Crazy Fortune 11: The Peripatetic Period
My second temp job was a secretarial position at a real estate office in Time Square. If I had known what this implied for a working environment, I probably would have turned down the position. But apart from my first very mellow temp job, the only office environment I had experienced in the past was my parents’ quiet, decorous, wholesale drapery fabric business in Kansas City.
This office, I would say, was the complete opposite of my parents’ office.
When I got to work, I found a major hubbub as workers got settled at their desks before starting their day. I had worn my L. L. Bean duck-hunting boots to work, since they were the only footwear I had for the nasty weather, intending, of course, to change into some other shoes as soon as I had a chance. I didn’t get a chance, however, before one woman exclaimed to her nearest neighbor, “Oh my God, did you see those shoes?!” Then I found out that, although the office had a phone tree, I was not supposed to use it when customers called for agents. Instead, I was supposed to cup my hand hastily over the phone and yell at the top of my lungs, “Morty! Mr. Patterson on line four!”
My mother had taught me, quite firmly, that ladies never yell.
So, this put me in a socio-psychological conundrum right off. I was agonizing over how I would manage to raise my voice loud enough to be heard over the din when the phones started ringing like crazy. I answered my phone, dismayed when the person screamed into my ear, “ThisisCarlJohnsonherecallingforMortyGlickensteinisheinIhavetospeaktohimrightaway!” To me it sounded like, “Bubbabubbabubbabubbabub.”
“Excuse me?” I replied tremulously.
“BubbabubbabubbabubbabubbabubbaBUB!” he snarled.
“I’m sorry, you said your name is Cole Jensen?”
“Carl Johnson! My name is Carl Johnson!” he shouted testily. “It’s a perfectly ordinary name, for Chrissakes! Now, is Morty in or not?”
“I’ll see, sir,” I said, then placed my hand over the receiver and took a deep breath. “Morty!” I boomed. “Line three!”
Nothing happened.
“Morty!” I shrilled, a little louder. Still nothing.
I got up and walked over to his office and peeked in. He apparently hadn’t arrived yet. So I went back and informed the caller who sighed, then said, “Okay, tell him I called and bubbabubbabubbabubbabubbabubbabub. You got that?”
I nodded, scribbling his message down furiously. When the line went dead, I realized that my handwriting was totally unreadable. So I copied the message onto another piece of paper, hoping that what I got was close enough. My morning proceeded in like fashion until one ritzy, attractive-in-a-slightly-hardened-sort-of-way young real estate agent saw me copying my notes onto message pads.
“Oh for God’s sake,” she shouted. “What are you doing that for?”
“Well, I—”
“That’s a waste of time! It’s stupid!”
“Yes, but—”
“Just write the note on the message pad. For God’s sake!” she said.
She swept off in her expensive coat that looked as if it had once belonged to some now extinct species, leaving a trail of musky perfume. I stared at my little note pad with the carefully copied messages. I thought, I hate this job! I can’t do this job! So I dialed up my contact at the temp agency and said, “I don’t want to come back here tomorrow.”
“Really?” he said, genuinely troubled. “What’s wrong?”
“Well—” I started to say; then all of a sudden tears started trickling down my face. I tried to say more but couldn’t.
“Celeste, are you okay?” my contact asked.
“I’ll call you back,” I choked, then hung up. Since I was in the middle of a huge, crowded office, it wasn’t easy to hide my tears. So I hastily excused myself and dashed into the bathroom where I locked myself in a stall and cried. I guess I was just a little too high strung for this work.
Soon, the door opened and the nice woman whose desk was closest to mine came in.
“Celeste?” she called. “Are you in there?”
I hesitated. “Yes,” I said finally.
“Are you okay? What’s the matter?”
I decided to come out of the stall. I felt even more like a dork now, but I didn’t want to lie, so I told her about my interaction with the ritzy young agent. Listening to my story, I was thinking, what a pathetic weenie, for God’s sake! But the woman, kind person that she was, did her best to reassure me.
“Oh, don’t pay any attention to her! She’s just like that. She doesn’t mean anything by it. And anyway, you don’t have to do what she tells you! You don’t work for her! Just ignore her. You’re doing great.”
Of course, since I was trying to stop crying, this made me cry even harder. Never in my life had I so wished for a black hole to position itself underneath me and suck me into it. The woman patted me on the shoulder and gave me a tissue and told me to take my time composing myself. So I did, thanking her profusely as she left, and splashed some cold water on my face. Just when I thought I had regained my composure, the door slammed open again and here came the ritzy agent.
“Listen, I’m sorry if what I said upset you,” she said, puzzled. “I was just trying to help you out! I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I told her that I knew she didn’t mean to upset me and I thanked her for coming to talk to me, said I was just sort of stressed out. I told her she didn’t have to apologize, but she did again, anyway, and advised me, but in a nice way, to get a grip. I knew I needed to get a grip, but her apology ended up making me feel even worse—like a much more gargantuan dolt, anyway, even though I really appreciated her kindness. Now I was tempted to simply slip away for the rest of the day without telling anyone I was leaving, but my L. L. Bean duck-hunting boots were under my desk. So I went back to the office, smiling as bravely as I could.
I sat down at my desk and Morty, a big, bald, avuncular man came out of his office and told me in a growly voice that if anyone was mean to me, to send them to him. I thanked him, blushing. Then another woman came round to my desk with a young man in tow.
“This is John,” she told me. “He used to act in soaps. Maybe you’ve even seen him!”
I nodded noncommittally, smiling like mad.
“Well, he has a joke he wants to tell you. Go ahead, John.”
He told me a joke that I didn’t quite get, but I laughed heartily, which seemed to gratify everyone in the office.
“See?” the woman who sat next to me said after they left. “We’re not mean or scary people.”
No kidding!
In fact, I had just experienced some of the most well-intentioned human interaction of my entire life. It was humbling, in fact. And it was deeply, profoundly heart-warming. I was too embarrassed to return to this particular office the next day, and in any case, my contact at the temp agency had decided that I was too fragile for this type of work and replaced me with someone who had a tougher hide. But I never again saw New Yorkers in the same light; in fact, have since come to believe that, despite their often brusque delivery and style, they are some of the kindest people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
Above: Moving along to lavender!
Thursday, April 29, 2010