shirts entered the car. They stood near the door. “Welcome to the Underground Nightclub,” one of the men said loudly. “For our first number, we’d like to sing ‘When the Saints Come Marching In.’” The men then broke into a surprisingly good a cappella version of the song. As they sang, they walked through the train car, waving a jar of change under the noses of the passengers.
Sami sighed. This was definitely nothing like Elk Lake.
But then, that was the point, wasn’t it?
Finally, the train reached the Sixty-eighth Street stop. As she walked up the stairs, she felt something warm and wet hit her head. She looked up at the gray sky. A sudden rain shower had begun. And not a clean, fresh rain like the kind back home. This was a hard, angry rain that was rapidly turning the dirty city streets into a muddy soup.
“Umbrella, umbrella!” a street vendor cried out.
Quickly, Sami rushed to his side. She pulled out three one-dollar bills. “I’ll take one,” she said.
“That’ll be five bucks, lady,” the vendor told her.
“But your sign says three dollars,” Sami argued, pointing to a weather-worn cardboard sign glued to the man’s cart.
“That was before it started raining,” the vendor replied. “Its a matter of supply and demand. Now ya want one or what?”
Sami sighed and pulled two more dollars from her purse. The street vendor handed her a small black umbrella with a plastic handle. “Thanks, lady. Stay dry now,” he said.
Sami put up her umbrella and walked up to Seventy-sixth Street. When she reached the address for Tara Davis Designs, she took a deep breath and headed for the elevator.
There was no mistaking the Tara Davis offices. As the elevator doors opened, Sami was greeted by the company’s red rose logo on the wall behind a reception desk. Sami walked up to the receptionist and smiled. “I’d like to talk to someone about becoming a designer here,” she said confidently.
“Do you have an appointment with one of our directors?”
Sami shook her head. “But I could make one. When will one of your directors be free?”
The receptionist sighed. “Just leave your résumé and some sketches.”
“I’d much rather meet with someone personally,” Sami insisted.
“Well, if they like your work, I’m sure you’ll get a call.”
“Are you certain someone will look at my work if I leave it?” Sami asked nervously.
“I’ll forward it to the right department,” the receptionist assured her in a tired, almost condescending tone.
Sami did as she was told, pulling out som
e copies of samples of designs she’d done that seemed in keeping with the soft yet fun Tara Davis designs. But somehow she had a feeling those sketches weren’t going anywhere but on the bottom of a big pile.
As Sami walked back out onto Madison Avenue, she felt tired and overwhelmed. The rain had stopped, leaving behind thick, wet air that was hard to walk through. Sami could feel her long black hair going limp under the weight of the humidity. Her feet hurt, and her stomach was grumbling. She decided to take a break and have a snack. There was a deli on the corner.
“What can I getcha?” a young man in a white apron asked her as she entered the deli and walked up to the counter.
“Tuna salad on white bread with lettuce, and a cola,” Sami replied.
“Soda’s over there,” the man said, pointing to a refrigerator with two glass doors. “Get your soda and pick up your sandwich at the cash register.”
Sami went over and grabbed a can of cola and then walked up to the register. The cashier threw her sandwich and soda in a green plastic bag. “Eight sixty-nine,” she said.
Sami shook her head. “There must be some mistake. I ordered a tuna sandwich and a soda.”
“No mistake,” the cashier said. “Eight dollars and sixty-nine cents.”
“For a sandwich?” Sami asked incredulously.
“The tuna’s seven bucks, the soda’s a buck, and then there’s the tax,” the cashier replied, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice.
Sami sighed as she gave up the cash. She’d better find a job … and fast. She took the sandwich over to one of the small tables in the back of the deli and sat down. She unwrapped her seven-dollar tuna sandwich and began to eat hungrily. Then she gulped her soda and quickly headed toward the Ralph Lauren Polo offices just a few blocks away.
Unfortunately, the receptionist at Ralph Lauren Polo wasn’t any more helpful than the woman at Tara Davis Designs. But Sami refused to give up. She simply climbed back onto the subway and headed to the corporate headquarters of Betsey Johnson. But while a woman from personnel had at least ventured out of her hot pink office to talk to her, she hadn’t offered much hope, although she had taken a copy of Sami’s designs and a résumé.
