in his meaty fist, did he wish me luck. ‘Thanks, Tim, take care of yourself,’ I said, and stood watching till he’d disappeared back inside through the revolving doors of a building in which I no longer worked.
The warmth of the spring air was like a caress on my skin, with none of the oppressive humidity that could make being outside in high summer so uncomfortable. Rather than take the subway back to my apartment, I decided to walk the 20-odd blocks. I needed to clear my head, try and make sense of what had just happened to me. And like I’d told Delia, when I got home maybe I’d just have a darn good cry.
Or maybe I’d get roaring drunk. That thought popped into my head a block from home, as I passed the bar on the corner, Eddie’s. In all the time I’d lived in the Village, I’d never been inside. Somehow, I’d managed to gain the impression the place was a dive, somewhere guys hung out to watch sports and discuss their most recent bedroom conquest. If I went out with Delia and the girls from work, we tended to frequent the latest upscale cocktail joint that had been featured in the Reporter ’s pages, somewhere Wall Street types hung out. Delia harboured fantasies of marrying a man with money, but only ever succeeded in meeting jerks. She hadn’t yet learnt the two things so often went hand in hand.
Yes, I decided, I’d have a drink or two; enough to soften the blow of getting laid off, not enough to get maudlin. Though the more I analysed it, the more I realised self-pity wasn’t high on the list of emotions I was feeling right now. Indeed, if I’d been in Rebecca’s position, needing to lose a staff member, I’d have picked myself as the one who should go. I’d never been cut out for a career in sales, not really; when I’d left college, I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, so I’d sent out a bunch of résumés, responding to any advert that had taken my interest. A friend of a friend had happened to mention there was a vacancy in the New York Reporter ’s ad sales department, so I fired off a quick application and a week later, after an interview where I’d convincingly managed to overstate my credentials, I’d landed the job. I only wished I hadn’t gone on to lose it at the point the economy had gone into freefall. It wouldn’t be so easy to bluff my way into employment a second time round. If I wasn’t careful, I might begin with all the right intentions – updating my résumé and sending it to only the most reputable employment agencies – but soon find myself reduced to scanning the adverts on Craigslist for any part-time and seasonal work that didn’t require me to take my top off.
Just as I was about to push open the door and go inside, a hand appeared in the bar’s mullioned front window. It clutched a large sheet of white paper, with something printed on it. A second hand joined the first, and pressed the notice firmly to the glass, adhesive tape securing it in place. In bold block capitals, the sign read “BARMAID WANTED. APPLY WITHIN”.
It felt like a message from above. On my walk down from the Reporter office, mulling over my options – or lack of them – in my mind, I’d never considered working in a bar. It kind of seemed like a good few steps down from my cosy office job. But now, thinking about the bills that were due at the end of the month, and the rent on my apartment that no severance package, however generous, could cover indefinitely, it might turn out to be the perfect solution, at least on a short-term basis. The notice hadn’t specified that experience was necessary, which helped, as I didn’t have any. But working in a bar meant taking orders, fetching drinks, smiling, and being nice to people, and I could do that. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I walked into the bar.
It being the middle of the afternoon, the place was quiet; only a couple of guys propping up the bar and what I took to be a pair of
The warmth of the spring air was like a caress on my skin, with none of the oppressive humidity that could make being outside in high summer so uncomfortable. Rather than take the subway back to my apartment, I decided to walk the 20-odd blocks. I needed to clear my head, try and make sense of what had just happened to me. And like I’d told Delia, when I got home maybe I’d just have a darn good cry.
Or maybe I’d get roaring drunk. That thought popped into my head a block from home, as I passed the bar on the corner, Eddie’s. In all the time I’d lived in the Village, I’d never been inside. Somehow, I’d managed to gain the impression the place was a dive, somewhere guys hung out to watch sports and discuss their most recent bedroom conquest. If I went out with Delia and the girls from work, we tended to frequent the latest upscale cocktail joint that had been featured in the Reporter ’s pages, somewhere Wall Street types hung out. Delia harboured fantasies of marrying a man with money, but only ever succeeded in meeting jerks. She hadn’t yet learnt the two things so often went hand in hand.
Yes, I decided, I’d have a drink or two; enough to soften the blow of getting laid off, not enough to get maudlin. Though the more I analysed it, the more I realised self-pity wasn’t high on the list of emotions I was feeling right now. Indeed, if I’d been in Rebecca’s position, needing to lose a staff member, I’d have picked myself as the one who should go. I’d never been cut out for a career in sales, not really; when I’d left college, I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, so I’d sent out a bunch of résumés, responding to any advert that had taken my interest. A friend of a friend had happened to mention there was a vacancy in the New York Reporter ’s ad sales department, so I fired off a quick application and a week later, after an interview where I’d convincingly managed to overstate my credentials, I’d landed the job. I only wished I hadn’t gone on to lose it at the point the economy had gone into freefall. It wouldn’t be so easy to bluff my way into employment a second time round. If I wasn’t careful, I might begin with all the right intentions – updating my résumé and sending it to only the most reputable employment agencies – but soon find myself reduced to scanning the adverts on Craigslist for any part-time and seasonal work that didn’t require me to take my top off.
Just as I was about to push open the door and go inside, a hand appeared in the bar’s mullioned front window. It clutched a large sheet of white paper, with something printed on it. A second hand joined the first, and pressed the notice firmly to the glass, adhesive tape securing it in place. In bold block capitals, the sign read “BARMAID WANTED. APPLY WITHIN”.
It felt like a message from above. On my walk down from the Reporter office, mulling over my options – or lack of them – in my mind, I’d never considered working in a bar. It kind of seemed like a good few steps down from my cosy office job. But now, thinking about the bills that were due at the end of the month, and the rent on my apartment that no severance package, however generous, could cover indefinitely, it might turn out to be the perfect solution, at least on a short-term basis. The notice hadn’t specified that experience was necessary, which helped, as I didn’t have any. But working in a bar meant taking orders, fetching drinks, smiling, and being nice to people, and I could do that. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I walked into the bar.
It being the middle of the afternoon, the place was quiet; only a couple of guys propping up the bar and what I took to be a pair of
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