The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

Lexington? Nothing
looked familiar from my visit to the building the week before, since I’d
been dropped off right in front. I strolled for a bit, happy to have left
enough time to get as lost as I was, and finally ducked into a deli for a cup
of coffee.
     
     “Hello,
sir. I can’t seem to find my way to the Elias-Clark building. Could you
please point me in the right direction?” I asked the nervous-looking man
behind the cash register. I tried not to smile sweetly, remembering what everyone
had told me about not being in Avon anymore, and how people here don’t
exactly respond well to good manners. He scowled at me, and I got nervous it
was because he thought me rude. I smiled sweetly.
     
     “One
dollah,” he said, holding out his hand.
     
     “You’re
charging me for directions?”
     
     “One
dollah, skeem or bleck, you peek.”
     
     I stared
at him for a moment before I realized he knew only enough English to converse
about coffee. “Oh, skim would be perfect. Thank you so much.” I
handed over a dollar and headed back outside, more lost than ever. I asked
people who worked at newsstands, as street sweepers, even a man who was tucked
inside one of those movable breakfast carts. Not a single one understood me
well enough to so much as point in the direction of 59th and Madison, and I had
brief flashbacks to Delhi, depression, dysentery.No! I will find it.
     
     A few
more minutes of wandering aimlessly around a waking midtown actually landed me
at the front door of the Elias-Clark building. The lobby glowed behind the
glass doors in the early-morning darkness, and it looked, for those first few
moments, like a warm, welcoming place. But when I pushed the revolving door to
enter, it fought me. Harder and harder I pushed, until my body weight was
thrust forward and my face was nearly pressed against the glass, and only then
did it budge. When it did begin to move, it slid slowly at first, prompting me
to push ever harder. But as soon as it picked up some momentum, the glass
behemoth whipped around, hitting me from behind and forcing me to trip over my
feet and shuffle visibly to remain standing. A man behind the security desk
laughed.
     
     “Tricky,
eh? Not the first time I seen that happen, and won’t be the last,”
he chortled, fleshy cheeks jiggling. “They getcha good here.”
     
     I looked
him over quickly and decided to hate him and knew that he would never like me,
regardless of what I said or how I acted. I smiled anyway.
     
     “I’m
Andrea,” I said, pulling a knit mitten from my hand and reaching over the
desk. “Today’s my first day of work atRunway . I’m Miranda
Priestly’s new assistant.”
     
     “And
I’m sorry!” he roared, throwing his round head back with glee.
“Just call me ‘Sorry for You’! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hey, Eduardo,
check this out. She’s one of Miranda’s newslaves ! Where you from,
girl, bein‘ all friendly and shit? Topeka fuckin’ Kansas? She is
gonna eat you alive, hah, hah, hah!”
     
     But
before I could respond, a portly man wearing the same uniform came over and
with no subtlety whatsoever looked me up and down. I braced for more mocking
and guffaws, but it didn’t come. Instead, he turned a kind face to mine
and looked me in the eyes.
     
     “I’m
Eduardo, and this idiot here’s Mickey,” he said, motioning to the
first man, who looked annoyed that Eduardo had acted civilly and ruined all the
fun. “Don’t make no never mind of him, he’s just
kiddin‘ with you.” He spoke with a mixed Spanish and New York
accent, as he picked up a sign-in book. “You just fill out this here
information, and I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell
’em you need a card wit your pitcher on it from HR.”
     
     I must
have looked at him gratefully, because he got embarrassed and shoved the book
across the counter. “Well, go on now, fill ‘er out. And good luck
today, girl. You gonna need it.”
     
     I was
too nervous and