the bachelorette party we’re going to plan for Yvonne, and then about the upcoming Christmas party.
“Paulie’s having a bunch of guys over to watch the fight that night,” Brenda says, gingerly running one of her raspberry-colored talons along the paper output slot. “So I’ve got to clear out of there before six-thirty.”
“You want to come over to my place before we go to the party? It doesn’t start till eight.”
“By the time I take the PATH in and get a cab over to the club, it’ll be past seven-thirty anyway, so let’s just meet there.”
I tug on a piece of paper that’s stuck between the rollers. “I don’t know, Brenda. We probably shouldn’t get to the party right when it’s starting.”
“Why not?”
The paper tears. I curse under my breath, then tell Brenda about the article in She magazine while I pick out bits of torn paper.
“So getting to the company Christmas party on time is a major Don’t?” she asks, incredulous. She removes her hand from the copy machine and inspects one of her nails for damage. “You’d think being punctual would be a good thing.”
“Not in this case. ‘Don’t—’ and I quote ‘—be the first one to arrive. Don’t be the last to leave.’ End quote. Hey, hold this compartment open for me, will you, Bren?”
She reluctantly obliges, and I continue to pull scraps of paper from the roller. Brenda’s a fanatic about preserving her weekly manicure; my nails are always a mess. I think I’m the only woman in New York with unpolished, unfiled fingertips. But I can think of better ways to spend the weekly fifteen bucks my friends dole out in nail salons.
Then again, glossy scarlet nails would be dazzling with my red trollop dress.
Mental Note: See if manicurist has available slot after lip-wax appointment at salon tomorrow.
“So what other Don’ts are there?” Brenda wants to know.
“Let’s see…I told you about the ‘Don’t dress provocatively’ one, right? Then there was ‘Don’t drink too much.’ You’re supposed to nurse white-wine spritzers and alternate them with plain seltzer throughout the evening.”
“Oh, Madonna,” Brenda says with a Carmella Soprano eye-roll and my grandmother’s old-country accent.
The Jersey Italian in Brenda’s blood always comes out when she’s peeved. One minute, she’s a lady, the next, she’s flipping someone off with an Ah, fongool.
“Spritzers? That’s bullshit, Tracey. We should do shots. It’s girls’ night out. What else did the article say?”
“Don’t smoke. Don’t gossip. Don’t flirt. Don’t dance. Don’t—”
“Geez, who the hell wrote this article? The president of Bob Jones University?”
I shrug, peering into the copy machine to make sure all the paper has been removed. “Okay, all clear. Press Start.”
She does.
The machine whirs.
Lights flash.
Nothing.
We lean over to look at the little screen on top.
Paper Jam.
“Forget it,” Brenda says, picking up the stack of originals from the tray. “I’m going down to seven to make my copies. And Tracey, forget about that stupid article. Let’s just go have a great time.”
I head back to my cubicle, still thinking about the article. It’s easy for someone like Brenda to blow off the advice. She’s content to stay a secretary, and, anyway, she plans to quit to stay home when she has a baby—which is planned for next year. So for her, this isn’t a career; it’s a job.
But if I’m going to work my way into a copywriting position, I’ll have to watch my step. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression of me at this party. I don’t want them to lump me together with the other secretaries.
Okay, I know that sounds snobby. And it’s not that I don’t adore my friends. But sometimes, it kind of bothers me that I’m—I don’t know…one of them.
Back when I had Will—and supposedly a future with him, even if it was all in my deluded head—it didn’t seem to matter as much.
Now that I’m on my own, I can’t help feeling that I’d feel much better about myself if I had a “real” career.
Yeah, and you’d probably feel much better about yourself if you hadn’t had that one-night stand with a full-grown Star Wars fanatic, too.
Let’s face it: I might be skinny, and I might be bringing in a regular paycheck with benefits…but things could definitely be better. Much better.
I find Mike leaning over my chair to check out the proposal I’m typing for him on the computer screen.
He’s a smallish, wiry guy, and I don’t like to stand next to him because he’s a few inches shorter than I am and we probably weigh about the same. I’m not secure enough, despite the weight loss, to feel comfortable around guys who make me feel large and gawky even now.
“How’s it coming, Chief?” he asks cheerfully. Mike has this cute thing where he calls everyone “Chief.”
“Pretty good. I caught a couple of typos for you.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
I smile. They weren’t typos, really. He’s a crummy speller, but I never want to embarrass him. He’s such a sweetie.
“Hey, I like your tie,” I tell him. For somebody who seems clueless about some things—like getting his hair cut when it needs it—he’s got great taste in ties.
“Thanks. You want some caramel popcorn? I just got a huge barrel of it from some magazine,” he says. “It’s in my office.”
At this time of year, the agency people get loads of corporate Christmas gifts from magazines and television networks. You wouldn’t believe the caliber of some of the gifts. Last week Mike got a crystal Tiffany ice bucket and a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne from one place.
Too bad he didn’t offer to share that.
I pass on the popcorn. It sounds good, but I’ve got to be careful. At this time of year, it would be easy to slip up and gain a few—or twenty—pounds back.
“Listen, Chief,” Mike asks, “would you mind going down to accounts payable before the end of the day to get me that cash advance for my trip to Philly tomorrow?”
“Not at all.”
That’s another great thing about Mike. He doesn’t give orders. He asks me to do things. Getting his cash from AP is part of my job, but he makes it seem as though I’m going out of my way for him. He really makes being a secretary bearable for somebody who has bigger aspirations.
Someday, I hope, I’ll be a copywriter like Buckley. But until I am, working as a secretary at Blaire Barnett is pleasantly painless. I even get to sit in a cubicle instead of in the secretaries’ bay, where I was when I worked for Jake.
I head toward the elevator bank. I reach it just as a junior account executive does. Her real name is Susan, but Yvonne calls her Miss Prim, and I have to admit, the shoe fits. She’s always buttoned up in a tailored suit with pearls and pumps, her hair pulled severely back in a clip, and I’ve never seen her smile at anybody who isn’t an executive.
“Hi,” I say, since we’re both going to stand here waiting for the down elevator, which is bound to take a few minutes. The elevators in this building are notoriously slow.
“Hi.” She studies her sensible pumps.
You just wouldn’t catch her picking up a total stranger and having