Chapter 2

“So today’s the big day.”

“What big day?”

I caught a strong whiff of vanilla perfume as Allison rushed over to my side of the cubicle barrier. Making “hush-hush” gestures as she tripped over my bag, she whispered “Lexi, you gotta show a little more enthusiasm.” Allison thinks Big Enthusiasm Brother of RTX, Inc. is constantly watching.

“Today’s the day we officially change over from Junior Associate Buyer Trainees to Junior Associate Buyers. The memo said our new business cards get delivered this morning.”

“Oh, sorry. I guess I forgot.”

“You’d think after four months of working our asses off, you’d be a little more excited.” If working our asses off meant stretching the 45 minutes of work per day we got as Junior Associate Buyer Trainees to 53 minutes, then yes, I guess I deserved the promotion. What was Allison doing while I surfed the web and sent out resumes? Re-reading inventory sheet instructions? Researching new cost-effective labor resources?

“Our final training workshop’s at three, and I hear there’s cake.”

“Great. Thanks Allison.”

Cake. Add that to the list of things that made me feel guilty for being trained to do a job I’d leave the second I found something else. When I started at RTX, I didn’t realize they would pay me to do nothing while letting enough time pass for management to pretend they had trained their Junior Associate Buyer Trainees. I had hoped I would photocopy and file for a few months; hide in deserted storage rooms; find the perfect design job; profusely thank human resources for the RTX experience in my exit interview; and get the hell out of there.

But now cake was involved.

* * *

“They gave us cake.”

“Cake?” My roommate Keith has the bad habit of making people repeat things.

“Yeah, cake. They’re wasting perfectly good cake on me. Am I a terrible person?”

“Cream cheese icing or confectioner’s sugar?”

“Confectioner’s.”
“Then you’re not a terrible person.”

This didn’t comfort me. So I dug further into my carton of ice cream and subjected Keith to more of my misery. “I just can’t believe it’s gotten to this point. Six months at RTX? I thought I’d be out of there by now. But no. This is my life now. This is all I got going for me. This carton of Ben & Jerry’s. A job that I hate. And a training program that gives me cake.”

Keith wisely left me at this point, alone with my ice cream and my sulking.

In my I’m-miserble-even-though-I’ve-lived-a-relatively-privileged-life-and-actually-have-a-job-dammit-so-why-am-I-complaining speech, I forgot to add that I also had an amazing apartment. I definitely had that going for me.

My one (huge) break since moving to Boston was that I was the first to respond to this ad in the Globe: Roommate needed to share my 1000+sqft loft by Fenway Park. Rent reduction if knows how to spend $4K decorating budget.

When I called Keith, the loft owner and my future roommate, I played up the former art school design major pretty big, so he was pleased to show me the place right away. When I went to visit, I wore my design major outfit I wore all freshman year. Tight, sleeveless high-necked shirt with non-descript black pants. Hair pulled back in a low ponytail, topped off with thick black-rimmed glasses. Yeah, I thought I was cool back then.

My whole “too cool for your 1000+sqft Fenway loft” persona dropped when I fell prostrate at the sight of the space. With tears building in my eyes, I asked, “All of this is yours?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of an investment. How do you like the view of Fenway?” This was not just a view. The entire loft was covered in floor to ceiling windows. And the view of the park? We could pretty much sell Red Sox tickets just to sit on our floor.

Keith’s one contribution to decorating the place was a huge overstuffed black leather couch. God, I hate leather. But you need to respect a guy who actually designates a decorating budget. “Yeah, I know four thousand dollars isn’t much for a decorator, but to an art school student, that must be a fortune, right?”

The kitchen was easy – beautifully laid out with all stainless steel appliances. I just bought some bright cartoonish paintings from an art school friend to lighten up the yuppy mood. For the living room, I found sheer silver fabric with hints of purple, and used it to cover pillows and an ottoman/coffee table, and to make curtains, hung from a thin silver wire. To finish the living room, I bought a purple velvet love seat and a white oval carpet. The great thing about purple is that it makes women feel like queens and men feel like pimps. I think Keith would agree. We spent almost all of our time in the living room.

For the dining area I bought a farm table and two long wooden benches, along with two armchairs, which I reupholstered with some tapestries I had woven in college. Fortunately, Keith liked a lot of my textile art, so I hung two long earthy pieces in the dining area.

The whole project cost $3,000, and Keith even bought some of my art for his bedroom, , so my first two months living there were free. This was particularly fortunate, because it took me that long to find an (unsatisfying) job. Although I was proud of the work I did, I was more overwhelmed with gratitude. How often are you given a budget to decorate your dream apartment?

* * *

The next morning, when I arrived at my cubicle, (WARNING: gratuitous metaphor follows) I received the confectioner’s sugar icing on my cake of guilt. I had a real nameplate on my cubicle. Being the first nameplate ever issued in my honor, I was a little excited – until I remembered that I was not designing Fendi handbags, but I had been recently promoted to Junior Associate Buyer of cheap and ugly clothing for mega-discount stores throughout the country.

“Hey, Lexi. Wanna grab some coffee?” Ori was the only other Junior Associate Buyer who was not as thrilled about the job as Allison. But she was a lot more vocal. As we walked towards the elevator, Ori announced to the seventh floor her current complaints about RTX. “Can you believe they want us to fill out these pricing reports every week? It’s such busy work.”

Ori and I were met in the elevator by a short, scruffy looking guy in his early 20’s, who, by the look of his cut-off pants and reflective baseball cap, was almost certainly a bike messenger.

Wanting to drown out Ori’s depressing monologue, I gave the bike messenger a smile. He smiled back. So I decided to do something I hadn’t done in ages. I flirted.

First, I gave him the ‘save me from this crazy woman’ eyes. He returned with the ‘what can I do?’ eyes. Then I gave the ‘I wish I had a job where my creativity was encouraged and my co-workers were passionate about art and originality’ head nod. He returned with the ‘I don’t know how to interpret your weird gestures’ averted eyes.

You’d think at this point in my life I’d know better than to try any form of body language (case in point, the karaoke winking incident), but oh well. I guess I was being optimistic.

Ori’s voice cracked the third time she repeated ‘too damn many reports’, so I was saved. The courier and I locked eyes and both silently laughed.

As we left the elevator, and the courier jumped on his bike, I imagined what his 9-5 was like. Speeding through town, dodging cars, searching for new shortcuts, taking the long route, so he rides along the Charles River.