any of this again.
But how I am going to explain this to my mother?
O ver the course of the years my mother has begrudgingly come to terms with the fact I can’t very well call her every night of the week. Nevertheless, she does expect to hear from me on a regular basis, and is sometimes even willing to schedule our phone conversations well in advance.
Today being one of my rare working days, I know she is anxiously awaiting an update. If I don’t phone in by the close of the business day, she’ll panic, naturally assuming I’ve been abducted by fake would-be employers. You know, the only-in-New-York sort of lunatic who would have the time and wherewithal to post want ads for a receptionist, hoping to entice naïve young women into wearing pantyhose and lip gloss and then luring them into the insidious domains of deserted offices in downtown Manhattan high-rises. That kind of fake employer.
I start rummaging in my bag for my cell phone as soon as the elevator doors spill me into the lobby. It usually takes me a good four minutes to locate the damn thing. Like I’ve said before, I’m not exactly the most organized person in the world. Just think what would happen if I were put in charge of a company’s financial records.
Fifteen minutes later, I am kneeling outside the Stellar Productions office building, the entire contents of my bag spewed out in front of me. My cell phone is nowhere to be found. I can’t remember placing or receiving any personal calls at the office today. Even if I did, I am not about to go back upstairs, fling open the door, and sing, “Ta-da! I’m baaack!”
No, for convenience’s sake, let’s just say I left my cell phone at my apartment. In fact, I’m sure that’s where it is. Still, I’m due to meet Amanda at a bar downtown in half an hour. If my calculations are correct (they might not be—I know there is a multiple of threein there somewhere), there is no way I could possibly make my way uptown and back down again by then. Cursing under my breath, I shove all my crap back into my bag and do the unthinkable. I look for a pay phone.
The hard part isn’t finding an available pay phone. The hard part is trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with it. What, now thirty-five cents for a local call? A couple of bucks worth of change to page the West Coast?
To top it all off, my mother isn’t even home, so I end up leaving my cab fare on her answering machine. I hang up annoyed and turn on my heel, nearly colliding into the person waiting behind me. I wasn’t expecting a line for the pay phone. As I slowly make my way to the curb, I try to convince myself that it really doesn’t matter a complete stranger has overhead me call my mother “Mommy.”
On the sign across the street, the little white walking man becomes the little red hand. I wait on the corner and try to remember if I did, in fact, say, “It’s me, Mommy, just calling to say hi and I love you,” or if maybe, just maybe, I said something a little more sophisticated, like, “Hello, darling, it’s Sarah. So sorry you weren’t at home. Perhaps I’ll give you a ring in the morrow.”
Red hand becomes white man again. I’m about to make my move, when I stop suddenly. I could have sworn I’ve heard someone call my name.
“Hey, Sarah!”
I turn. I don’t believe it! A gorgeous, golden god of a man trots toward me. This is definitely a first. A thrilling first, but also a confusing one. I don’t have enough time to rack my brain and try to place him. The popular guy from high school, maybe? My summer camp junior counselor? A lucky night in college I ought to remember?
He comes to a halt in front of me and bares his perfect white teeth in a dazzling smile. I suck in my gut.
“You’re Sarah?”
“Yes?” I answer demurely, brushing my hair away from my face.
“Your mom is on the phone for you.”
I can feel a bright shade of crimson burning my cheeks. “Oh. Thanks.” I hang my blazing
But how I am going to explain this to my mother?
O ver the course of the years my mother has begrudgingly come to terms with the fact I can’t very well call her every night of the week. Nevertheless, she does expect to hear from me on a regular basis, and is sometimes even willing to schedule our phone conversations well in advance.
Today being one of my rare working days, I know she is anxiously awaiting an update. If I don’t phone in by the close of the business day, she’ll panic, naturally assuming I’ve been abducted by fake would-be employers. You know, the only-in-New-York sort of lunatic who would have the time and wherewithal to post want ads for a receptionist, hoping to entice naïve young women into wearing pantyhose and lip gloss and then luring them into the insidious domains of deserted offices in downtown Manhattan high-rises. That kind of fake employer.
I start rummaging in my bag for my cell phone as soon as the elevator doors spill me into the lobby. It usually takes me a good four minutes to locate the damn thing. Like I’ve said before, I’m not exactly the most organized person in the world. Just think what would happen if I were put in charge of a company’s financial records.
Fifteen minutes later, I am kneeling outside the Stellar Productions office building, the entire contents of my bag spewed out in front of me. My cell phone is nowhere to be found. I can’t remember placing or receiving any personal calls at the office today. Even if I did, I am not about to go back upstairs, fling open the door, and sing, “Ta-da! I’m baaack!”
No, for convenience’s sake, let’s just say I left my cell phone at my apartment. In fact, I’m sure that’s where it is. Still, I’m due to meet Amanda at a bar downtown in half an hour. If my calculations are correct (they might not be—I know there is a multiple of threein there somewhere), there is no way I could possibly make my way uptown and back down again by then. Cursing under my breath, I shove all my crap back into my bag and do the unthinkable. I look for a pay phone.
The hard part isn’t finding an available pay phone. The hard part is trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with it. What, now thirty-five cents for a local call? A couple of bucks worth of change to page the West Coast?
To top it all off, my mother isn’t even home, so I end up leaving my cab fare on her answering machine. I hang up annoyed and turn on my heel, nearly colliding into the person waiting behind me. I wasn’t expecting a line for the pay phone. As I slowly make my way to the curb, I try to convince myself that it really doesn’t matter a complete stranger has overhead me call my mother “Mommy.”
On the sign across the street, the little white walking man becomes the little red hand. I wait on the corner and try to remember if I did, in fact, say, “It’s me, Mommy, just calling to say hi and I love you,” or if maybe, just maybe, I said something a little more sophisticated, like, “Hello, darling, it’s Sarah. So sorry you weren’t at home. Perhaps I’ll give you a ring in the morrow.”
Red hand becomes white man again. I’m about to make my move, when I stop suddenly. I could have sworn I’ve heard someone call my name.
“Hey, Sarah!”
I turn. I don’t believe it! A gorgeous, golden god of a man trots toward me. This is definitely a first. A thrilling first, but also a confusing one. I don’t have enough time to rack my brain and try to place him. The popular guy from high school, maybe? My summer camp junior counselor? A lucky night in college I ought to remember?
He comes to a halt in front of me and bares his perfect white teeth in a dazzling smile. I suck in my gut.
“You’re Sarah?”
“Yes?” I answer demurely, brushing my hair away from my face.
“Your mom is on the phone for you.”
I can feel a bright shade of crimson burning my cheeks. “Oh. Thanks.” I hang my blazing
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