Just North of Whoville Page 2

  Not that my opinion matters. I’m just the temp.

  Last night was Halloween. A childhood fear of clowns had, over the years, grown to a fear of any masked character. Halloween was difficult. Especially in New York where one wonders if the mask is simply a merry masquerade or a disguise for the security cams.

  This year, I stayed home, dressed up the cat in a ballerina costume, and watched an old scary movie from the 50s.

  Halloween. Check.

  And that’s where my story begins.

  The morning after Halloween started off bad. You see, I have a leaky ceiling. So the better part of my morning was spent emptying buckets and bowls and squeezing out wet towels. This had been going on for three weeks. I suppose I should have said something. But with an illegal sublease, I had to watch my step.

  Also, I made the mistake the night before of leaving my jacket on the sofa. It was now covered in a coat of cat hair so thick it could decimate a lint roller in ten minutes.

  Then there was the message from my Mom that picked up while I was in the shower:

  “Dorrie? It’s just Mom. Hope you had a nice Halloween. Just wanted to know if you were coming home for Christmas? I was telling your father, maybe we haven’t heard from her because she found a boyfriend! Wouldn’t that be nice! Anywho, we were thinking about you all alone in that big city and wanted you to know you can come home anytime you want…”

  And then, my old college coffee maker finally broke down. So the morning after Halloween, I went to the corporate coffee shop down the street where, apparently, it was already Christmas.

  Holiday mugs. Hot chocolate sets. Snowflake-shaped after-coffee mints. Their suggested stocking stuffers of “homemade” gingerbread cookies and holiday-packaged bags containing their annual signature Christmas Blend. Everything in green and red and silver and gold. There was even a huge-ass tree strung with coffee beans and ornaments shaped like coffee cups. And the worst part of all---Christmas music.

  I just wanted a cup of coffee. Not a sleigh ride.

  “Good morning! Would you like to try our signature Christmas Blend?”

  “It’s too early,” I mumbled.

  “Well…I guess nine o’clock is early for some people…”

  “No,” I said, barely able to speak. “Christmas. It’s too early.”

  “It’s the day after Halloween. That’s when the Christmas magic begins!”

  “But yesterday the special was Pumpkin Spice and today it’s…” I looked around at the posters. “Peppermint swirl?”

  “Well, it’s only six weeks till Christmas,” Little Miss Morning Sunshine dared to explain. “And we’ve got all this stuff to…”

  “Seven.”

  “What?”

  “It’s seven weeks. I know. It’s seven weeks.”

  “Um…” she seemed confused. “Did you WANT the Pumpkin Spice? Because I might have some syrup….”

  “No. Just coffee.”

  “The Christmas Blend?”

  “No Christmas. Just coffee.”

  “Okay,” she smiled and turned around to pour my coffee, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was about to be tortured for the next seven weeks by cheery Christmas tunes.

  “Do you like this? This music?” I asked as she handed me the paper cup.

  Without batting an eye, she suddenly chirped up even more than I thought possible. “It just puts me in the mood! Merry Christmas!”

  “Yesterday you wished me Happy Halloween.”

  “Okay,” she seemed confused. “Well…have a great day!”

  Sometimes, I think things would have been different if I’d gotten that horse.

  2

  When I tell people I work at a modeling agency, they look at me kinda funny. And I’m starting to resent that. Because you don’t need to look like Heidi Klum to answer the phone.

  My gay friends had a field day when I got the job. No item of my clothing went without comment.

  “You’re wearing rain boots to work? And that dress? Oh my god. You look like the Morton Salt Girl.”

  But it was raining. And goulashes are appropriate rain gear.

  Furthermore----this is not The Movies. Like those films set in the modeling world where a staff member opens a closet and racks of designer clothes that magically fit the heroine instantly appear….

  At our low-budget “agency”, there was nothing but an unlit coat closet with the faint smell of pee. Inside you will find a cigarette-stained red sateen jacket and a moldy pair of old sneakers---all of unknown origin.

  A few weeks ago, there was also a smelly towel. No one admitted to any knowledge of the smelly towel. But the closet was right next to my reception desk. So I took care of it myself. If anyone comes in looking for their smelly towel---you just send them to me. I have a few questions.

  In short, I wouldn’t even hang my coat in there.

  I’m a clean person. I bathe daily. Sure there’s some cat hair now and then. But I wear discreet make-up and do my best with my hair. Though on a humid day, I’ve been known to resort to a scrunchie.

  But I’m a temp. I think that relaxes the dress code just a bit.

  I’m also a diligent, conscientious worker. I don’t think I need to look like a supermodel to do the filing----or simply to exist, for that matter.

  Nor would I want to. I think I have character. I think I look okay. And if I’ve only had two semi-relationships in the past four years…

  Well, that just shows that I have standards.

  I’m not a saint. I’m not perfect. I admit I once made-out with a rock star. Okay, he was just in a Beatles cover band. But at least he was “John”. And I hadn’t had dinner so gave me some of his pizza. I thought that showed sincerity. Okay---yes, I’d had a few beers. But we also had a long discussion about the works of Charles Bukowski. And yes, I know I should have walked away when we were discussing Bukowski’s novels and he didn’t know what the word “misogynist” meant.

  But had a fake-British accent and a mop-top. And we only made out. That’s all.

  Because I have standards.

  Okay, I had too much beer and realized I’d better go home before I threw-up. But it was college. I think that relaxes the moral code just a bit.

  I’m aware this doesn’t paint me in the brightest light.

  But I’m a nice person. I know that. It’s what separates me from…

  Well, from most of New York City.

  Maybe it’s because I’m from the Midwest. I don’t know. But people are mean here. It’s cut throat.

  They don’t care about you. They’re just trying to make a buck. And they lie. They lie! I can’t believe how much they lie.

  There’s a homeless guy I see on the train. An old man with no shoes. He walks up and down the aisles in his bare feet begging for change. You see this, and your heart breaks for this old man with no shoes.

  A few months ago, I started thinking about this man. This poor old man with no shoes. It’s hard not to think about him because I see him quite a bit. And he never has any shoes.

  Then I started noticing all the money people were giving him to buy a pair of shoes.

  And yet---he never has any shoes.

  I started wondering. Hmm, I thought to myself.

  So I kept my keen eye on this man.

  I calculated that he made at least two dollars in my car alone. Two dollars for every stop. Two minutes per stop. It took me four stops to get to work. And cost me two dollars just to get on the train. So while I was just sitting there riding the train to work---he made eight dollars. Eight dollars in eight minutes. I made eight dollars an hour. And I had shoes. Why didn’t he have shoes?

  In Milwaukee, if you don’t have a pair of shoes, you can just walk into any church (even if you are not of the faith) and they will give you a pair of shoes.

  And there are lots of churches in New York. I’ve seen them. I can’t say I go into them, but I’ve seen them. I’m sure they practice Christian values in so much that they would give yo
u a pair of shoes.

  Or even if you’re like me and don’t frequent churches----The Salvation Army people are very nice. I bought my sofa there. I’m certain that if you walked in without a pair of shoes----they would shod you.

  That’s what they do.

  So after four years, why does this old man still not have any shoes?

  Wait a minute….

  I started thinking about Shoeless Joe. Raking in about four hundred bucks a day. After taxes, I barely made three hundred a week.

  And he didn’t even pay taxes.

  I bet this man has a whole closetful of shoes. Shoes for every occasion. Probably better rain boots than me.

  And then it dawned on me----this guy is running some sort of flim-flam.

  And I once gave this man a dollar!

  Where were his shoes? Where were his shoes?!?! I was furious. I developed a little fantasy. I would take the day off work. I would stop by Payless Shoes first thing in the morning. Then, I would get on the train, waiting to see Shoeless Joe shuffle down the aisle in his bare feet. And then, in full view of the entire sympathetic subway car, I would open the crisp Payless box with a flourish (oh yes!---I would ask for the box) and I would announce.

  “My dear barefoot man----you will never go shoeless again!”

  Oooo---I’d bet he’d be pissed.

  But I won’t do that. Because I’m a nice person. So I sit there quietly as he shuffles down the aisle in his bare feet pleading, “God bless you everyone. Please help me. Please help.”

  Oh!---my blood boils.

  Nevertheless, I still believe in charity. In doing good and giving back----even if you don’t have a lot to give. I think it’s important.

  Every month I send money to some little boy in India I’ve never even met. I work hard for that twenty-one dollars a month. Yeah, I get a picture and a letter in the mail twice a year when he goes to the village to pick up his paycheck. But what has he ever done for me? He’s eight years-old now. I’ve been sending him money since he was two. I calculate that little Dileep has fleeced me for over a thousand bucks at this point. And what do I get? A letter in Hindi that I can’t even read. Is this kid even real? I can’t afford to go to India to check all this out. But I’m starting to wonder. Because in his photos, he looks like a different kid every six months. I know kids grow and their faces change. But I’m starting to get suspicious.

  After four years in New York City, I was beginning to question a starving child in India.

  Because everyone here has an angle. Everyone’s out to get you.

  So pardon me if I agreed to move into an illegal sublease. And pardon me if I work at a job I find morally reprehensible. I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances.

  But I am not Shoeless Joe. I’m not that sort of person.

  I may not make the world a better place, but I try not to make it worse. Sometimes, that’s the best any of us can do.

  My more jaded side was convinced that anyone hedging their career bets with an agency called “ABC You Shine” deserved what they got. And that includes Yours Truly. But mostly I felt bad for the poor suckers. I’m The Reluctant Shill. And if the mark can catch my subtle signals, I’m letting them know that the pea is not under any of the shells. So just walk away. If you stay and play…well, I tried.

  Though my pay checks never bounced, I always had the feeling that the agency was a mere hundred dollars away from bankruptcy on any given day. Every Friday I left work with my check and went directly to the automatic bank teller. It felt less like a deposit and more like I was playing the slots.

  Jamie, my boss, was fifty-seven, but her youthful clothes and attitude helped her look all of fifty-six. I never quite understood how she got into the modeling business. She’d done some accounting and a stint as a door-to-door cosmetics salesperson. She also mentioned that she’d won a lawsuit against a fast food company years ago. But I wasn’t in a position to ask questions during the interview.

  “We’ll start you as a temp,” Jamie offered the day she hired me. “And if all goes well, we’ll make you an Administrative Assistant.”

  To be honest, I wasn’t really even a temp. I doubt Jamie could have afforded an actual temp from a temp agency where an employer paid a base salary plus a weekly finder’s fee.

  I was the Poor Man’s Temp. Hired off a free ad online for a “temp-to-perm position with a New York modeling agency”. Not that I was interested in modeling or fashion, but it was a job sort-of in the industry. It was a start.

  Celia was so excited about the news you’d think I’d won a Tony Award. My parents, on the other hand, quietly mumbled that it didn’t seem like much money for a New York City job and asked about insurance, benefits, 401ks, etc.----none of which were offered.

  “Well, we’re happy if you are, dear,” was my mother’s final response.

  In my heart, I knew my parents were right. But it could be a steppingstone to something. I was determined from my first day on the job to make myself an indispensible employee. I’m a hard worker that way. But after five months of diligent labor, I was never given a raise or even the promised title of “Administrative Assistant.”

  “This is Dorrie. She’s the temp,” was my regular introduction. But by then I’d picked up on their nefarious business practices and had no desire to move up the corporate ladder. I figured that if the shit ever hit the fan, law enforcement would take one look at me and say, “She’s okay. She’s just the temp.”

  So when a model came in to complain about feeling cheated or swindled, I was able to shoot them an understanding look and say, “I’m sorry. I’m just the temp.”

  I said that a lot.

  But it was getting harder to justify. I tried to think of it as office experience that would look good on a resume; and tried to get as many resumes out for better jobs as I could before we turned up on the nightly news as “Swindle of the Week”.

  I’d be screwed then. Who’s going to hire The Reluctant Shill?

  Luckily, models aren’t all as dumb as everyone thinks. Most of them came in for an interview, quickly picked up on the scam and walked out without getting their pockets picked.

  “The good ones are out of here in a few weeks,” Deb, Jamie’s business partner explained. “They’re pretty enough to get real representation and don’t need us. But there aren’t too many of those,” she added smugly as she tugged at her girdle. Deb claimed to have had a career as a Plus Size model. But I’d never seen any photos of her modeling days. So maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. I never asked to see her portfolio.

  While Jamie was Ms. Business and played up the brassy agent angle, Deb knew how to manipulate on a purely personal level. She could mother you into handing over your dough.

  She’d obviously been a nice person at one point. And that scared me. Because I’m a nice person; and if I wasn’t careful, I might wind up there, too.

  “We’ve got a few people who’ve been with us for a year or two,” Deb indoctrinated me my first day on the job. “They’re sweet, god love ‘em. They spend a lot of money, so we try to send them out when we can. But they’re not very good. If they were,” Deb lowered her voice, “they wouldn’t be here.”