Bushnell
would be taken up by this work business, and she couldn’t imagine how the standard salary—thirty-five thousand dollars a year, or eighteen thousand after taxes, as her father pointed out, meaning under two thousand dollars a month—could possibly make it worthwhile. She glanced at her watch, which had a plastic band with tiny diamonds around the face, and saw that she’d already been waiting forty-five minutes. It was, she decided, too long. Addressing the girl seated across from her—the one with the inch-long roots—Lola said, “How long have you been waiting?”
“An hour,” the girl replied.
“It isn’t right,” the other girl said, chiming in. “How can they treat us like this? I mean, is my time worth nothing?”
Lola reckoned it probably wasn’t, but she kept this thought to herself. “We should do something,” she said.
“What?” asked the first girl. “We need them more than they need us.”
“Tell me about it,” said the second. “I’ve been on twelve job interviews in the last two weeks, and there’s nothing. I even interviewed to be a researcher for Philip Oakland. And I don’t know anything about research.
I only went because I loved Summer Morning . But even he didn’t want me. The interview lasted like ten minutes, and then he said he’d call and never did.”
At this information, Lola perked up. She, too, had read Summer Morning and listed it among her favorite books of all time. Trying not to appear too keen, she asked slyly, “What did he want you to do?”
“All you basically have to do is look things up on the Internet, which I do all the time anyway, right? And then sometimes you have to go to the library. But it’s the best kind of job, because you don’t have regular hours, and you don’t have to go to an office. You work out of his apartment, which happens to be gorgeous. With a terrace. And it’s on Fifth Avenue. And, by the way, he is still hot, I swear to God, even though I normally don’t like older men. And when I was going in, I ran into an actual movie star.”
“Who?” the second girl squealed.
“Schiffer Diamond. And she was in Summer Morning . So I thought it had to be a sign that I was going to get the job, but I didn’t.”
O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
39
“How’d you find out about it?” Lola asked casually.
“One of my mother’s friends’ daughters heard about it. She’s from New Jersey, like me, but she works in the city for a literary agent. After I didn’t get the job, she had the nerve to tell her mother, who told my mother, that Philip Oakland only likes to hire pretty girls, so I guess I wasn’t pretty enough. But that’s the way it is in New York. It’s all about your looks. There are some places where the women won’t hire the pretty girls because they don’t want the competition and they don’t want the men to be distracted. And then there are other places where, if you’re not a size zero, forget about it. So, basically, you can’t win.” She looked Lola up and down. “You should try for the Philip Oakland job,”
she said. “You’re prettier than I am. Maybe you’ll get it.”
ı
Lola’s mother, Mrs. Beetelle Fabrikant, was a woman to be admired.
She was robust without being heavy and had the kind of attractive-ness that, given the right lighting, was close to beauty. She had short dark hair, brown eyes, and the type of lovely cherry-brown skin that never wrinkled. She was known in her community for her excellent taste, firm sensibility, and ability to get things done. Most recently, Beetelle had led a successful charge to have soda and candy vending machines removed from the public schools, an accomplishment made all the more remark-able by the fact that Beetelle’s own daughter was no longer even in high school.
Beetelle was, in general, a wonderful person; if there was anything
“wrong” with her, it was only the tiniest of flaws. She tended toward an upward trajectory in life and
would be taken up by this work business, and she couldn’t imagine how the standard salary—thirty-five thousand dollars a year, or eighteen thousand after taxes, as her father pointed out, meaning under two thousand dollars a month—could possibly make it worthwhile. She glanced at her watch, which had a plastic band with tiny diamonds around the face, and saw that she’d already been waiting forty-five minutes. It was, she decided, too long. Addressing the girl seated across from her—the one with the inch-long roots—Lola said, “How long have you been waiting?”
“An hour,” the girl replied.
“It isn’t right,” the other girl said, chiming in. “How can they treat us like this? I mean, is my time worth nothing?”
Lola reckoned it probably wasn’t, but she kept this thought to herself. “We should do something,” she said.
“What?” asked the first girl. “We need them more than they need us.”
“Tell me about it,” said the second. “I’ve been on twelve job interviews in the last two weeks, and there’s nothing. I even interviewed to be a researcher for Philip Oakland. And I don’t know anything about research.
I only went because I loved Summer Morning . But even he didn’t want me. The interview lasted like ten minutes, and then he said he’d call and never did.”
At this information, Lola perked up. She, too, had read Summer Morning and listed it among her favorite books of all time. Trying not to appear too keen, she asked slyly, “What did he want you to do?”
“All you basically have to do is look things up on the Internet, which I do all the time anyway, right? And then sometimes you have to go to the library. But it’s the best kind of job, because you don’t have regular hours, and you don’t have to go to an office. You work out of his apartment, which happens to be gorgeous. With a terrace. And it’s on Fifth Avenue. And, by the way, he is still hot, I swear to God, even though I normally don’t like older men. And when I was going in, I ran into an actual movie star.”
“Who?” the second girl squealed.
“Schiffer Diamond. And she was in Summer Morning . So I thought it had to be a sign that I was going to get the job, but I didn’t.”
O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
39
“How’d you find out about it?” Lola asked casually.
“One of my mother’s friends’ daughters heard about it. She’s from New Jersey, like me, but she works in the city for a literary agent. After I didn’t get the job, she had the nerve to tell her mother, who told my mother, that Philip Oakland only likes to hire pretty girls, so I guess I wasn’t pretty enough. But that’s the way it is in New York. It’s all about your looks. There are some places where the women won’t hire the pretty girls because they don’t want the competition and they don’t want the men to be distracted. And then there are other places where, if you’re not a size zero, forget about it. So, basically, you can’t win.” She looked Lola up and down. “You should try for the Philip Oakland job,”
she said. “You’re prettier than I am. Maybe you’ll get it.”
ı
Lola’s mother, Mrs. Beetelle Fabrikant, was a woman to be admired.
She was robust without being heavy and had the kind of attractive-ness that, given the right lighting, was close to beauty. She had short dark hair, brown eyes, and the type of lovely cherry-brown skin that never wrinkled. She was known in her community for her excellent taste, firm sensibility, and ability to get things done. Most recently, Beetelle had led a successful charge to have soda and candy vending machines removed from the public schools, an accomplishment made all the more remark-able by the fact that Beetelle’s own daughter was no longer even in high school.
Beetelle was, in general, a wonderful person; if there was anything
“wrong” with her, it was only the tiniest of flaws. She tended toward an upward trajectory in life and
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