Romance Is My Day Job (7 page)

I fall in love with Paris but never find my French Louis—just the charming waiters. I figure that my true love is the city itself, which makes my heart feel full again. Well, there is this other waiter, Jean-Baptiste, also from Pub Saint-Germain, but he also wants me to hemorrhage money on tips for him, which I do for a couple weeks. Then he sleeps with my friend.

I leave France happy, poor in finances but rich in spirit.

1991

There is a movie that plays in my mind as I graduate from college:
Working Girl,
a popular rags-to-riches movie from 1988 and an excellent guide for finding a job and a boyfriend. My senior year was a breeze because I focused on work and friends, and avoided drama. Days before graduation, I received a bittersweet letter from Craig, who's moved to Japan with his girlfriend. He congratulated me on my surviving college and wished me happiness. It was a sweet message, one I'll always cherish. I never answer him but appreciate the nice send-off.

Commencement at Oberlin went without a hitch. My parents mostly stayed away from each other and we all traveled in our different directions after unloading the moving truck to my future. Mom and Don returned to their new house in New Jersey, close to Rutgers University, where they were both just hired to teach history. My father went back to Brockport, Patrick to Manhattan.

Now it's my turn. Let the adult fun begin! I can already tell great things will happen to me. And since I'm the star of my own romance novel, I figure I'll land on my feet without a career track, especially if I follow Tess McGill's lead.

The idea of living in New York City is too overwhelming, so I decided to move to Cleveland as a transitional home—only thirty minutes from my college. Baby steps to my big dreams, which, at the moment, are as mystifying as my dwindling savings. Where does the money go? Most of my friends find employment in other cities or go to graduate school. Except for a couple college friends who live in my new neighborhood, I'm left to my own devices.

Thanks to a generous girlfriend, who spends hours helping me look at places, I find an apartment in the safe-ish suburb of Lakewood, Ohio, a thirty-minute bus ride from downtown Cleveland. This neighborhood is made up of families and Yuppies, mostly Caucasian. The city has invisible racial lines, which cause tension from one end to the other. To add to this, bigotry is everywhere. No sooner do I step into this city than I hear the N-word out of Caucasian mouths. It shocks me. Not exactly the harmonious environment of Oberlin, where all races are celebrated.

Despite the underlying violence of this city, my one-bedroom is enormous, with a giant living room, ample closet space, a full kitchen and bedroom. And cheap! My parents each donate old furniture and rugs, and setting up my new independent-girl digs is a blast.

The only outrageous part is that my parents expect me to make my own money. I am allegedly an adult. There is an exciting quality to this adulthood phase—that I
can
make my own money, decisions, and meals. This is also the worst part. To make money, you need to work—every day. If you're lucky, this work builds into a career. To get work, you need to make a decision about what kind of work you want to do. I just want to be famous or rich or married or . . . something, as long as I don't have to break a sweat.

The food part is fine, though it's painful to leave the luxury of the campus dining hall. How hard could it be to cook a meal? I know how to make rice and pasta and open a can. In a matter of weeks, I'm certain that my Prince Charming will whisk me off to fancy restaurants where we'll have five-course meals (I love going out). For now, I really want to try powdered potatoes—the forbidden fruit. My parents wouldn't let me eat them, so now's the time to try this awesome contraband. With potato flakes, just add water and milk—along with a stick of butter. Maybe Parmesan cheese. It's a delicious, easy adult meal! Ramen noodles are so cute and cheap, too, and I buy baskets and baskets of them.

Next comes adult employment. What helps me through the hurdle of being jobless with a BA is the idea that I could be the next Tess from
Working Girl
. In a nutshell, Tess, the eternal temp with big dreams, fights to crawl out of the job sewer and, in her quest, finds a great profession and a man with whom she can order Chinese while number-crunching into the wee hours. She is the quintessential romance heroine because she's special and smart. We all know that she'll get the job she deserves. In her spare time, when she's not being adorable at work—e.g., giving cartons of cigarettes to friends, just because—she secretly takes all these business classes. Though stuck working a temp job, she gradually outdoes her boss (who has a bony ass) and attracts the love of Jack Trainer, played by Harrison Ford. Jack is so hardworking that he stays at the office late to the point where he needs to change into a new shirt and start a new day. On the outside, he's a ruthless businessman. On the inside, he's a lovelorn puppy, offering to make herbal tea for Tess when she accidentally gets trashed at an industry event. Best of all, he packs her a high-fructose lunch for her first day at work at the end. Tess is multifaceted, brainy with the voice of a porn star. She may start at a less-than-great job, but she gets a better job and the guy in the end. I need to be Tess: a wage earner with the ability to seduce executives without even trying.

In fact, many romance novels begin this way—with the woman in a new job or situation. Now that I'm going to be making my own money, I can buy these juicy books with impunity or find them in my local library. Off I go, picking up my powdered potatoes, ramen noodles, and saucy romances at the supermarket. I never take notice of authors or publishers; I just grab the first book I can find with the hottest cover—heaving bosoms, long Cher hair, naked calves, and windswept clothing. I try to find stories that relate to my situation. There are so many Fauns out there, like me.

Faun usually works for her future Mr. Right at a less-than-ideal job. They say most love affairs begin at work. For me to reach this ecstatic destination, I decide to find a transitional job as a secretary, like Tess, like most heroines. There are several reasons why this is appropriate: 1) I type one-hundred-plus words a minute. 2) I love organization. 3) Eventually Melanie Griffith shows off her smarts and wins the heart of Harrison Ford. 4) I made absolutely no career plans while I was in college so I'm kind of fucked. Everyone says that Latin is so helpful in life, but it isn't. Translating Cicero and Ovid did squat for my SATs. Catullus's pathetic—and by
pathetic,
I mean totally awesome—love poetry to Lesbia helped not a whit in my job search.

I'm envious of my brother, Patrick, for knowing what he wants to do and going for it. He's doing a play now,
Tony n' Tina's Wedding,
and auditioning for everything under the sun. His life is about finding acting jobs. Perhaps like many of my generation, Generation X, I have a lot of potential but no real passion aside from watching television and reading. Well, that may not be true, and my circumstances aren't deplorable. I am fluent in French, I can sight-read Latin, I am a professional-level calligrapher, and I pick up languages easily. I've lived overseas and am presentable. Sadly, this doesn't translate into a lucrative profession right out of Oberlin (no one warned me about this, by the way), but someone will want me. A college counselor said I might like advertising or publishing. For three minutes, I chose advertising (because that's what Timothy Busfield and Ken Olin do in
thirtysomething
). When I asked what I'd need to bring to an interview, the agencies said my portfolio would be a great start. “Don't you have any boards?” one agency receptionist asked. Oh sure. Boards. So I made “boards,” basically other brilliant ads pasted on cardboard and somehow engineered into my own work.

Secretarial work is easier than jumping right into a lucrative career. I love administrative work anyway. It seems so glamorous to work in an office. I fantasize about wearing my sneakers to work and changing into pumps, just like Tess. Being a secretary will give me time to reflect on what I really want to do. Maybe I could write an amazing novel in my spare time.

When my father asks me about my long-term plans, like when I am going to get health insurance, I explain about having a practical job before launching into a real job.

“What if something happens to you?” he asks. Ever since he married
her
—that woman who used to be fun but who now finds me disruptive—I am expected to follow a linear pattern.

“I'll try not to get hit by a bus. And if I do, I'll pay for it, don't worry.”

“You need health insurance.”

“It's hard to get a job out of college.”

He doesn't seem to understand this until a year later, when he reads a
New York Times
article that states exactly what I said, that my generation is having a tougher time finding employment right out of college. Good thing I don't confide my real dreams to him. One of the few times I tell him I want to be a writer, he says that this would be like winning the lottery—i.e., don't even bother. Sure, he's being practical, but after
Working Girl,
it's hard not to dream.

Plus, romantic heroines often have side jobs as an outlet for their creativity. They work in an office to pay the rent, but in their spare time, maybe they bake muffins for their friends and this somehow takes off into a Mrs. Fields thing. Or the heroine makes her own candles and soap, which mushrooms into her own cute store with her name over the door. I once made a candle in Brownies. It was fun but uninspired, as in the Brownie leader provided the wax, string, and molds. We mostly just dipped the string into the hot wax. Where would I sell my candles anyway?

Temping is the way to go for now. In Cleveland, my new home, I go from company to company. I'm bound to gain valuable experience and meet Harrison Ford “at the office.” The perfect career will make itself known. Perhaps my fairy godmother—every romance has one, an older woman with watery blue eyes and sage advice—will guide me on the professional path. In the meantime, I try to replicate Tess's wardrobe, buying a black skirt and cream-colored blouse. At my first job, in a law office, I change out of my sneakers and try to navigate my way in wobbly pumps. I wear a pair of my mother's pearls—though I'm not sure she's aware I have them.

As I answer phones at Temp Job #1, I watch the daily soap opera that is corporate America. I see the tragic love story between two lawyers. Lawyer 1 and Lawyer 2 used to be lovers until she ran off and got pregnant with twins by someone else. Lawyer 1 watches 2 run to the bathroom, heartbreak etched on his face. He wishes he were the one married to her now. It's been a good two years since they were together. Now they work in the same office day after day as her belly grows with children! I nearly cry watching Lawyer 1's pain, then type up his notes, swimming in the memory of his mournful gaze.

Just when I start to make some friends, the job ends. I pack up and go to the posh British Petroleum Tower, located in the heart of downtown Cleveland. It's a tall, clay-colored building—you can't miss it—and the second I walk in, I feel like I'm on the set of
Working Girl
, or, better yet, a Jackie Collins novel. I can already see it. A Hollywood director—they are all painfully good-looking—wanders into my building to meet with one of the executives on my floor. He needs BP's backing for his next blockbuster. On his way to meet Mr. BP, he sees me sitting there so innocently typing away. He thinks,
For months, I've been trying to find the star for my new movie and here she is
. Even though I'm not an actress, he casts me—turns out I'm Katharine Hepburn—and during filming falls in love with me. One year later I'm in my second trimester, an Oscar nominee, and throwing swanky parties in the Hollywood Hills.

Well, Cleveland isn't that glitzy. Still, my head spins as power suits swarm around me. This is where oil gets traded, the place Oberlin protested during the antiapartheid controversy. I don't broadcast where I'm working, especially since I secretly like the ambience and the people. The head honcho is on the fortysomethingth floor, and his secretaries have secretaries, and they all whisper, as if not wanting to disturb the master at work. It's like a little secret club up there. I love it.

Everyone is so nice to me as I settle into my cubicle, put my sneakers in a drawer. My two cubicle-mates are lovely women, sassy and full of wit. They take me under their wings, crack jokes throughout the day. What impresses me is that they type like demons, fingers flying over the keyboard. Transfixed, I watch them and try to mimic their speed, which must be close to two hundred words per minute. One of them just had a baby boy. Another is phone-flirting with one of the British traders from New York City. She's planning on flying down to meet him in the city—a blind date. They've only spoken on the phone, had this whirlwind courtship without ever seeing each other in person. British Trader is about to get the shock of his life since my cubicle-mate has this Playboy Playmate look about her, with intelligence to boot. It's a real romance happening right in front of me.

Aside from this drama, the work is easy and I mostly report to these women with thunder fingers. During my eight-hour day, I relay messages back and forth to traders using this electronic device that's sort of like a calculator with letters that makes noises. The memos I whip up come from deciphering chicken scratch on a legal pad, though I understand nothing about the business. I have ample time to read the
New York Times
from cover to cover. Might as well improve my mind while I'm at it. The traders are men, mostly cheerful, not the type to grope, which I find surprising. With the exception of my Playboy Playmate colleague and her long-distance-trader love, I notice no smoldering glances across the room, no drink invites or chatting up around the water cooler. I'm just the temp.