I put my notepad next to my computer and sank into my desk chair, trying to remember why I put up with this job. At first it hadn't seemed so bad. Mimi had greeted me like a long-lost sister and gave every impression that she would be a mentor who would ease my way into the business world, as well as a best friend and soul mate. Then I made the mistake of correcting the horrendous spelling and grammar on a memo she'd written and running it back by her to approve my changes. That was the first time I saw Evil Mimi. Since then I found that on good days she was as friendly as I could hope. But the moment she was revealed to be less than perfect, she went nuts. I learned to just correct the memos before sending them and not let her know I was cleaning up her mess.
Why did I want this job? Oh yeah, that six hundred bucks a month for my share of the rent on a one-bedroom apartment that three of us shared. Not to mention several levels of income taxes, my share of utilities, food, transportation, and all the other little expenses that added up to consume my meager paycheck. I was barely getting by on my salary. Without a salary, my roommates were sure to get rid of me, even if we had been friends since college, and I'd have to go home to Texas, proving to my parents that I couldn't make it in the big city after all.
There were even days—like today—when I had to remind myself why that would be so bad. It wasn't as though I'd been unhappy at home. I'd just felt like I wanted something more. I didn't know what, not yet. I hoped there was something big out there with my name on it that would never have found me while I stayed in that little town. If I went back to Texas on anything other than my own terms, with some kind of business or personal success under my belt, I'd look like a failure. Worse, I'd feel like a failure.
Mimi was a small price to pay to avoid that. But it wouldn't hurt to start looking for another job, now that I had some non-feed-and-seed experience under my belt. It would be easier to hide my roots at the next job because they wouldn't have known me when I was straight out of Texas. That would have to make things better.
The new mail indicator was blinking on my computer. I clicked on my e-mail program and saw a message saying, "Job opportunity." I knew it was probably spam, offering me the chance to work at home stuffing envelopes or something lame like that, but given the day I'd already had, I opened it.
"Dear Kathleen Chandler," it said, "Your experience and work ethic have come to our attention, and we believe you would be the perfect fit for our firm. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you can't afford to pass up. I can promise you'll never receive a comparable offer, in New York City or anywhere else. Please reply via e-mail or call at your earliest convenience to schedule an interview."
It was signed, "Rodney A. Gwaltney director of personnel, MSI, Inc." A Manhattan phone number was under his name.
I stared at the e-mail for a good, long time. It was very, very tempting, and it might not hurt to find out more, but one thing I'd learned in my small-town business experience was that if things sound too good to be true, they probably are. I couldn't think of any reason anyone outside my company would have the slightest idea who I was to know anything about my experience and work ethic.
With a disappointed sigh, I deleted the e-mail. The last thing I needed was for Mimi to accidentally see a job offer open on my computer screen. I promised myself that I'd borrow my roommate Marcia's computer that evening to search the online job listings and get myself out of this loony bin as soon as humanly possible.
two
I would have walked home from work that day even if I hadn't been desperately trying to save money. On bad days the long walk up Broadway lets me blow off some steam, while the varied sights, sounds, and smells provide enough transition between work and home that work seems like it belongs to another lifetime by the time I get home. If I just go belowground after leaving the office and emerge aboveground at home, I'm still in work mode when I get home, and I hate subjecting my roommates to that. Cringing isn't a good look for me, and I didn't want them knowing just how bad things were. The last thing I needed was them sending me home because they were worried about me not being cut out for New York after all.
I was still muttering curses at Mimi under my breath as I changed shoes in the building lobby. Then I stepped outside, cut across to Broadway and began the long hike. The day had only gone downhill after the staff meeting, and more than once I'd been tempted to retrieve that job offer from deleted mail, even if I knew it had to be a scam. A nineteenth-century sweatshop seemed like a saner working environment than laboring under La Diva Mimi.
