just picking up my new adorable pink Cosabella lowrider thong (I hope/fear this may cause a horrible man-pileup collision, and smile wickedly), considering whether I should ball them up and hide them in my purse, when someone says my name.
It’s none other than Mr. Thomas Reiner.
Although I don’t meet his eyes first, only spy a tie covered over in miniature spinning globes (the double lines around them indicate the spinning, raised blue stitching represents the watery bits), but as I rise to a standing position, I can recognize him from this 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 73
D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 73
telltale sign. And when I shift my gaze up to see his face, we compliment each other at the same time:
“Nice tie,” I say.
“Nice color for you,” he says, indicating the incriminating underwear. And despite the fact that you are probably holding your hand up to cover your face right now (and if you are on the subway, yes, everyone thinks you are crazy), this is actually a good thing, because Tom happens to be the sort of guy who flushes at the sight of his new assistant’s underpants.
And so, despite the fact that there are doubtless a number of questions looming in his mind, he decides to push them aside and instead, excuses himself from the situation by saying, “I’m running out for a meeting. I’ve left some instructions with John Tansford, in my department, and I think he can keep you all covered up (megablush) while I’m out.” And while coming from someone else’s mouth, this might sound snippy, from him it is just fine for some reason. “And I hope you’re as good at your job as you apparently are at bargain-hunting. Ask the receptionist to buzz John for you. When I get back I will take you on a tour and to the glamorous (waving his hand loftily here) cafeteria for lunch.”
I follow his image as it disappears through the doors ahead and I am alone, already wondering if John Tansford will be my M&M, or the guy who carried my bags, or the one who winked at me, or the one with the dimples. . . . How does anyone get any work done here?
As I stand, and wait, I am delirious to see that every turn of the head reveals a new man, a new opportunity to meet my M&M. I am a true genius. I must e-mail Karen as soon as possible to let her know what a great start I am off to. Although, if I do, she may come and get a job here and then she won’t be an editor and then they 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 74
74
D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y
may not run my story, and although I’ve never met her, I gather she is one of those beautiful editor types, and then I’ll have competition. With each male passing through the turnstiles (a checked shirt, a white shirt, a black shirt), I am wondering which one will be the hopefully enchanting, single and scrumptious John Tansford.
“Ms. Silverman?” asks the tallest, skinniest man in the world, which to me, now consists of this building and its surrounding grounds. It is a miracle he can even stand up without tipping over.
Looking down, I see this is in no small part thanks to his colossal feet. In actuality, he looks less like a man, and more like a boy, albeit a very tall one, all big-eyed and rosy-cheeked. When I stand (all of five feet four inches—despite how willowy and long my legs now seem), he makes a conscious effort to hunch over—in hopes, apparently, of apologizing for his height and to maintain eye contact with the always predictable, never embarrassing floor. It isn’t difficult to see which side of the sexy/nice line John makes his home on.
“Yes. John, is it?” I ask, shaking his hand, which he takes in his with a grip so light, I can barely feel it at all.
“Yes, John Tansford. Nice to meet you. I hear you had some problems getting here this morning,” he says, his face scrunching up in a questioning way at Mr. Floor as I gather my bags. “Can I get those for you?” he offers.
No matter what people say about the
It’s none other than Mr. Thomas Reiner.
Although I don’t meet his eyes first, only spy a tie covered over in miniature spinning globes (the double lines around them indicate the spinning, raised blue stitching represents the watery bits), but as I rise to a standing position, I can recognize him from this 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 73
D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 73
telltale sign. And when I shift my gaze up to see his face, we compliment each other at the same time:
“Nice tie,” I say.
“Nice color for you,” he says, indicating the incriminating underwear. And despite the fact that you are probably holding your hand up to cover your face right now (and if you are on the subway, yes, everyone thinks you are crazy), this is actually a good thing, because Tom happens to be the sort of guy who flushes at the sight of his new assistant’s underpants.
And so, despite the fact that there are doubtless a number of questions looming in his mind, he decides to push them aside and instead, excuses himself from the situation by saying, “I’m running out for a meeting. I’ve left some instructions with John Tansford, in my department, and I think he can keep you all covered up (megablush) while I’m out.” And while coming from someone else’s mouth, this might sound snippy, from him it is just fine for some reason. “And I hope you’re as good at your job as you apparently are at bargain-hunting. Ask the receptionist to buzz John for you. When I get back I will take you on a tour and to the glamorous (waving his hand loftily here) cafeteria for lunch.”
I follow his image as it disappears through the doors ahead and I am alone, already wondering if John Tansford will be my M&M, or the guy who carried my bags, or the one who winked at me, or the one with the dimples. . . . How does anyone get any work done here?
As I stand, and wait, I am delirious to see that every turn of the head reveals a new man, a new opportunity to meet my M&M. I am a true genius. I must e-mail Karen as soon as possible to let her know what a great start I am off to. Although, if I do, she may come and get a job here and then she won’t be an editor and then they 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 74
74
D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y
may not run my story, and although I’ve never met her, I gather she is one of those beautiful editor types, and then I’ll have competition. With each male passing through the turnstiles (a checked shirt, a white shirt, a black shirt), I am wondering which one will be the hopefully enchanting, single and scrumptious John Tansford.
“Ms. Silverman?” asks the tallest, skinniest man in the world, which to me, now consists of this building and its surrounding grounds. It is a miracle he can even stand up without tipping over.
Looking down, I see this is in no small part thanks to his colossal feet. In actuality, he looks less like a man, and more like a boy, albeit a very tall one, all big-eyed and rosy-cheeked. When I stand (all of five feet four inches—despite how willowy and long my legs now seem), he makes a conscious effort to hunch over—in hopes, apparently, of apologizing for his height and to maintain eye contact with the always predictable, never embarrassing floor. It isn’t difficult to see which side of the sexy/nice line John makes his home on.
“Yes. John, is it?” I ask, shaking his hand, which he takes in his with a grip so light, I can barely feel it at all.
“Yes, John Tansford. Nice to meet you. I hear you had some problems getting here this morning,” he says, his face scrunching up in a questioning way at Mr. Floor as I gather my bags. “Can I get those for you?” he offers.
No matter what people say about the
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