Tyler and I take the elevator forty floors down to the lobby of the Prudential Tower. I smirk while he raves about how awesome the presentation was. I didn’t choose him as my assistant; he was assigned to me. What he lacks in ambition (or any set of demonstrable skills, really) he tries to make up for with personality.
On Boylston Street I shiver in the cold while Tyler books an Uber. Once we’re nestled in the car, I turn toward him. “I want you to buy a box of Cohibas from the cigar parlor on Hanover. Wrap the box in navy blue paper. Send it with a note on the back of one of my business cards. Not the shitty agency-issued ones but the thick card stock I had made with the nice embossing. Do you have a pen? Then get your phone out. I want the note to say this exactly: ‘To a productive partnership.’ End that sentence with a period, not an exclamation point. Then, under that line, a dash followed by ‘Natalie.’ Got it? No ‘Yours truly’ or ‘All my best’ or ‘Cheers.’ Just a dash with my name. Send it to the CEO.”
Tyler gapes at me. “But he was so rude to you. In front of all those people.”
I tap a list of post-meeting to-dos on my phone. Without glancing up, I say, “When I was coming up in this industry, you know what I spent most of my time doing? Listening. And taking notes.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see his expression sour slightly. He’s only three years younger than I am.
“I want the minutes of today’s meeting on my desk within the hour. Please.”
“In my two years at DCV no one has ever done meeting minutes,” he mumbles.
“Maybe that’s why you almost lost the client that pays all of our salaries.” I wait for a snappy comeback. When I don’t get one, I pull a folder from my bag. “I glanced through your Starburst brief. It’s riddled with typos.” I find the marked-up pages and hand them to him. “It reflects poorly on both of us when the work is subpar. More careful proofreading next time, okay?” His jaw tightens. “And I told you: section headings in all caps and bolded. Not one or the other. Both. You’d be surprised how far attention to detail will take you.”
The car pulls up to our office building. We ride another elevator together, this time in silence. On the sixth floor we get off. As we’re about to part ways, Tyler sniffs. “If you’ve never met the CEO before today, how can we be sure he smokes cigars?”
“I know my target.” I head into the women’s bathroom.
A minute later I walk down the hallway, scrolling through my calendar (three more meetings this afternoon). I’m about to round the corner to my office when hushed voices in a nearby cubicle catch my ear. I recognize the first as that of one of the assistants, a woman who doesn’t know she’s being considered for a promotion. “I would love to work for her. She’s such a boss bitch.”
“Or your run-of-the-mill bitch.” That one is Tyler.
The other assistants titter.
“She treats me like a child,” he says, gaining steam from his friends’ reactions. He affects a shrill voice. “Tyler, I want you to go to the bathroom. When you wipe your ass, use four squares of toilet paper, but make sure it’s three-ply, not two. If it’s two, you’re fired.” They all giggle, these people who are almost my age but make a third of what I do.
I straighten, pull back my shoulders, and stride past the cubicle. Without slowing down I say, “I don’t think my voice is that high-pitched.”
Someone gasps. The last thing I hear before closing my office door is total silence.
* * *
? ? ?
AT MY DESK I remove the lid of my scratched-up Tupperware and stare at my lunch, the same one I’ve eaten every day for years: a cup of kale, two slices of bacon, toasted walnuts, chickpeas, and Parmesan cheese, tossed in a shallot vinaigrette. I eagerly await the day scientists discover kale’s worse for your health than nicotine; for now, a superfood’s a superfood. I sigh and dig in.
I had a lot of time to think through my New Year’s resolutions over Christmas break. Last year I put an additional two and a half percent of my pay into savings. The year before that, I started washing my bed linens twice a month instead of once. Every January (except this one) Kit tells me I should resolve to have more fun. Every January (except this one) I want to snap at her that resolutions have to be measurable or you can’t tell whether you’ve achieved them, but that would do little to disprove her point.
On New Year’s Eve, as I sat alone in my apartment, staring at the needles falling off my three-foot Fraser fir while snow pelted my window, I was loath to admit my sister might be onto something. I don’t know a soul in my new city other than my coworkers. How does a thirty-one-year-old make friends if not through her job? I’d rather be eaten by a bear than go to one of those Meetups, standing around with a bunch of strangers, trying to figure out who’s least likely to make a skin suit out of me.
I’d resolved to try harder my first day back at work, focus less on the job, more on the people. Three hours in, I veto the resolution. Why waste my time with dolts like Tyler?
I allow myself a moment to wish Kit were here, then brush the weakness away.
I check the time back home (nine a.m.) and text my best friend, Jamie: Still not making any progress with work people. No response; must be busy with the baby. I stab a chickpea with my fork and jiggle my finger across my laptop’s track pad.
Once I’ve cleared my work inbox, I move on to my personal account. I scan the subject lines: a few newsletters, a grocery coupon, spam from someone named Merlin Magic Booty. Plus a message from [email protected]. I pause.
Kit went to Wisewood six months ago.
My sister didn’t tell me much before she left, just called last July to explain she’d found this self-improvement program on an island in Maine. The courses are six months. During that time you aren’t supposed to contact family or friends because inward focus is the goal, and oh, by the way, she had already signed up and was leaving for Maine the following week, so she wouldn’t be able to call or text me for a while.
I had balked. She couldn’t afford to go half a year without income. What about health insurance? How was she okay with cutting off everyone she knew for such a long time?
I pictured her shrugging on the other end of the line. If I had a dollar for every time Kit answered me with a shrug, I could pay for her to live at Wisewood forever.
“What are you thinking?” I’d asked. “You finally have a dependable job, benefits, an apartment, and you’re going to throw it all away on a whim?”
Her tone cooled. “I’m not saying Wisewood is the answer to all my problems, but at least I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Your job is the answer.” I was incredulous that she didn’t get it. “How much is this program? How are you going to afford it with that student loan?”