"In Which Reality is to Continuously Shoot Oneself in the Foot"

(Pt. 1)

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"If it scares you, it might be a good thing to try"

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Seth Godin

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10:20 AM

Pulse Publishing Inc., New York City, NY

New York City. What else can I say that would further stress how much I love this city?

It's cold, it's busy, it's culturally diverse, and everyone either scowls or glares at you. There was no use for sunny dispositions or fake societal niceties — because nobody got time for that. 

But, most importantly, everybody is too busy minding their own business to ever care about another human being. Basically, they have lives to live and bills to pay.

I've lost count on how many times I got pushed, bumped into, or horned at, trying to navigate this concrete jungle. Yet, not once, did I mind any of it. 

Maybe, it's because, like me, everyone is just a phantom traversing around an indifferent and faceless sea of people. Invisible enough to flit in between random people walking in the streets, like a tiny dot in the white spaces of Piet Mondrian's Broadway Boogie Woogie.*

But (of course, there's always a but) not enough to blend in this pristine interior and escape the prying eyes surreptitiously lurking from every corner of the room, staring at me like I was a speck of dirt that a custodian named Joe forgot to vacuum.

It was clear that me and my ratty grunge e-girlesque** aesthetic-wrapped ass (well, on the bright side, I did wear pants and a coat) didn't belong here. All that was left is for someone to point it out.

"Are you lost?" asks a snooty bottle-blonde woman in a nasal voice.

She was dressed in the typical New York fashion for the professional women, comprised of a creamy silk buttoned-up blouse, a flowing navy blue skirt with an intricate floral pattern (which I bet costs more than a quarter of my clothes) and a pair of designer heels with blood-red soles (which in my limited knowledge of high-fashion brands meant top-dollar). 

This automatically leads me to two things:

a.) Wondering what happened to sweet ol' ladies in hand-knit sweaters and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and;

b.) Having to re-examine my personal bias when considering what a book-smart person working in a publishing company would look like.

Because, henny, everything about her dripped of fancy in an I-climbed-the-social-ladder-that-means-I'm-better-and-I-can-be-a-bitch-to-you kind of way.

I silently groan. Why does it always have to be the nasally ones with a chic sense of fashion who are mean?

It just makes everything so cliché.

I bare my teeth in what I hope to be a smile, clearing my throat.

"Excuse me, I'm"—

She holds up a finger of her finely manicured hands, her attention on the phone in her other hand.

"Yes, this is Margaux Delamare's office," she says in a brusque tone. "I need those manuscripts now. Oh, well then, good luck telling her that. I'm pretty sure, you're not that fond of your job, anyways. No, not later. Now!"

She slams the phone before the person from the other end of the line could reply. She then proceeds to dial another number, probably out to terrorize another unfortunate staff member.

Meanwhile, I'm standing stiffly in front of her, unsure of what to do. It wasn't like my social training had prepared me for this.

In fact, I don't think any school truly prepares someone on how to behave in job interviews or to manage their own taxes. They just expect you to graduate and land a job in no time.

"Don't mind her," a rich smoky voice suddenly says beside me.

I turn around, surprised at how she caught me unaware. 

"She's a bit worn out today," she continues, motioning at the dressing-down situation at hand like she's swatting an imaginary fly.

"A few manuscripts for review last Friday came up and almost all of our proofreaders were out sick to review them. That," she pauses, her distant almond-eyed gaze widens a fraction as it fixates on me, "and the top boss is expecting to meet them today is her utmost priority." 

"That's," I clear my throat, my voice cracking as I try not to drown in the sultry depths of her shiny amber eyes behind her wispy lash-grazing bangs. I most certainly try not to drown myself at the entrancing sight of the light washing over her ethereal visage like an elf princess from the Lord of the Rings. 

"That's a lot to do for a receptionist. No wonder she's so cranky, she probably doesn't get paid much," I say, my voice a little steady this time.

She gives a short throaty laugh. The kind of earthy laugh you'd get from smoking cigarettes for days and drinking grapes in pure form, engulfing you to take part in the sound.

"Don't let her hear you say that. The receptionist is by far, one of the luckiest people to conveniently contract this week's 'flu'," she tosses me a knowing look with an impish smile on her wide sensuous lips that would've stopped NY traffic. "She's  Margaux's assistant."

A dry chuckle bursts out from my lips. "Oh, that makes sense." 

She leans in closely, her voluminous mane following her every movement. It tumbles into a marvelous array of red, orange, and gold tones in the radiant embrace of the daylight sun, ending an inch below her shoulders in shaggy loose waves.

They emanate a scent so sweet and intoxicating of lilies, praline, and vanilla that I couldn't help but breathe into.

From my vantage point, she was more or less the same height as me. Her tight cigarette pants snugly fit her waist, dipping ever so slightly before encasing a perky bottom and a pair of legs that would put a Vegas showgirl out of her job. The plain emerald silk shirt she wore was tucked underneath a leather corset that nips at the sensual curve of her waist. She pulls the look even further with a long oversized coat that had a dip-dyed fabric at the hem and mid-calf metallic boots that had multiple tiny buckles.

Her style of choice resembled a modern-day rockstar with a touch of steampunk elements on a catwalk for New York Fashion Week. To be honest, I doubt a lot of people can pull it off like she does.

Despite her pale porcelain-smooth face, accentuated with subtle strokes of eyeliner and a bold red lip that features a more mature persona, she still looked like someone in her late teens or early 20s like Tilly.

Unaware of my perusing, she makes another laugh and winks at me.

"I'm pretty sure it does. I'm Leighton, by the way. Contractual lay-out artist by day, tortured visual artist by night."

She holds out her hand.

I gingerly take it, aware of the warm tingling sensations as her callouses brush against mine. 

 "Ave, aspiring writer hoping to make it out in the big city," I reply, mimicking the casual note in her voice.

Her thick dark coppery lashes flutter down to where our hands were still linked before peeking at me with a slight smirk on her face.

Unable to stop myself, I quirk an eyebrow in response.

She finally loosens her hold. I take that as a hint to let my hand drop back to my side.

She leans close towards me, a devilish twinkle in her eyes. "Okay, Ave- aspiring-writer, did your agent forget to brief you about what you're getting yourself into?"

I shrug nonchalantly. "He did leave a dossier somewhere. I chose not to read and surprise myself."

"Not a woman for kissing-ass. I like that," she nods, acknowledging me like a long-lost rebel comrade.

Leighton continues to eye me with a crooked smile on her lovely face as if coaxing me to smile in return.

I did. 

She glances at something behind me and lets out a toe-curling chuckle."Well, if your manuscript gets chosen, you'll know who to look for when you need a great cover. Or, at least when you run out of other excuses to ask me out for a drink."

She shrugs her slim shoulders, her willowy sylphlike frame fluidly turning around without another word. Strutting like a catwalk supermodel, hips swaying with a sensual note, her coat dances around her every step.

Whew! Only then did I release the pent-up air in my lungs, my back returning to its slightly-hunched form.

She was a vision that belonged in a romanticist painting (that is if female subjects back then wore leather).

Like a nymph personified, my eyes wouldn't have been able to resist the visual magnetism she leaves behind if it wasn't for the tall dark man with a thick head of tied dreads behind his neck occupying my line of sight.

He struts confidently and purposefully across the room, carrying a bunch of ring binders in one arm. I couldn't help but notice his impeccable plaid suit, nor the black floral shirt he had on underneath. There was a certain grace in his movements that reminds me of a particular set of friends.

Now that I think about it, I could totally visualize Emile wishing to wear this look.

"These," he grunts, sliding the binders on the receptionist's desk, "are the manuscripts for the great Martha Ingram's latest novel"— he rolls his eyes behind his large square-framed glasses that were just the right size for his narrow face — "as requested for Mada"— 

He takes a quick look in my direction and whistles at the assistant. "Who's the pretty face?"

"Oh, Laurent, thank God!" she exclaims in relief before sending a quick irritated look in my way. "Don't mind her, I just got a call. Margaux is coming."

"What? Doesn't she have a meeting with Atwood* and King* this weekend?" Laurent crosses his arms to his chest.

"Apparently, he twisted his hip and now she decided she doesn't want any part of his"— she stops in her tirade, her eyes caught by another co-worker signaling her something.

"Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,* that must be her!" she shrieks, hastily sliding into a cleaning frenzy. 

Now that I look around me, so does everyone else.

Laurent claps his hands. He was the only one walking around the room like he's taking a leisurely stroll in the park. "Tighten your spanks, everyone. The redcoat is coming!"*

Gone was the laissez-faire atmosphere in the workplace and swiftly possessed by a high-functioning work ethos where its employees thrive on adrenaline and anxiety, as they seem to vie for the titular, 'Employee of the Month' picture frame on a proverbial break room wall.

I watch in strange fascination from left to right as everyone scurries into their desks, multitasking in between rearranging folders and binders while fixing themselves.

Some of them even throw away their thousand-calorie food and drinks, spraying the air with air fresheners and perfume to mask the smell.

I cough as one of them accidentally sprays a Chanel No. 5 a few feet away from my face.

I glare at the person who, by the way, didn't even bother to apologize!

Like a bunch of ants, all this scene needed was someone to trip down and send papers flying in the air in total chaos while their coworkers trample over them.

They act like Miranda Priestly* is gonna come through that door any time now.

CLIP! CLACK! CLIP! CLACK!

The staccato sound sharply cuts through the air. A sudden wind of stillness blew over, not a single sound came from inside the hallway.

Just then, the glass doors swing open.

In a double-door entrance, Margaux Delamare, the illustrious editor-in-chief of Pulse, walks — no, floats — inside the room in all her immaculate Vieux riche* glory. Her great presence commands every pair of eyes to dart up from their screens to look at her. 

Her assistant immediately rushes to her side, her head slightly bowed in reverence with a tablet ready at hand.

She raises a thin arched brow, sliding her sunglasses off the bridge of her snub nose and slipping them on top of her hair, to reveal a pair of cold calculating argent eyes.

I spoke too soon.

Is this how Andy* had felt when she first met Miranda? The urge to cower and hightail her way out of the room?

Hell, even Miranda Priestly could be considered a Blair to her Serena.* 

For a second, she almost made me believe that Meryl Streep's portrayal was ripped-off of her.

Her silvery blonde hair, sleek in a curly pageboy,* was impeccably styled to adorn her soft regal features without a wandering strand in place (which was impossible — come on, it's New York, you're lucky if you can keep your hair mess-free from the brisk autumn air).

Her makeup, light and simple, made her skin radiate a youthful glow with the sheen of a room-temperature butter even though she was chronologically in her early 50s. The defining pop of color was the ruby-red shade of lipstick expertly applied on her thin lips.

Overall, her face was beat for the gods.*

Underneath an expensive knee-length pea coat, a loose beige suit wraps around her elegant small-boned stature, while a thin satin-ribbon cinches her waist to draw definition to her figure. With minimal jewelry decked on her person, what's eye-catching about her suit jacket was a delicate rose brooch made from wisps of fabric and strings of pearls.

Heels clicking ata every step, she slips off her coat, a pair of dainty gloves, and her Birkin bag. She dumps them onto the arms of the next person beside her.

Her assistant discreetly blows a stray strand of hair from her face and feigns a smile, acting so grateful at the honor of carrying her master's belongings, while struggling to have a clear view of her tablet.

"Danielle," she speaks in a muted voice, a silken texture in her crispy Posh accent. "Make sure to have my request for a new driver be sent out no later than an hour before lunch. The current one has the capability of a snail. Have him get his removal notice as well. Reschedule my meeting with Gaiman* from 2 to 2:30 in the afternoon. Have the cover artists send me the preliminary designs for the new batch of releases. The first two were completely dreadful."

Danielle obediently jots them down, walking in small slow steps to stay behind her boss.

The boss, meanwhile, surveys the room around her, not a detail escaping her sight. Including me.

A small crease appears underneath one side of her nose before dismissing my presence.

"And also, notify me if an 'Abby Michaels' has arrived and lead her to my office — now. My, my, is it so hard to ask for some punctuality?" 

It's 'Ey-v', I almost speak up.

With a condescending sigh, she stops at the door to her office.

"No, Margaux," Danielle meekly agrees, opening the door for her.

"That's all," Margaux tilts her head, slinking into her office.

Taking that as an indication to scurry away, Danielle leaves with a, "Yes, Margaux.'

Come on, Ave. This is your chance to cover at least a month's worth of future living expenses in the city. You got this. Just remember what you and Travers practiced. Smile, shake hands, introduce yourself, mention the company, sign the contract, and you're done.

(To Be Cont.)

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Truth time! I am obsessed with The Devil Wears Prada — if it's not obvious enough. So, for those fellow fans, I'm not in any way, trying to insult this sacred movie.

Anyways, to our future grads, how ready are you in applying for a job?

Write your answers in the comments section!

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PLAYLIST

(in order)

New York, New York — Frank Sinatra

Baby, I Love Your Way — Big Mountain

Can't Hold Us — Macklemore & Rhyan Lewis (feat. Ray Dalton)

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*[F/N]*

Broadway Boogie Woogie — an abstract painting by Piet Mondrian meant to represent the restless motion of the city.

E-Girlesque — an aesthetic categorized by winged eyeliner, vibrant and heavy eyeshadow, and a child-like aesthetic often associated with anime and cosplay.

Atwood and King — last names of famous authors, Margaret Atwood (The Handmaiden's Tale) and Stephen King (Carrie, It, The Shining, etc.)

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry — author of The Little Prince.

The redcoat is coming — a phrase often attributed to Paul Revere during his Midnight Ride to alert the colonial militia of the British. Laurent implies that Margaux Delamare is a formidable woman who came from the UK office.

Miranda Priestly — a character in Lauren Weisberger's 2003 novel The Devil Wears Prada, portrayed by Meryl Streep in the 2006 film adaptation of the novel. She is a powerful New York City-based editor-in-chief of the fictional fashion magazine Runway.

Vieux Riche— wealthy persons whose fortunes are inherited, and who are therefore perceived to have refinement and good breeding.

Andy — (full name Andrea Sachs) is the protagonist in The Devil Wears Prada novel and film adaptation, who became Miranda Priestly's personal assistant. 

A Blair to her Serena — characters from the Gossip Girl series. Serena van der Woodsen is the blonde, popular girl and main lead while Blair Waldorf is the de facto deuteragonist(second character).

Pageboy — woman's hairstyle consisting of a shoulder-length bob with the ends rolled under.

Beat for the gods — (US Slang/ Drag Slang) used when your makeup and hair are so on point that they're worthy of heavenly praise.

Gaiman — last name of another famous author, Neil Gaiman (Good Omens, American Gods, Coraline, Stardust, etc.)

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André