As Seen on TV

Twentysomething
Sarah Mlynowski
was born in Montreal, Canada. After receiving an honors degree in English literature from McGill University, Sarah moved to Toronto to work for a romance publisher. Unfortunately, she never met Fabio. But she did write
Milkrun,
which has since been published in sixteen countries. Sarah is currently a full-time novelist, and
As Seen on TV
is her third novel.

If you’d like to say hello, visit her Web site at www.sarahmlynowski.com.

Milkrun

Fishbowl

For Todd

NYC—Assistant Manager, New Business Development

Soda Star, America’s leading beverage company, seeks candidates for its growing New Business Development department.

Candidates should have bubbly personality, positive outlook on life (glass is always half-full!), free-flowing ideas, excellent contacts. Sparkling written, communication and organizational skills. A drop of administrative work required. An all-you-can-drink opportunity!

If you have Star potential, please e-mail your resume as a Word document ONLY to hr@workforcheap&beourbitch.com.

“W
hy are you calling?” the HR woman asks me, panic-stricken, as if recess is over and she hasn’t finished her Fruit Roll-up. “Didn’t the ad say not to phone?”

“Yes, I understand that, thank you, but I’ll only be in New York for a few days. I would really like to set up an interview.” I need a new job. I attempt to shield myself behind the pay phone’s plastic divider, since this is the only nicotine-friendly cafeteria on the block and anyone from the office could easily sneak in for a smoke.

The smell of this stale smoke combined with the plates of shepherd’s pie lined up on the counter make me wish long-distance calls from my cell phone didn’t make me sound as though I’m calling from Zimbabwe. I also wish I knew how to make a calling-card call from my office without getting the IT department.

“Once the hundreds of resumes we’ve received for the As
sistant Manager, New Business Development position are reviewed,” the HR woman says, “the managing director will choose the candidates to be interviewed. If you’re one of the fortunate ones selected, I assure you, you’ll be called.”

Obviously the first thing this woman does when she gets home is kick her dog. “Thank you very much for your time,” I say.

I redial Soda Star’s number.

“Florida Telephone Systems.”
Brrring.

I dial my calling-card number.

“Soda Star, the shining light in beverages,” the receptionist sings. “How may I help you?”

“May I please speak to the managing director?”

“Which managing director is that, miss?”

Which managing director? Shouldn’t there only be one director who manages? Or maybe one manager who directs? “The new business managing director, please.” Please let that be right.

“Whom should I say is calling?”

A person he’s never heard of before? “Sunny Langstein.”

“One moment, please. I’ll transfer your call.”

Foiled again, HR.

I’m probably going to get his voice mail. Why would he be at his desk at 10:30 a.m.? He’s probably out managing. Or directing. Or managing directors when it gets really crazy. I hunt through my recently started job-search notebook where I wrote possible messages to leave on prospective employers’ machines.

Ring, ring.
Heart beating erratically.

“Ronald Newman speaking.”

Good. Damn. He’s there. It’s a he. Concentrate on exuding confident, sexy, sweet voice. I flip back to the page of possible things to say to prospective employers. “Hi, Mr. Newman? This is Sunny Langstein calling. I’m presently the assistant manager of new business development for Panda in Fort Lauderdale, but I will be relocating to New York for personal reasons. I’m very impressed with your company’s work and would like to continue my professional growth in the bever
age industry. I’ll be in New York next week, and I was wondering if you’d consider meeting with me to discuss any potential job openings in your department.”

“How did you get this number? Aren’t you supposed to go through HR?”

Sounds cranky. Must accent the sweet voice. “I’m
so
sorry to
bother
you, sir.” Now confident. “I just assumed calling you would be more efficient.”

He laughs. I picture him reclining in a brown leather reading chair, a pipe dangling from his lips. “Well, Sunny, you’re probably right. Do you think you could handle working in the big leagues?”

Oooh. The big leagues.

“I’m quite confident I can, sir. I have excellent—” this is where I exploit the many hackneyed and meaningless qualifications employers salivate over “—communication and organizational skills. I multitask, prioritize, problem-solve and self-start. I pay strong attention to detail and work effectively with both creative and production staff. I have a proactive approach toward current products and new business, and I have a personable, team-player personality. Will you be able to meet with me for an informational interview?”

Pause. “Are you aware that I’m looking for an assistant manager right now? To report directly to me?”

No kidding. “Really? I’d love to come and talk to you about it. I’ll be in NewYork next Monday. Do you have a free half hour?”

He laughs again. “You’re a go-getter. I like that. Hmm. Let me check.”

He’s clicking on his keyboard. Clicking…clicking…more clicking.

“Did I mention I’m proficient in most computer programs including Windows, Macintosh, Microsoft Office and Photoshop?” I ask.

He whistles his approval. “How about right before my golf game? Four o’clock?”

Liza, my boss, strolls through the doors. Damn. Now why am I using a pay phone in the cafeteria across the street from my office in the middle of the morning? She knows I don’t smoke. I ram my notepad and pen back into my bag. “Perfect. I’ll see you then. ’Bye.”

“Okay. Great…um…” Come on, Newman, spit it out. “Will you fax me your resume?”

Liza doesn’t see me yet. She’s ordering something. Is she sneaking a cup of coffee? Since she announced her pregnancy, she’s been strutting her water bottle all Mormon-like around the office, boasting how effortlessly she gave up caffeine, smokes and Chardonnay.

“No problem,” I say. “Thanks. ’Bye.”

“Do you know where our offices are?”

“On Forty-third Street, right? It’s on your Web site?”

“Yes and yes. I’m on the sixth floor. Just tell Heidi you’re here to see me.”

I assume Heidi is his receptionist. “Great. ’Bye.”

“Don’t you want my fax number?”

“Isn’t it the one on the Web site?”

“No, I have a personal fax number. Do you want it?”

Of course I want it! Just tell it to me already! I crouch against the wall and a ketchup-stained table eclipses my face. “Yes. Yes, I do. What is it?”

“Hmm. Good question. Let me check. Hold on, it should be on my business card, right?” Clunk. Did he just knock over his chair? Is he completely incompetent?

Liza pulls out her wallet.

“Okay, got it. Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six.” Uh-oh, nothing to write on or with. Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six. Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six. I’ll remember it. No problem. I can remember one stupid fax number. Especially this one. Nine times four equals thirty-six. How can I forget? Two-one-two-five-five-five-nine-four-three-six. Or is it four-nine-three-six? This is a terrible plan.

“It was a pleasure talking to you. I look forward to meeting you.” Two-one-two-five-five-five-four-nine-six-three? I should take out my pen and notebook. Who cares? I could be writing something besides a fax number for a future employer down. Like the lunch special.

“I’m looking forward to meeting you, too,” he says.

As quietly and quickly as possible—two-one-two-five-five-five-three-six-nine-four—I hang up the phone. One interview scheduled. A good start.

“Sunny?” Liza asks. Her hands leap to her rounded stomach. She does this often, as though she’s checking to ensure she’s still pregnant.

Maybe she thinks I’m getting coffee. Not a ridiculous assumption. Office coffee is like the hot dog of the java industry. They get the leftover beans that don’t quite make the cut at Starbucks. Two-one-two-five-five-five-six-three-nine-four.

Liza isn’t a horrible boss. Besides the fact that I do all her work and she takes all the credit. And that on staff birthdays she refuses to order “terribly fattening” chocolate cake and instead insists on serving celery sticks and low-fat tzatziki. And since she’s gotten pregnant, she’s become a walking bitch machine.

But the workload isn’t atrocious and she always writes me nice reviews and pays me fat bonuses.

She glares at my cupless hands. “Is there a reason you snuck out of the office to use the phone here?”

A first-rate question. “My grandmother is sick, Liza. I needed to talk to her in private.” It’s a good thing both my grandmothers are already dead.

She looks doubtful.

“What did you get, Liza?” I ask, motioning to her small plastic cup. There was an article in the
Miami Herald
that said that people respond more positively to you if you frequently use their names in conversation. It hasn’t worked for me yet.

Her face flushes a shit-you-caught-me red. “Hot chocolate.”

Funny, it doesn’t smell like hot chocolate. Smells like good
old will-deform-your-baby caffeine. That’s terrible. Doesn’t she know that she’s risking her baby’s health?

She slides into a metal chair. “I’m going to stay here for a while and look over some notes.”

Should I insist on sitting with her to make sure she doesn’t try to sneak a smoke, too? Maybe I should get a better sniff of what’s in that water bottle. Or maybe I’ve got to get somewhere and write down this number. “See you later, Liza.”

Two-one-two-five-five-five-three…three times twelve…twelve? Damn.

During my leftover pineapple pizza lunch, I respond to the first of two of my friend Millie’s e-mails:

To: Millie

Subject: Re: Where The Hell Are You?

I just got back last night. He asked me to move in with him. I’m going. It’s insane.

 

Her second e-mail, tagged with
Fw: Purity Tampons Cause Cancer,
is one of those health forwards. Millie, one of my closest friends, knows that I love spreading these millions-of-women-die-needlessly warnings. You never know, one day one of these e-mails could save someone’s life.

I received this from a friend—please read and pass along. Have you heard that Purity includes asbestos in their tampons? Why? Because asbestos makes you bleed more, and if you bleed more, you are going to use more…

 

I tried a Purity tampon once, but it felt as if I was trying to shove a cement brick up my vagina. I forward the e-mail to Liza because she loves chain letters, especially those feel-
good chain letters that promise you instant death if you don’t forward immediately. I forward the Purity Tampons Cause Cancer e-mail to my older sister Dana, too. This way she knows that the reason I didn’t call her when I got home late night was not because my plane crashed, or was hijacked by terrorists, but because I am an extremely busy career woman who is also very concerned with women’s health. And who knows? Maybe she’ll get a story idea out of it. Dana does the nine o’clock news for the radio station WCMG Miami. She’s desperately trying to move to TV. She also sells feature articles to newspapers all over the country in an attempt to build up her portfolio.

Six seconds after I hit Send, my extension rings.

As always, I contemplate answering the phone with, “What?” But I don’t. “Sunny Langstein speaking.”

“Why didn’t you call me when you got in? You know I worry about you.”

“Sorry, Dana. I got in late and I didn’t want to wake you.”

My sister snorts. “I told you to wake me. Did I not tell you to wake me? Did you have a good trip?”

“Very nice trip, thanks.” Do I tell her? I have to tell her. “Hold on one sec,” I say. I put the phone on the desk and close my office door. I sit down in my swivel chair and take a deep breath. Liza hates when her staff’s doors are closed, always asks us to please leave them open so that the other departments don’t get the impression we’re unfriendly.

Her door has been closed for about six months now.

“He asked me to move in with him.”

Silence.

“Hello? You still there?”

“I’m here,” she says. “He wants you to move to New York?”

“Yes. What do you think?”

“Do you care what I think?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to go?”

“Yes.”

“You’re just going to quit your job and leave everything behind? Isn’t that a bit irrational?”

And the guilt begins. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her. Maybe I should have moved and called her from New York. “What’s new?” I could have asked. She would have rambled on for hours, and when she finally stopped for breath, I could have interjected, “Call me at this new number, ’kay?” And that would have been it. I should have banked on Dana’s tunnel vision—her ability to only see and hear what she wants to see and hear. It would have taken her months, maybe even years, before she realized that 212 wasn’t Fort Lauderdale’s area code.

Case in point: after I graduated from college, she admitted she didn’t know that I had studied business at University of Florida.

“What did you think I was studying?”

She shrugged, straightening the neck of my gown. “Communications.”

I laughed. “Why? Because you studied communications?”

“No,” she answered, sounding insulted. “I thought that’s what you said. That you wanted to study communications.”

I did. When I was eleven. When Dana wanted to be a star reporter like Barbara Walters and decided to major in communications, I said I wanted to be Barbara Walters and study communications. What do they teach you in communications anyway? How to talk? But then I decided that business was a little more practical. That’s what my father told me.

And journalism isn’t the only way to make a difference in this world. I’m going to change the structure from within.

One day, armed with all types of theorems, my business degree and women’s studies minor, I would break through the corporate glass ceiling.

One day.

Coming up with the next Snapple wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. The problem is, I haven’t found a ceiling really worth breaking. Panda recruited on campus and I dropped off my resume, mostly because I didn’t know what I wanted to do and then they called me in for an interview and then they offered
me a job. I am quite talented at convincing people to do what I want, even when I’m not sure I want it.

But I’m only twenty-four, still building the resume. One day I’ll do something
real.
Change the world. And in the meantime, unlike Dana, since the day I started college, my father hasn’t had to lend me a dime.

A piece of pineapple is trapped behind my bottom teeth, in the wire that my orthodontist glued on after I got my braces off. “It’s not irrational,” I say, while digging for the stray piece of fruit.