Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (24 page)

I am smack in the center of hundreds of people carrying briefcases on their way to their various office buildings. The sidewalk is full of folks in business suits . . . and some of them are even uglier than mine. Sweet.

As I stand by the revolving door to my new office, and thus new life, I can’t believe I’m here.

I can’t believe no one’s going to yell at me today for bringing them ranch and not bleu cheese.

I can’t believe I’m going to be a part of this big, bustling business world.

I can’t believe how lucky I am.

I can’t believe how unprepared I am.

I have eleven years of college under my blue bisecting waistband. I can detail every issue that divides the Hutus from the Tut-sis. I can write a thirty-page paper on how to better involve Interpol in the fight against terrorism. I can speak in Venn diagrams. I can hold an intelligent discussion about modern playwrights from Ibsen to the absurdists. I can get a 4.0 while working full-time at a crappy restaurant. And in softer, less academic skills, I can talk three different West Lafayette police officers into not arresting me the night I run around campus in a big, borrowed, swoopy black coat pretending I’m Batman. I can buy groceries for the week on twenty dollars. I can make my cat Bones walk on a leash.

I cannot, however, send a fax.

Which is the only thing my job requires me to do at this moment.

How did I spend eleven years in academia and never learn how to use a fax machine? Or begin an e-mail? Or operate the collate feature on the Xerox machine? Or transfer a call? Or create an Excel spreadsheet?

I’m standing here eyeing the fax machine, a lump of dread roiling in my stomach alongside four foam cups of black coffee because I’m too shy to ask where they keep the cream and sugar. There are only twenty buttons or so, but there may as well be a million. What do I do here? Should I pick up the phone and then dial? And where does the paper go? Right-side up or upside down? And how will the people on the other side know I’ve sent them a fax? Do I call them? But how? I only have their fax number!

As I vacillate,
¹⁴⁵
one of my coworkers comes up behind me with a stack of documents in her hands. In a flash of unexpected brilliance, I say, “You know what? I’m not quite ready. You go ahead.” Then I pretend to shuffle my papers while I surreptitiously write down every step she takes.
¹⁴⁶

When it’s my turn, I feed in the paper and push buttons, following each step to the letter and . . . success!

I faxed!

I am a
faxer
!

Fax this, bitches!

Feeling the warm glow of my first victory, I wander into the copy room. Someone’s bound to collate something soon. And I intend to watch.

After I get over my initial fear of office machines, I find the business world is different than I expected. I thought it would be all vicious and dog-eat-dog, but it’s not. My professors were wrong when they said corporate America was far more challenging than academia. Sure, folks work more than three hours a day and don’t get summers off, but other than that it’s kind of easy.

Here people stay in the office until five, and if they don’t finish their project, there’s always tomorrow. No one has the sense of urgency that’s been so ingrained in me from the restaurant industry. I laugh when I imagine what would happen if a customer requested ketchup and I told him I’d get it for him in the morning.

My coworkers aren’t what I expected, either. Everyone (except Chuck) is laid-back and kind and more than willing to show the new kid the ropes. I can even handle Chuck. Coworkers ignore him because he’s a tattletale, too concerned with minding everyone else’s business.

Not long into my tenure here, I figured out Chuck doesn’t really want to get others in trouble. All he wants is someone to listen to him. So I do. Ever since then, we’ve gotten along famously. Part of our mutual understanding is that he sees I’m ambitious. He’s overloaded, so he appreciates when I ask him for extra projects when I finish my own work too quickly.

Chuck is in charge of database maintenance, whereas I do data entry. My job is to keep the provider directory current. My days are spent talking to doctors’ offices to make sure I have their proper addresses, phones, and tax ID numbers. Sometimes there’s a little detective work involved because physicians will move and not notify us, so I track them down and write up the new information and . . . that’s it. I can’t believe I needed a college degree to do a job that’s 90 percent calling 411.

And I can’t believe they’re paying me $24,500 a year to do it!

Brass Something, Anyway

(Navy Suit, Part Three)

I
can’t believe how quickly I can spend $24,500.

I can’t believe how much the government takes. I can’t believe how much rent is and how much higher my insurance is and how expensive groceries are. Because I’m covering bills on two apartments, I’m already out of money and I don’t get my check for another nine days. Looks like I’m brown-bagging it again this week.

All of my old friends want to hear about my glamorous life in Chicago. They want to know all about the trendy restaurants I visit at lunch every day. Right. Twice a month on payday I like to hit the cute Scottish place around the corner. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? I believe locals call it
McDonald’s
.

The boredom is slowly beginning to drive me crazy. It took me a month to learn the intricacies of my work and another few weeks to master it. Now that I’m six months in, I could update the directory in my sleep. I’ve inadvertently committed dozens of doctors’ addresses and phone numbers to memory. I could even rattle off a few of their tax identification numbers. What’s funny is when I have stress dreams, I don’t picture myself in this job. Instead, I’m waiting tables and I have a hundred people anxiously awaiting drink orders.

I’ve made some friends in my department and I’m not lonely at lunchtime. Sometimes we’ll do a big potluck dealie and everyone brings in their favorite treats. We have a book club and every two weeks a big group of us sits down together, discussing novels like
The English Patient
over canned soup and peanut butter sandwiches.

I’ve settled into a calm little groove here at work. But with this level of placidity, I feel like I’m in my fifties, not my twenties. I want some excitement. I want a challenge. Sure, I’ve spent years bitching about a lot of aspects of waitressing, but I can say this—it was never boring. My work life is pleasant, but I know I’m capable of so much more than what I’m doing. That’s why when my boss Jill says, “I need some volunteers to—” my hand shoots up before she even gets her sentence out.

Jill’s been tasked with finding people to work on the Employee Action Team, also known as EAT. Our department was tapped because we serve the least important function in the entire company. No one’s actually said we’re worthless—it’s just my theory. But, hello? We’re doing 411, not particle physics. We’re so inconsequential that when a corporate merger is announced, no one in my department is worried about losing their jobs. We can’t be fired if no one realizes we exist. The company we’re joining doesn’t even
have
people who do what we do.

EAT’s sole purpose is to plan the corporate Christmas party. Everyone who’d been on EAT last year has either quit or gotten busy at their actual jobs, so the whole group needs to be restaffed. Personally, I don’t know a damn thing about putting together a corporate party, but I do know that EAT-ing will get me away from my desk for a couple of hours a week. That’s enticement enough.

I throw my entire self into this party. I go over every detail as meticulously as a debutante planning her dream wedding to the senator’s son. The great irony is that I’m not even going to be able to attend the party because if I come downtown and spend the night in a hotel, I can’t make my car payment.

I’m working with Joanne and Carmen from my department. They’re both very sweet ladies but neither of them is what I’d consider a go-getter. Middle-aged and married with children and big homes in the suburbs, they aren’t desperate to throw a faultless fete in hopes that someone notices their work ethic. They’ve already achieved their goals and right now their jobs are a means to pay for ballet lessons and math tutors and acrylic nails. And so they aren’t terribly concerned when we realize we don’t have the budget for a decent party.

Carmen suggests we just ask employees to contribute if they want a party, but that’s so shitty to me.
Merry Christmas! Sorry you lost your job in the merger! And please enjoy having a cocktail with the very executives who decided your job was expendable. That’ll be $50, please.

Joanne suggests we have a bake sale to raise funds, but I’m all, What are we? Back in the sorority house? Why not just have a bikini car wash, for Christ’s sake?

Our party finances make me mad. The employees here deserve a real celebration, especially if they’re going to be on the unemployment line come January. If this company has $6 billion to buy a competitor, surely there are funds to pay for an extra cheese plate and some cheap champagne. I mean, I just saw an entire truckload of new Aeron chairs being delivered to the executive floor. There is cash here and it is available and we simply have to ask the right person.

I finally get Joanne and Carmen to agree we have to petition Robert Prescott Barlow III, General Manager, for more money. Carmen occasionally eats lunch with a couple of Mr. Barlow’s assistants, so she manages to get one of them to squeeze us into his schedule. Joanne works on the PowerPoint we’re going to show and Carmen puts together a detailed budget. I plan on tagging along for moral support.

On the day of our fund-raising appointment, I pull my navy blue suit and piped blouse out of the closet. I’ve been dressing much more casually for work in knit skirts and loose sweaters—people on the phone can’t see me, after all—but I feel like I need to look as professional as I can today.

I’m running late this morning, and while I’m getting ready I trip over a cat and break the heel on my nice pair of pumps. Aarrgh. Falling snags my only pair of silky L’eggs, so I throw on an off-white pair of tights and some cheap navy loafers. I catch one glimpse of myself running out the door and think if I just had a bell, a bucket, and a storefront, collecting money would be no issue. Major Barbara, indeed.

When I get to the office, I find out both Carmen and Joanne have called in sick.

Fucking cowards.

I don’t know what else to do, so I decide to take the meeting myself.

I quickly research the general manager and learn he came up through the sales department and figure that he appreciates self-confidence. No one buys from a timid sales guy, right? I also find out his peers call him Bob, even though everyone else at my level simply calls him
Mr. Barlow
or
Sir
.
¹⁴⁷

Even though I’m the most junior person in the least important department on the entire corporate totem pole (and I’m practically sharting myself in fright), I make sure to walk into his office like I belong there. I try not to look around too much, because if I calculate the size-of-this-room-to-my-cubicle comparison, I’ll probably wuss out myself. I sneak a peek at Waterford tchotchkes and framed pictures of him on the cover of various health care magazines and oh, shit, I think I’m going to barf and—

Knock it off! Eyes straight ahead,
I tell myself.

I sit down in front of him, making a conscious effort to look relaxed as I ease my way into a plush leather chair across from him. I figure if I want to gain, I have to venture, so I take a deep breath and open the meeting.

“Bob,” I say, “we’ve got ourselves a morale problem.”

Bob is all polished with his hair combed into perfect grooves, a grown-up version of a Ken doll. I bet he and his wife (CEO Barbie) have a standing tennis date every Saturday morning. Then they eat a brunch made up of something topped with hollandaise and they stop at a farmers’ market before tooling home to their Dream House in a giant plastic convertible, where they drink wine from their last trip to Napa. (At no point do they ever open their Chinese curio cabinet to watch television.)

Ken—I mean
Bob
—tents his hands and rests his sculpted chin on his fingertips. He’s deeply tan and I can tell it’s come from the actual sun. He must have just returned from somewhere tropical. Heck, I just wish I had the funds to hit the tanning booth.

Bob’s straight white teeth look even more dramatic against his golden skin. He’s smiling at me, like my presence amuses him.

Or maybe he’s smiling because I’m dressed like Cap’n Crunch.

“A morale problem? How so, um . . . Jennifer, is it?”

“It’s Jen. And the problem is we’re merging with the other HMO. Everyone’s afraid they’re going to lose their jobs.” I (purposefully) languidly cross my legs, shift back in the chair, and lock his gaze.

Bob brushes a bit of nonexistent lint from his jacket. The real buttonholes on its cuffs mean his suit cost more than I make in an entire quarter. The contrast of his outfit to mine makes me feel like I’m clad not in a starter business suit but a shower curtain plucked from the Salvation Army bin. Still, I continue to look him right in the eye. What choice do I have?

“We are
not
laying anyone off, Jen. We’ve been crystal clear about that.”
¹⁴⁸

“Sure, you say that, but no one believes you.” Bob starts to interrupt, but I give him my most charming
¹⁴⁹
grin and raise my hand. “Bup, bup, bup, in this case perception
is
reality. It’s almost Christmas and people think they’re going to be unemployed. They are freaking the—can I say ‘hell’ in here?—they are freaking the hell out.”

Suddenly Bob is a lot less charmed. “I assure you
nothing
—”

I continue, speaking as fast as I did on days when I was triple-seated and had to spit out all the evening’s specials. “Hear me out, Bob. The employees are scared. They’re unhappy. You know what they need? They need a gesture. They need the equivalent of a big, warm corporate hug. They need a—pardon my French—they need a
kick-ass
Christmas party. And they need you to pay for it.”

Bob sits there and stares a hole through me and my navy wool for what seems like an hour.

Oh, shit,
I think,
he’s going to have me killed, just like all those evil insurance executives John Grisham always writes about.

Then he begins to laugh and his whole face softens. “How much more do you need?”

Without skipping a beat I say, “Five thousand.”

He snorts. “Not happening. We’re in a budget crunch. How about five hundred?”

I fold my arms over my shiny buttons. “Bob, it’s
Christmas
. Four thousand.”

“Six hundred.”

“You’re killing me, Bob.”
Please don’t kill me, Bob.

“Seven hundred.”

“Can you really put a price on happy employees?” I oh-so-casually begin to finger my faux pearls.

He considers my statement for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I can. Fifteen hundred, final offer.”

I pretend to mull it over. In reality, we’d hoped to walk out of there with a couple of hundred extra bucks. But I gambled and I won. I lean across his enormous mahogany desk to shake his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Thank you very much for your time and for giving us enough money to throw a great party. Correction, a
healing
party.” I stand up and head toward his big glass office door.

“Excuse me, Jen?” he calls, right as I’m about to exit.