WoW, what a first week. Where to start? How about the beginning.
After my first mind-blowing day at BCC, the coolest style company ever, I really wasn’t sure how things could get any better. I think I’m going to have to take my imagination to the gym.
My second day I was just as nervous as the first. I wore the dress and shoes that Nicole Castor-Cox, AKA the owner of the company, had ‘given’ me. I thought I’d wear it and bring a stretch dress just in case she didn’t really mean to ‘keep’ it. I clacked across the same foyer of 666 Fifth Ave as I did the day before, but got a lot more attention this time. I got up an hour earlier to do my hair and pay a bit more attention to my make up. I really have to watch a few more YouTube videos to actually get a 5 minute make up routine down to 5 minutes. Who am I kidding, I’d kill to get it down to 10 minutes and not look like a psycho-clown.
It was a bit uncomfortable in the elevator. The people who didn’t look at me the day before were looking at me now. Thankfully the elevator evacuated us out on our floor before someone got the courage to actually say anything to me. I went in through the door and made my way through the dark closet with all the fun stuff.
It was my second day and I had yet to even figure out what I was going to do. I mean I was put in charge of organizing and cataloguing everything in a mini-storage area with racking and boxes and zero current organization. I did what anyone in my position would do—I went on Facebook and hoped for cute pictures of kitties and puppies.
Luckily the idea of the dominatrix masquerading as an HR lady coming in to check on me happened before the actual event. And wishing 30 minutes the start of my day at BCC, she came in. I was looking at the boxes on the shelving closest to the computer where I guess I was supposed to be working. I had taken a couple of pictures of some neat items—a broach, a pair of shoes, a necklace.
She was anything but subtle in her arrival. She greeted me and apologized for not coming back yesterday with all the warmth of a cop asking to check your trunk. Rather than ask how I was doing she cut right to the what I was doing. For the life I me I’m not sure between her look and tone how I didn’t confess to just surfing the internet for cat video and dating tips. What instead came out of my mouth surprised even me.
“I’ve decided to label each row of racking with a letter and each rack with a number. Each box will be given a hexadecimal number and the individual contents will be photographed and documented in a database with it’s location.” I even pulled out my phone to show her my very amateurish photos of some of the items.
“I knew I had picked the right person for this job.” It seemed both of us were impressed by my answer. “I’ll get out of your way and check back after lunch.” And with that she was gone.
In a moment of sheer panic I had come up with a not bad system actually. It wasn’t until a couple of hours later I realized that the thing most people would have done was to reorganize the boxes to likes with likes. My attempt to cover 8 hours of non-work actually made for a decent system so long as you didn’t want to just come in and browse through boxes—like my boss had done the day before.
The key to this was brushing up on my Access database skills. Luckily this girl flexed her Google-fu and I cobbled together the genesis of a cataloging system. Name, category, manufacturer, colour, description,..I refined the database as I took pictures and added new things. I worked through my break forgetful of trivial things—maybe fearful of lack of progress.
In among the cataloguing there was much marvelling. I’d never held a genuine Chanel miniskirt or a Louis Vuitton handbag before. I’d seen but never really examined a pair of Louboutins before. My mind was constantly being aroused by all the things I was surrounded by and then brought back to earth for fear that my ruse masquerading as a plan would lead me straight to the exit of my new job.
I found out from Ms Robinson that it was past lunch when she came to check on me. I hadn’t see a cat fall off a shelf or read why he just wasn’t into me on Cosmo for almost six hours. I had extensively catalogued, refined and revised my system for a gran total of two and a half racks. It seemed like forever and when I told her how much I’d done, I suddenly felt very bad.
She asked me to show her how it worked. Self high-five for building a boring but usable front end to query any or all fields. I went through a small demonstration searching for items like shoes. The system returned two items with thumbnails. I’d only catalogued two pairs of shoes, sigh. She asked me to click on the shoes I wasn’t so sure of. Up came its page with all it’s details. Ms. Robinson’s blood red nail tapped the screen at the field, Location. “A2C”, she said and kept repeating it as she walked down to the first aisle. She noted the large letter and numbers on the aisle and racks. I followed her hoping I had gotten everything right. She pulled out a box with a “C” on a pale yellow post it note then looked over at me before opening the banker’s box. I really hope she didn’t hear my sigh as she pulled the shoes that matched the picture on the computer out of the cardboard box. It was the first time I saw her smile. Actually I haven’t seen her smile since then.
She put the shoes back in the box and said, “Keep up with the good work.” And that was the point I thought I might be able to last the week. She paused just before opening the door to leave the dark cave, “You should smile more often.” She grabbed the door latch and added, “You’d be surprised how far you could go on that alone”, and then she was gone.
I sat and ate that compliment/advice up, which in hindsight I should have just ate on some real food. After continuing to catalogue I lost track of time and realized I had stayed 40 minutes longer than I needed to. That extra time was noted by Ms. Robinson as I snuck out. Her exact words were, “Smart, hard-working and isn’t a clock watcher.” I took it as a compliment even if it was technically wrong.
After work I went out and abused my credit card on a new skirt like the Chanel one I fondled and a blouse which two of the three sales clerks said looked good on me. I punched in my PIN and waited to find out if the Gods of Commerce still loved me and let the transaction go through. Sweating bullets for around $40 worth of artificial fabric and criminally underpaid sewing. The Forever 21 clerk informed me that all was good with the world with the trite question of, “Would you like the receipt in the bag?” “Yes, thank you”, I replied cool as a cucumber. I scraped together some change for a slice go ghetto pizza and a can of Diet Coke. It was the best meal ever—until a pigeon pooped on me.
That night I watched the hair and make up videos as my roommate watched Netflix. She was staring at me. I knew why. I’d never really cared about this stuff before. Not true, I just hadn’t cared about it this much before. At first she thought I must have gotten a date, sadly untrue. But then she saw me take down my hair and start again. She never said anything, but I’m sure she thought I was crazy, putting on make up then taking it off to put it back on the exact (hopefully) same way as before. I was totally not timing myself—at least not with a real watch or anything. I just kept thinking of my boss just wandering into the black hole and playing dress up, her being Marcia and me being Jan.
The next couple of days consisted of me waking up early and perfecting my imperfect make up, then doing my hair, rotating through my shoes and wearing the outfit I bought the night before. Once at work I’d resume labeling, photographing and itemizing the contents of boxes while secretly fearful and hopeful my super stylish boss just walked in to try on clothes again. Instead each day Ms. Robinson would come in the morning and just after lunch to check on my progress. During lunch I’d wander around to see what people were wearing and hit the shops on the way home. For eighteen hours I was in a constant state of anxiety from what might happen and absolute boredom from what was happening.
By Friday I just wanted to get drunk and watch racy movies on Netflix. But I was still broke, so I only did the later. I would have slept or at least spent the whole weekend in bed had Alicia not reminded (read: nagged) me about how were had agreed to start running for like fitness and stuff.
By the end of a rather uneventfully broke weekend I was looking forward to work. After almost a week, I had my hair close to ten minutes and make up under that. I found the knock-off miniskirt and a long-lost blouse that matched it. I even undid the second from top button. Watch out world I’m coming for you! I wore the Prada’s—I was really for business.
It was only after I was in the sparsely populated elevator that I realized why this blouse had possibly been lost. I had thought it was maybe starched back at home, but in the mirror it was definitely tight. It was at that moment, half and hour before I was supposed to start, that I realized I was wearing a blouse I had picked up cheap for a sexy schoolgirl Halloween costume—which I had subsequently chickened out from wearing and went as a ghost instead.
Now in the mirror the tight fitted blouse with two buttons open, the miniskirt that wasn’t really close to that Chanel one I had caressed, matched with the genuine but on sale Prada’s and my 20 minute YouTube hair and make up; I looked like a trashy whore. I had accidentally come to work in the sexy costume I didn’t have the guts to wear last Halloween. I really need to get a proper full length mirror. And yet no one seemed to be bothered by it but me.
I strode out of the elevator, avoided eye contact with everyone—who was now looking at me—and just marched to my isolation pod. I wasn’t going to scope out the fashion in the office. I wondered if I could sneak out somewhere between when everyone left and the cleaners came in. I now had two and a half rows done and was wondering if I shouldn’t start looking at Monster again. Instead I kicked off my heels, tried to button of the expensive but ill-sized top and got back to work.
I heard the door open and thought that Ms. Robinson was a bit late in checking in on me. When I looked up my greatest hope and fear was standing in front of me—Nicole Castor-Cox. She was attired not unlike me. Actually she was attired totally unlike me. You know those talk shows where they show you some beautiful person in very expensive clothes and then show you how to do the same look but for much less. Ya, that was us. Her rocking it and me just saving money, not so much rocking it.
“Lexi”, she incorrectly called me, but at least it was in the ballpark—she kind of remembered me. “I need to find something…can you help me?”
I’m guessing she forgot why I was here, or did she?
“Ellen”, says you’ve got a system working to find where things are.” TIL that HR dominatrix lady’s first name is Ellen.
“I only have three rows catalogued…”, my voice trailed off as my boss undid the button that was the gateway between ill-fitting and slutty. I don’t think she understood personal space.
She looked up at me with her almond-shaped blue eyes and said playfully, ”Show me!” So I took her to my workstation and asked what she was looking for. It always starts with shoes apparently. Luckily I had more shoes in the database now. She asked me to list by make then colour then size even by occasion. Thank God I read that Cosmo article when I was tired of cute puppy pictures. The more the computer spat back at her the more she asked me to look up. I have to admit I was pretty proud of the work I had done. My boss hung on my shoulder again not understanding the personal space thing.
Her final query was for a dress that was casual and a size 0. That was not a problem since most of the dresses I had catalogued were that size. She leaned over me and pressed her well manicured nail to a thumbnail picture and asked where it was. One click later she was repeating “B2B” to herself as she walked towards the makeshift letter and numbers on the rows and racks. I followed her anxious even though I knew it would be there. She paid no attention to me as she opened the box and found the dress that was pictured on the screen. Then her face lit up like a menorah and she skittered over and have me a big and very unprofessional hug. My family was not very big on touchy-feelly, that’s on me. The only thing I remember from that was cleavage on cleavage and her necklace digging into my chest. But other than that uncomfortable moment. My boss seemed ecstatic.
It seems she had been looking for this dress but it had been lost in this black hole. I was super proud of myself now. She started complimenting me on how awesome my system was and finally we’d be able to find things again and how she would send people to finish what I had started…And in the middle of her platitudes to me she unzipped her skirt and slid it off—right in front of me. My boss kept singing my praises and I tried to focus on her excited and perfect face. It seemed like a serviceable plan until she unbuttoned her blouse. She was going to change right in front of me. At the time I took it as a matter of disrespect—she was changing and didn’t care I was there. I learned later, that wasn’t the case.
No, I had to keep staring at my boss’ chattering face to avoid looking at her perfect naked body. She was the one standing a nice bronze colour without a single tannin and I was the one blushing. It wasn’t disrespect, it was she had no shame. I took her half a minute to get naked and slip the dress on, but it felt like an eternity.
“Can you zip me up”, where the words that made me have to deal with her. I couldn’t zip her up fast enough. We walked over to the full length mirror that I so needed at home. She was perfect. The dress was perfect. I would die and or kill to look like her in that dress. And midway through a turn and backward glances into the mirror she says, “Nope” and pulls it off like I wasn’t even standing there. Oh but wait she knew I was standing there because she asked to go back to the computer.
The search criteria were business and dress not black. It would be normal to be nervous having the owner of the company you work for hanging over your shoulder asking you to find something. It was another magnitude of uncomfortable as she did so far too close far too naked.
“C4D” was the alphanumeric combo that had my naked boss stop leaning against me. That could be the letters of the first tattoo I get. I reluctantly followed my inappropriately dressed boss to the last rack I had sequenced and catalogued.
She stood in frond of the rack searching for the box she wanted. I stood a rack away and found it hard to not look at her now. She had no problem standing naked in front of a stranger. I had a problem getting into the shower in my own apartment without closing every blind, curtain, door and laptop monitor. I think I sighed. She was perfect. I don’t just mean physically, that was explicitly obvious. I read books where they keep saying to not care what others think of you. She was living it—though not in exactly the way I wanted to. Tiny, sun-kissed, perfect. I knew why she made me feel uncomfortable.
My boss found and opened the box. Her search was followed with a ‘Hmm’. Such a small expression with such a profound effect. That Hmm was going to make me confront that uncomfort.
She thankfully covered herself by draping a dress over her body, it looked fabulous even just covering her. But then I realized it wasn’t the dress she was looking for. She misunderstood my confusion—or not.
“Try it on.” The words hit me like an arrow. I really was trying to deal with her nudity, but I was not wanting to play dress up against a supermodel. This was were my real discomfort was coming from. I mean I was the girl who would go into the bathroom stall to change in high school PE classes. And while I was beginning to appreciate her own body confidence—that stuff was not going to happen today, or any day soon.
She tossed the dress at me and I caught it…and stood there. “Do you need help putting it on.” My mind raced at the thought of what that would entail. “NO!” It’s funny how I had secretly hoped and feared I’d meet her back here in the lost collection of clothes. I wanted to be around her. I idolized her life and friends. I’d forgotten the embarrassment of changing in front of her. How was I ever going to achieve anything I wanted if I couldn’t even do something as meaningless as try on some clothes in front of another woman.
So, I turned around and practically ripped the buttons off the lost Halloween blouse. Spoiler alert: Thank Goodness she let me keep this dress also. I fumbled with the clasp and zipper on the skirt. I was containing my insecurities until I head her say, “boy shorts”. It was how she said it. I wanted to find that stall and wait for all the other girls to leave he change room—all over again.
“Ya, I like the way they feel.” I don’t know where it came from, but one of us was impressed with my sudden burst of confidence.
“Can’t argue with that”, she said without a hint of judgement. Damn right! Lacey boy shorts.
I stepped into the dress and then realized it was a very ornate spring dress. You know the kind with thin straps over the shoulders and crisscrossing lacing over the open back. She walked up behind me, wearing the dress she had been looking for—thank God!
There are small and large barriers that everyone must break through. And sometimes what is a small barrier to one person is a huge barrier to others.
“I don’t think I need to try on the dress right now”, I seriously joked.
“Well you can’t wear the naughty secretary stuff you were wearing. Not judging, you looked good in it and carried it off way better than I’d expect.” Point of fact, I was the least naughty secretary looking person this morning in the office—heck in this warehouse. “But we are going to lunch at an exclusive place and I need you to look..and don’t take this the wrong way, but classier.”
I admit the classier thing was probably on target. Wait, what?!? Exclusive lunch arrangement?
“I have to finish cataloguing this place…”, I said as if it was something I actually cared about.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get Ellen to throw a bunch of interns on the job. We need you at the lunch. Christie is short a personal assistant and it’s yours if you want it.”
I know it was a brief pause, but my mind was flooded with all the reasons I should have said no. It was all my insecurities saying I didn’t deserve fancy dresses, exclusive lunches and on the spot promotions. A brief pause.
“Could you help me into the dress Ms. Castor-Cox”, I said with every ounce of courage. I felt her unclasp my bra to which I quickly shuffled off and even quicker pulled up the cups of the beautiful dress.
“Of course I would love to”, she said tightening the lacing on the back of my dress.
“And call me Nico.”
More later, just hit my stop.
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