I Hate Everyone, Except You(8)
“That’s disgusting.”
“?‘Rash Decisions: A Seven-Year Itch Worth Scratching.’?”
“Gross.”
“?‘Psoriasis Shmoriasis: Our Love Isn’t the Only Thing Inflamed.’ These ideas write themselves!”
“I’m going home.” And she did.
I woke up the next morning with a mild hangover and a level of career excitement I hadn’t felt in years, if at all. This is my big break, I told myself, my dream of being a real live magazine editor is about to come true. I’ll work in a fancy office surrounded by glamorous people. I’ll be paid six figures just to attend meetings and spout ideas off the top of my head like “21 G-Spots You Never Knew You Had!” and “Celebrities with Weird Thumbs!” and “Put ’Er There: Sex on Top of Unexpected Furniture!” I’ll have health insurance and a gym membership and receive tons of attention at parties—just for showing up. I’ll be slightly aloof but amused by the social climbers, men and women alike, trying to get into my pants. Maybe I’ll make out with one or two of them, then laugh when they ask to come home with me. Ha! Not just anyone is getting a slice of this meat. I’m saving it for other high-powered creative types who can appreciate my ruthless ambition and general je ne sais quoi. And I’ll buy some curtains, so commuters from Queens can’t get so much as a glimpse into my morning routine of drinking coffee and embellishing the mildly flirtatious banter between Katie Couric and Matt Lauer. “Oh, you tell him, Katie! Girl, your legs have been polished to a high sheen this morning!” You know what? Fuck the curtains and fuck this whole apartment! I’ll leave this dump tomorrow with all the Ikea furniture in it. And you can keep the security deposit too, Mister Landlord Who Never Understood Me Anyhow, with all your wanting-the-rent-on-time bullshit. Don’t you know who I am now? I’m Clinton Kelly, the most fabulous man in the world!
I dashed off the last twenty-five or so story ideas, stupid women’s magazine weight-loss stories like “Lose 10 Pounds by Yesterday,” and put on my new suit, which I discovered had a small hole in the crotch. I vowed to keep my legs together.
*
The lobby of the Marie Claire editorial department was just slightly more glamorous than that of a medical-supply firm in Akron. Glenda’s assistant stuck her head out the door. “I’m sorry, but Glenda can’t see you today,” she said. “She’s preparing for some press surrounding the upcoming issue.” The assistant said I could meet with Michele, the deputy editor, when she arrived, probably some time before ten. I could come back later or wait.
“I’ll hang out here in the lobby,” I said. Yep, I’ll just sit in that plastic chair facing the door, watching my dreams rot like a bowl of fruit on time-lapse video. Thanks so much.
Employees began to arrive, coffees in hand, and quite frankly, I had expected them to be better looking. I had imagined lots of people, mostly women, who were almost exquisite enough to be models, but not quite, so they would have to be content working in the next-best industry, fashion magazine publishing. I pictured perfect-featured girls who were a mere five foot seven. “Too short, sorry. It’ll be a life of magazines for you.” And others who were stunning but asymmetrical. “Dear, your left eye is one millimeter larger than your right. I’m afraid you can never model. But would you care to be an accessories editor?”
Overall, they were just slightly better-than-average looking. Sure, some of them were so skinny you could see through them, but they didn’t look happy about it. I had been expecting to work among anorexic women who radiated inner strength, not soul-crushing hunger. And what was with all the joyless denim? The office was like a GAP ad in Kazakhstan.
Michele arrived: gray trousers, an untucked sleeveless peach button-front blouse, not a single accessory. Her shoulder-length brown hair was unbrushed and damp. She also wore no discernable makeup, so I wasn’t surprised when she spoke to me in an English accent. All of the British women I had ever met in New York City had that drip-dried kind of look.
“Glenda’s assistant says you have an appointment. Come with me, I suppose,” she said with formal politeness. She had a strong and swift stride as she led me through the office. “That’s Glenda over there,” she said, tilting her head to the left toward a glass-walled corner office, where a handsome woman sat at her desk scowling at her computer, oblivious to the two stylists violently tugging and drying her hair.
So that’s the mythical Glennnndah. And she’s blowing me off for a blowout. I wonder if the subscribers know about this, I thought. That when they spend their hard-earned money on a copy of Marie Claire it’s going directly into Glenda Bailey’s scalp. This was outrageous. When I got home I would write an exposé of some kind to be published by some kind of feminist newsletter. I would need to do some research on that. But in all honesty, I was so jealous I could spit. I wanted that corner office so bad and I wanted a blowout by someone other than Beth at Supercuts with the lazy eye who for the life of her just could not figure out how to tame my multiple cowlicks.
Michele’s office was also glassed-in, with none of the sophistication of Glenda’s. Magazines and newspapers were strewn everywhere, with large piles of manuscripts and manila folders on her desk.
“Why are you here exactly?” Michele asked.
“I wrote Glenda a letter. I believe it’s in that envelope you’re holding. I said that if she would just meet with me, I’d give her one hundred story ideas.”