Falling in Love by Stephen Bradlee

told that it could take up to a month. Also, if the lawyer, whose name was Mr. Lane, liked me, I could get hired permanently. I was ecstatic. I loved the idea of going the same place everyday for a month. No more daily calculations of which trains to take and how long it would take to get there and always having to find the best nearby cheap lunch spot. I put on my best cream fake-designer blouse that I had bought on sale and a new pair of slacks and headed up town.
    The secretarial supervisor was an attractive middle-aged, woman with long auburn hair and was wearing a dark suit and a cream blouse that looked almost exactly like mine. “Nice blouse,” she laughed. She literally had a shining smile. She told me how to get to my desk and added, “If you have any problems, let me know.”
    No one had ever said that to me before and I wasn’t sure what it meant but I suspected it wasn’t good. I got even more nervous when I arrived at my desk and a young blonde beside me interrupted her typing to say with a wan smile, “Good luck.”
    Then, before I could even sign onto my computer, it began. Mr. Lane, who was small intense-looking man with glasses and short black hair, came rushing out of his office with several tapes, saying that he needed them all typed within an hour. He didn’t bother to ask me my name. The tapes were all full and he talked so fast that I had to continually stop and rewind the machine but I managed to get them all done in a little more than an hour, which I thought was a major feat. He thought I had taken too long.
    From this rather dubious beginning, things then went downhill quickly. While the tapes were bad enough his handwriting was much worse. He wrote in a small barely-readable scrawl, and he always wanted everything typed immediately. I had worked harder than I ever had before but the harder I tried, the more he criticized me. He continually brandished documents at me, screaming that he didn’t have the time to proof them and that if I couldn’t do the job I shouldn’t be there.
    I didn’t take time to go to the restroom, worked through lunch, and then stayed late, all without overtime, to try to keep up.
    Before she left, the girl in the station next to me said encouragingly, “This is a good place to work. Just last as long as you can with him, and the secretarial supervisor will give you someone sane.” She gave me an encouraging smile and left.
    Finally, at 7:30 p.m., I desperately had to go to the restroom and eat something because I was famished and told Mr. Lane that I would come in early to finish up. He then reviewed the day in such a way to let me know that I was easily the most incompetent secretary who had ever lived. Then he strode back into his office, slamming the door and leaving me in tears.
    As I walked out to Park Avenue, I felt like doing the world a favor and stepping in front of a bus. Only they didn’t have buses on Park Avenue.
    Near my hotel was a quaint little bar that I passed every night. I had avoided drinking since I had begun working because I knew that whenever I ended up doing things that I regretted, they usually started with a drink. But I was in desperate need of comfort, if only from a glass, and I figured that one drink wouldn’t hurt all that much. I promised myself, just one drink.
    I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of wine. I drank it in one gulp and felt a little better. I glanced at a good-looking guy in his late twenties wearing a sports coat and a white shirt with a loosened striped tie. He smiled at me and I knew I that I should look away but his smile seemed so soothing that I smiled back. I felt like I needed to see a friendly face, to acknowledge that one still existed in this world.
    After a few more smiles, he came over and offered to buy me a drink. I shook my head, saying that I had to leave soon. He sat down anyway and soon I found myself telling him about my dreadful day. He was very comforting and mentioned that the worst day of