bullshit.
Good morning, folks. Let’s remember to show our clients our high energy levels! Our relationships with these good folks comprise our whole business – they appreciate our patience and consideration as much as our results-oriented portfolio handling. I’m pleased to announce a new weekly group meeting, one that I hope will allow us all to brainstorm ways we may better serve our clients. It will be held each Friday at 7 a.m. and will provide us with an opportunity to think outside the box. Breakfast is on me, folks, so bring yourselves and your thinking caps and remember, ‘Great discoveries and improvements invariably involve the cooperation of many minds.’ – Alexander Graham Bell.
I stared at the email so long my eyes began to glaze over. Were his insistence on using the word folks and his constant references to ‘thinking outside the box’ more or less annoying than his inclusion of the phrase thinking caps? Did he craft and send these emails just to add to the all-pervasive misery and hopelessness of my days? I pondered this for a few moments, desperate to think about anything other than the seven A.M. meeting announcement. I managed to move beyond it long enough to field another frantic call, this time from Mrs Kaufman’s nephew, that lasted a record fifty-seven minutes, ninety percent of which he spent accusing me of things that were entirely beyond my control while I said nothing or, occasionally, just to switch things up, agreed with him that I was, in fact, as dumb and useless as he claimed.
I hung up and resumed staring listlessly at the email. I wasn’t exactly sure how Mr Bell’s quote applied to my life or why I should care, but I did know if I planned to escape for lunch, now was my only chance. I’d abided by the no-leaving-for-lunch policy my first few years at UBS Warburg and dutifully ordered in each day, but lately Penelope and I had brazenly begun sneaking out for ten, twelve minutes a day to retrieve our own takeout and cram in as much whining and gossip as possible. An IM popped up on my screen.
P.Lo: Ready? Let’s do falafel. Meet at the 52nd Street cart in five?
I punched in the letter Y, hit Send, and draped my suit jacket over the back of my chair to indicate my presence. One of the managers glanced at me when I picked up my purse, so I filled my mug with steaming coffee as additional proof that I hadn’t left the premises and placed it in the middle of my desk. I mumbled something about the bathroom to my fellow cubicle dwellers, who were too busy transferring their own facial grime to their telephones to even notice, and walked confidently toward the hallway. Penelope worked in the real-estate division two floors above me and was already in the elevator, but like two well-trained CIA operatives, we didn’t so much as glance at each other. She let me exit first and circle the lobby for a minute while she ducked outside and casually strolled past the fountain. I followed as best I could in my ugly, uncomfortable heels, the humidity hitting my face like a wall. We didn’t speak until we’d blended into the line of midtown office drones who stood both quietly and restlessly, wanting to savor their few precious minutes of daily freedom but instinctively getting pissy and frustrated at having to wait for anything.
‘What are you having?’ Penelope asked, her eyes scanning the three different carts of sizzling and highly aromatic ethnic food that men in varying costumes and facial hair were steaming, slicing, sautéing, skewering, frying, and heaving toward the hungry suits.
‘It’s all some sort of meat on a stick or dough-filled something,’ I said tonelessly, surveying the smoky meats. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Someone’s in a great mood today.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot, I should be thrilled that five years of slave labor have turned out so well. I mean, look at us, how glamorous is this?’ I waved my arms expansively in front of us. ‘It’s sad enough we don’t get to go out to lunch at some point in the middle of a sixteen-hour workday, but it’s fucking pathetic that we aren’t even permitted to pick out our food ourselves.’
‘This is nothing new, Bette. I don’t know why you’re getting so stressed about it now.’
‘Just a particularly lousy day. If it’s possible to distinguish one from the next.’
‘Why? Anything happen?’
I wanted to say ‘Two rings?’ but restrained myself as an overweight woman wearing a skirt suit worse than mine and a pair of white leather Reeboks over her tights spilled hot sauce down the front of her embroidered, ruffled blouse. I saw myself in ten years and nearly lurched forward with queasiness.
‘Of course nothing happened, that’s the whole point!’ I all but screamed. Two blond guys who looked fresh off the Princeton eating club path turned and looked at me curiously. I thought about composing myself for a minute since, well, they were both really cute, but I soon remembered that these obscenely hot lacrosse players were not only way too young, but most likely also had obscenely gorgeous girlfriends eight years my junior.
‘Seriously, Bette, I don’t know what you’re looking for. I mean, it’s a job, right? It’s still work. It doesn’t matter what you do, it’s never going to be like sitting at the country club all day long, you know? Sure, it sucks to spend every waking minute at work. And I don’t exactly adore finance, either – I never fantasized about working at a bank – but it’s just not that bad.’
Penelope’s parents had tried to push her toward a position at Vogue or Sotheby’s as the final finishing school in the pursuit of her Mrs degree, but when she’d insisted on joining the rest of us in corporate America, they’d acquiesced – it was certainly possible to find a husband while working in finance, as long as she kept her priorities straight, didn’t display any overt ambition, and quit immediately after the wedding. Truth be told, though, while she whined and complained about the job, I think she actually liked it.
She handed over a ten-dollar bill to cover both of our ‘kebab’ plates, and my eyes were drawn to her hand like a magnet. Even I had to admit the ring was gorgeous. I said as much, for the tenth time, and she beamed. It was hard to be upset about the engagement when she was so obviously giddy. Avery had even stepped it up since the proposal and had managed to impersonate a real, caring fiancé, which of course had made her even happier. He’d met her after work so they could go home together, and had even brought her breakfast in bed. More important, he had refrained from clubbing, his favorite pastime, for a full three weeks now, the only exception being last week’s soiree in their honor. Penelope didn’t mind that Avery wanted to spend as much time as humanly possible wedged in between banquettes – or dancing on them – but she wanted no part of it. On the nights he was out with friends from his consulting firm, Penelope and I would sit at the Black Door, dive-bar extraordinaire, with Michael (when he was available), drinking beer and wondering why anyone would want to be anywhere else. But someone must’ve clued Avery in that while it’s acceptable to leave your girlfriend home six nights a week, ditching your fiancée is different, so he’d made a concerted effort to cut back. I knew it would never last.
We retraced our steps to the building and sneaked back into the office with only a single dirty look from the rule-abiding UBS shoe-shine guy (who, incidentally, was also forbidden to leave during lunch in case a pair of wing tips desperately needed a spit-shine between one and two P.M.). Penelope followed me back to my cubicle and planted herself on the chair that was theoretically for guests and clients, although I’d yet to host either.
‘So, we set a date,’ she said breathlessly, digging into the fragrant plate she balanced on her lap.
‘Oh, yeah? When?’
‘Exactly one year from next week. August tenth, on Martha’s Vineyard, which seems appropriate since that’s where it all began. We’ve been engaged for a few weeks, and already our mothers are going berserk. I seriously don’t know how I’m going to put
