“Dorrie,” Celia stepped up, “you shouldn’t have to empty buckets every time it rains.”
“That bad, huh?” Alex asked.
“Well….it’s getting there. Oh,” I added as I rummaged thru my purse. “I have a rent check for you.”
As an illegal sublease, I paid my rent directly to Alex. He, in turn, paid the landlord with a check of his own. No one the wiser.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Celia asked as I searched the depths of my bag for the check.
“I’m fine. Really,” I explained, suddenly worried I might have left the check on my desk, which would make Celia really concerned about my financial state.
“Here it is!” I happily declared as I found the check being used as a bookmark in a volume on the History of Puppetry.
“Let me call my guy,” Alex promised as I handed over the check. “I’ll get someone out there right away.”
“Oh no,” I visibly shuddered. “What if they find me out…”
Alex leaned back in his chair with the confidence of a Power Broker. “Look---if anyone asks, just tell them you’re my girlfriend and you’re staying there for a few days. But no one’s gonna ask. The repair guys don’t even speak English. Trust me. You’re absolutely safe.”
Celia was the only girl from my high school class who lived in New York. And, like myself, possibly the only classmate without a hyphenated-name. But now even that was about to change. She was the woman who had everything. Rich, successful, smart, and super nice. Nice is never underestimated in my book. It was probably due to those assets that she never entered the modeling profession----though she certainly could have. Celia was more than pretty; she was a classic blonde beauty. A modern-day Grace Kelly. Perfect clothes. Never a hair out of place. Even the nuns at our school, who avoided pointing out physical attributes, couldn’t help but remark that Celia “has such a nice smile”.
She had another quality that was envied by every girl in our class---the ability to somehow simply have things go her way. It was more than luck. In Celia’s life, there seemed to be nothing even remotely like a bad day, bad Karma, Murphy’s Law, rain on her parade, or any number of Yiddish words describing a predilection for misfortune.
Celia had been kissed by the gods. Even if there was a tiny problem in her life, it somehow made her more interesting and attractive. Like Ingrid Bergman lamenting in a bar in Casablanca while the piano played under her sorrow. The problem always resolved by reel’s end.
Back in high school, when things went horribly wrong for me or my friends, we had a saying:
This would never happen to Celia.
Running out of gas, computer problems, showing up at prom wearing the same dress as Susie Federhoffer----none of this would ever touch Celia.
She had the perfect, perfect life.
That night, as I crept quietly up the five flights of stairs, I began to tremble at the thought of workmen for the building (English-speaking or otherwise) entering the apartment and discovering my true identity. I’d tried so hard to keep my head down the past nine months---but knew that baby would eventually come out.
“Dorrie, now that Celia’s engaged, maybe you can take over the lease?” my Mom offered on the phone that night.
“Um….it doesn’t work like that, Mom. Not in New York.” I always kept my voice down when talking about the apartment IN the apartment. The walls might have ears. “It’s an old lease so the rent is really low. It’s complicated.”
“Oh honey, are you a squatter?”
“No! I’m paying rent. I’m an illegal sublet. Completely different. But if they find out I’m here, they’ll kick me out, gut and remodel this place and charge five times the rent. It’s cut throat here, Mom. I’ve just got to get a better job so I can afford an apartment. But I’ve got an interview tomorrow at my friend’s temp agency. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Well, I hope you get it, honey. Make sure you shave your legs.”
Where that came from, I have no idea.
The next morning I arrived ten minutes early for my job interview. I believe that being on time means being ten minutes early. That’s the kind of conscientious worker I am.
I spent an hour taking a typing and computer test, and then was ushered into a cubicle to meet a 40-something woman named Jan. She nibbled at candy corn out of a Christmas dish on her desk as she glanced at my resume, seemingly unimpressed.
“I also have a theatre resume,” I offered up.
“Oh, that’s right,” she suddenly gave me an actual look. “You’re Steve’s friend. Dorrie the director. I remember now.”
Normally it took a week to get an interview with this temp agency, but Steve made a call and got me in the next day.
“Steve is such a doll,” she went on. “The ladies love whenever we send him. Such a cutie-pie. You’re a little older than him, aren’t you?”
“A little. But I type seventy words a minute and I’m proficient in…”
“I see you’ve done some internships,” she cut me off.
“Yes. I’ve worked with several of the off-off Broadway theatres in the city and…”
“None of them led to a job?”
“Well, no. Not yet!” I smiled and crossed my fingers hopefully, trying to show my good cheer and optimism. “I’m also currently employed full-time as a temporary administrative assistant and receptionist, so I do have reception skills.”
“Then why are you looking for temp work with us?”
“I’m…just looking to make a career change.”
Suddenly she sneezed, then pulled a handful of tissues out of a box and blew her nose. Then she looked at my sweater.
“Is that cat hair?”
Though I seem to be perpetually covered in cat hair,
