Monday, September 29, 2003
Chapter 1
I reach the first of the IND 57th Street Station subway steps, defending my position as the crowd's momentum pushes me up and forward. “Let me through!” a man shouts from behind. I grab the handrail in case he’s the aggressive type.
I keep climbing in the middle of the pack, far from the sticky grime that peppers the graffiti-covered walls. I appreciate that type of artistic expression as much as anyone. For instance, on rusty railroad cars. Not defacing the beautiful tiles that have survived a hundred years in these tunnels. It's a small annoyance; I try to ignore it like everyone seems to do.
The last refrains of Brown Eyed Girl drift from the busker and his guitar below. They are replaced by the brake screech and belch of a city bus and honking from a flock of yellow cabs. A traffic cop blows his shiny silver whistle in quick shrill staccatos. He flails his arms around as he tries to create order in the cacophony of morning rush hour.
I have four more blocks to walk. So far, I’m on time. From navigating this route every workday morning in the four months since I started my new job, I know anything can happen between here and the Lithe office building on Sixth Avenue. The last leg of my commute has been interrupted by a street fight and a minor fire in a bagel vendor’s pushcart. An old woman fell and needed assistance. Just last week, someone knocked an overflowing garbage can over, splaying banana peels and souring smoothies across the sidewalk. Everyone was forced to slow the pace and tiptoe through the slime.
We assemble at the intersection, a haphazard mob with our shoulders inches from touching. Expensive cologne wafts back from the Wall Street guy in front of me. Something musky. A long blonde hair clings to his pinstripe suit jacket and the urge to pluck it off is strong. But I leave it be. I’ve learned the hard way that here, people are always on guard. Not like back in Texas. There, strangers thank you for tucking in the flipped-up tag on the collar of their blouse or for discreetly alerting them about the bit of lettuce stuck between their teeth.
The distinct smell of mothballs is pungent. It overpowers the scent of vanilla-flavored coffee clutched tightly in white and green paper cups. I glance at the hunched-shoulder bald man beside me. It must be coming from his tweedy brown jacket. He doesn’t look sturdy, and I wonder how he can keep up with the intense pace. He must feel my eyes turned his way as he looks over and dips his chin. “Good Morning.” No one ever speaks on the streets of New York unless they’re yelling for someone to get out of their way.
“Morning,” I say and smile back. The wad of chewing gum pressed to the bottom of one of my best black pumps is annoying. It attached itself somewhere in the bowels of the subway. There’s no time now to stop and scrape it off.
The stick figure man and the word WALK illuminate on the sign across the street. They remind me of my old Lite-Bright. Right on cue, the swarm and I move off the curb into the crosswalk. In this city where anyone can feel suffocated by humanity while at the same time completely alone, this odd family morphs daily into my ever-changing commuter relatives. We don’t know each other’s names. Still, we are kindred souls, if only for the fifty-five minutes it takes to arrive at my cubicle from my apartment.
Today, of all days, I can’t be late. I’ve been invited to attend the weekly staff meeting because Sandra, my co-worker, broke her femur last week. She had a nasty fall off the indoor rock-climbing wall near her apartment and is lying in traction at Lenox Hill Hospital. The place just opened. It seems safety would be a priority.
I’m sorry for her pain but inside I’m doing cartwheels. I wasn’t supposed to be allowed into the inner sanctum for at least six more months, while I do my time as the lowest Assistant Buyer at Lithe. It’s Sandra, the Senior Assistant Buyer, who sits behind the glass conference room wall every Monday morning. During that hour, I stay at my computer answering emails. The ones that came in overnight from our brokers in China and Taiwan. Can we approve the fabric sample today that was FedEx’d last Tuesday? Did we send the new size chart for the spring leggings line? The factory in Tainan City Chiao is ready to start production next week. Can someone review and approve the proposed itinerary for the November buying trip?
It's not that I’m ungrateful for all the work this job demands. I will do what is needed to move up the ladder – to a job with Sandra’s title, then our boss Allison’s, the Senior Buyer, and eventually, her boss the Senior Vice President Mr. Larkin.
Two blocks away, I can see the glass of the Calyon Building rising above the others. Almost there. The Lithe headquarters offices take up most of it - a million square feet the human resources PowerPoint slide informed me on my first day of work.
Sometimes I pinch myself that I can step from my four-foot by six-foot cubicle to the windows and look out across the city as if I’m perched in a bird’s nest. It’s still hard to believe that four months ago, I was walking across Auburn University’s stage to collect my diploma. I’d already secured my job here in New York to start the career I’d dreamed of my whole life. It was a very happy day, the completion of a long journey. At the same time, it was a sad one, without Dad or Mom there to celebrate my accomplishment. I’d felt alone many times before, soldiering on without him since I was thirteen and my mother, who I only know from pictures. Even though my Uncle Phil and Aunt Nora were there to support me, I couldn’t help but feel like the orphan I am in the large curved auditorium among a sea of others’ parents.
There’s a screech of tires and the sick crunching sound of metal meeting aluminum. “Shit!” a man shouts. I see his legs fly through the air, his bicycle clip-on shoes still attached. Something hard and heavy hits my shoulder before I can process what’s happening. The force knocks me backward and pushes me to the ground. My butt connects with the concrete and my new leather tote bag flies off my other arm.
Many people gasp but only one woman screams. “Oh my God, this man’s been hit by that van!”
“Someone call 9-1-1!” a man yells. The river of people parts where the bicycle messenger and I lay on the ground. I turn my head and see the rider three feet away, his helmet still strapped beneath his chin. A chunk of cracked plastic is hanging off where it must have made contact. Two people are crouched beside him. Many continue walking right on by. Several are recording with their mobile phones.
A white van with the blue words Evans Electric is stopped diagonally in the street. The driver, dressed in a work jumpsuit, stands a few feet away. “I swear, I didn’t see him! He came out of nowhere!” he frantically calls out. He blurs. My eyelids are too heavy.
“Miss. Miss.” Someone is patting my cheek and I blink. The mothball-scented man is leaning over me. “Miss, are you okay?”
He puts his hand between my shoulders and helps me bend to a seated position. “What happened?” is all I can think to ask.
“A van hit that bicycle messenger. His bag went flying and knocked you down. You hit your head. I saw it all. Does anything hurt?”
My shoe lies on its side, two feet in front of me. I can see the pink and black gum still clinging to its sole. I’m light-headed, but suddenly I’m embarrassed by the attention. “No, I think I’m okay.”
“Let me help you up.” The man and a woman in hot pink workout gear each grab an elbow and ease me to my feet.
I tug the bottom of my jacket. It’s one of three good suits I own, all that I can presently afford. I was tempted to buy them at one of the popular fast fashion chains, where anyone can walk out with a bagful of clothing for fifty dollars. In the end, I decided I’d invest in them for my future. Today, I chose the light gray one for the meeting.
Crap! The meeting! How long have I been lying on the ground? The workout woman holds out my tote bag and shoe. “Thank you. Thank you both for helping me. I’m late, I have somewhere I was supposed to be,” I say, wedging my foot into the shoe and slinging the bag across my shoulder.
I look over and see the bicycle rider sitting on the curb. Someone’s removed his helmet and his lips are moving. He seems okay. Obviously, like me, he had somewhere he was supposed to be this morning instead of lying here in the street.
“You sure you don’t want to wait for the ambulance? Have them check you out?” the tweed jacket man asks.
“No, no, I’m fine. A little stunned. Thank you again.” I tug my jacket once more and head toward the office building as briskly as I can. At the next intersection, I wait purposefully for my turn to cross while others impatiently weave between the gridlocked cars. One close call today is enough. A city bus passes with a Lithe ad on its side. Ally James, America’s last Olympic gold medalist stands in the yoga tree pose. The words above her read I only wear Lithe leggings all day, for work and play. I swell with pride, the same as I do every time I see our ads on billboards, city buses, and in TV commercials.
I force what happened back there aside. My heart rate has almost settled to normal by the time I reach Lithe’s heavy revolving door.
I approach the security guard behind the marble-covered counter. Suddenly, I am aware of how parched my mouth is. But I smile anyway. “Morning, Harry,” I scratch out.
“Mornin’, Miss Spence,” he says, returning the smile. Harry was the first person I’d encountered when I arrived at Lithe last June. He’d snapped my picture and laminated it into my security access badge. “Spence. Any chance there you’re related to Adam Spence?” he’d asked, raising his bushy jet-black eyebrows streaked with gray. His accent was thick, New York mixed with something else. Maybe Italian.
“Yes, sir. He was my father.” I felt that occasional, sudden jolt when someone mentions him, even though he’s been gone ten years.
“Fine man, he was.” Harry turned his grandfatherly face to mine and nodded. “Yeah, I see the resemblance.”
I couldn’t help but like him, one of the few people who’d been friendly since I’d arrived in the city one week earlier. New York is hard to navigate as a newcomer. Especially one with no family or friends to guide them. I haven’t forgotten his warmth. I buy an extra banana nut muffin from the bakery two blocks away as our treat on Fridays.
I fish the badge from my tote and swipe it. As I push against the turnstile toward the bank of six elevators, I pray I don’t have to wait for one to descend from the top. Three on one side serves floors one through twenty and the others are for twenty-one and up. I punch the button and the sleek silver doors slide apart. At least something is working in my favor. Slipping inside, I press thirty-two and am thankful to be alone to compose myself. The mirrored interior provides a 360-degree view. What? What is that? I am horrified to see a seven-inch smudge across the back of my skirt from my earlier fall onto the gritty sidewalk. “No, no, no!” I say out loud. “Not today!”
There’s nothing I can do. I have five minutes to get to my desk, turn the computer on, and slip into the conference room to take Sandra’s chair.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply as the doors glide open. Smoothing my suit jacket, as if somehow that will camouflage the dirt, I exit the elevator. I avoid all eye contact and hurry through the maze of padded gray cubicle walls to my desk to deposit my tote bag.
I’ve imagined being in this meeting a thousand times. To be one of the nine people gathered in cushioned rolling chairs around the polished maple conference room table. I’ve observed it from the hallway through the plate glass wall. They are the bosses, my peers, and a couple of secretaries. Large panes of floor-to-ceiling glass frame the New York City skyscrapers that seem to pierce the clouds. It’s exactly like the meeting in my mind, the images formed and fine-tuned from the movies.
I slip into the empty chair. Sandra told me everyone always sits in the same seat - that even she thinks this is weird. As if there are assigned seats, like in high school. I notice another smudge of street dirt on the back of my sleeve near my elbow and move my arm into my lap. My hand is shaking, and I tamp down my nervous energy.
The room is quiet, almost like a church. No one is smiling. I assumed these meetings were electric and exciting. Not unlike the Wall Street trading floor.
“Everyone here?” Mr. Larkin, the man at the head of the table asks. Obviously, he hasn’t looked around to see there are no empty seats. “Can we get started? I’ve got a tee time at one and traffic out of the city will be a nightmare.” He still doesn’t look up from the BlackBerry he’s tapping. I notice the thinning patch of hair at the top of his head.
“Yes, Sandra isn’t joining today. Her boyfriend left me a voice message on Friday. She took a bad fall and is in the hospital,” Allison says. She’s the type of boss I had hoped for, though it’s early days to be sure of her true personality. I have little experience with bosses.
I plan to learn everything I can from Allison. She dresses the part of a mid-level executive. Her wardrobe is full of tailored pantsuits and silk blouses. I’ve watched her carry her tall frame well and speak confidently so everyone listens. I don’t think anyone would say she has the attractiveness of the people who wear our clothes in TV commercials and fashion magazines, but her modest make-up and short brown hair are just right. I learned quickly it is considered polished and professional.
“How are the holiday orders coming in?” Mr. Larkin asks, moving the conversation as if the news of Sandra’s injury is of no consequence to him.
I look up from my notepad and across the table at Phoebe, Riley’s Senior Assistant Buyer. I’m trying to decipher what has been spoken and ignored. Surely, I’m missing something. Phoebe has been pleasant and helpful since I’ve been here. She and Riley have their hands full, too. Their Assistant Buyer Jennie has been on maternity leave for many months. I haven’t met her yet. Besides, I spend most of my days learning from Sandra and Allison.
Being in the hospital sounds like a big deal. Phoebe lifts her eyebrows, offers a slight shrug, and runs her hand along her silky blonde hair that ends at the top of her ribs. Her widened eyes communicate I shouldn’t react. This meeting isn’t anything like I’d imagined. It kicks into high gear without another mention of concern for Sandra’s misfortune.
“My categories are ten percent above plan, with a couple of big orders anticipated this week. I think we’ll finish about where we forecasted, with little leftover merchandise to job out,” Allison answers. That was one of the first terms I’d learned. It means offloading unsold merchandise at a steep discount to boutiques, off-price stores, and the newer online start-ups. It’s not a good thing for profits.
“Same for me,” Riley says. “Much more solid than this time last year.”
Mr. Larkin’s secretary Eileen sits beside our group secretary Joan at the far end of the table. Actually, I’ve recently learned we’re now supposed to call them administrative assistants. Her head is angled down and all I see is a fluff of short snow white curls as she taps the conversation into a laptop. Mr. Larkin has a pad of paper and pen in front of him, but it remains untouched.
“The buying trip next month to China and Taiwan, who is planned to go?” Mr. Larkin asks. Already he doesn’t impress me as the type of man who has time for pleasantries and chit-chat.
“Riley, Phoebe, myself, and now Julia here. She’ll be taking Sandra’s place, Ed.”
Me? I look at Allison but her eyes are locked on Mr. Larkin’s. I work hard to control what I can about my life. This is the second time I’ve been taken off guard within two hours. Me, going on a foreign buying trip after four months working at Lithe?
Mr. Larkin turns his gaze my way, and I sit straighter. I press my elbow on the chair arm and I feel a sharp pain. I must have bruised it on the sidewalk.
I assume Mr. Larkin has the same question that’s on my lips. Something about his eyes is unsettling. He searches my face with a scowl as if we’ve never met. We have once, formally, on my second day of work, when Allison walked me around to meet people in our division. And another time in her office, when he interrupted Sandra, her, and me as we worked on next summer’s forecasts. I’m unsure how to address him if he asks me a question. Allison called him Ed. I’m too new to understand the protocol. And I’m slightly annoyed that he doesn’t recall meeting me six weeks ago. I keep my face blank, though I can’t help shifting slightly in my chair. Besides, I’m not the type of person to express when I’m offended. Avoiding conflict is easier.
Larkin seems to have a flash of recognition. “Spence’s daughter, right?” he asks, looking back at Allison as if I’m not sitting twelve feet away. “Is she ready for this kind of trip?” His tone seems condescending and awkward, but I notice everyone around the table remains expressionless.
“Of course, I’ll make sure she’s ready. Besides, there’s no way Sandra will be able to travel.” Allison says this with her typical unflappable confidence. I can’t imagine what it will be like for Sandra to navigate in New York with such an injury. Stairs, subways, elevators, uneven curbs. Let alone embark on a foreign buying trip hopping from multiple hotels, airplanes, and vehicles.
“All right. You and Riley, send your itineraries with the factories you’re visiting and what merchandise is being produced in each. Eileen, check my schedule. I may rearrange it and meet them for a few days.” I tingle runs up my spine. The word please can’t be just a Texas thing.
“Yes, sir,” Eileen says faintly.
“The last thing I want to go over this morning is our participation in the 2004 Athens Summer Olympics. I’ve learned we’re going head-to-head with Ralph Lauren in bidding to outfit Team USA. Our sponsorship deal with Gigi Milan is critical to promote our merchandise in the advertising campaign,” Mr. Larkin says.
“I thought the contract was supposed to be signed last Friday,” Riley says. “There’s so much to do if the TV commercials are going to wrap filming by Thanksgiving. We haven’t even been given her measurements to make custom wardrobe samples.”
“It was. But there’s a snag. Someone emailed her agent the Brian Russo video.” I notice all heads lift to look at Mr. Larkin. “Now Gigi wants more information on our factories before she’ll sign. She started her European tour on Saturday. That was the point of getting this signed Friday. Now, there won’t be any communication for two weeks. This is going to be harder than we thought. And we’ve got no backup plan.” Once again, I’m completely in the dark, but I remain quiet. I have a million questions about why we’re discussing the mega-famous pop star Gigi Milan. And about the trip to Southeast Asia I’m now going to be a part of. And most of all, about who Brian Russo is and his video that has temporarily delayed Gigi’s apparent celebrity endorsement.
The hour has flown by. Mr. Larkin rolls back his chair, leaves his pad and pen, and strides out the door without a further word. No one reacts as if this is unusual, so I mirror their behavior, dismissing my desire to question his lack of parting pleasantries. I don’t need to be told he is a very busy man – or at least one with little patience.
Eileen and Joan speak in hushed voices to one another as they collect their things and rise.
“Okay, I’ll finish my first attempt at our itinerary by noon and email you a copy,” Allison says to Riley as she picks up her BlackBerry and notepad. “Want to grab lunch at DeBlasio’s at twelve-thirty?” I love that place, the most popular and closest deli to Lithe.
Phoebe stands beside Riley, waiting for the conversation to conclude. I do the same. “Sure, I’ll meet you in the lobby,” Riley says as she and Phoebe walk out the door, with Eileen trailing behind.
“Whew, baptism by fire for you,” Allison says. “Let’s go to my office and chat before I work on this trip itinerary. Joan, would you please join us for a quick minute, too?”
Monday September 29
Chapter 2
Sandra’s and my cubicles are side-by-side, a five-foot gray panel separating our workspaces. Joan’s is opposite along the wall with many outlets for her desktop computer, printer, and the fax machine used by our brokering agent overseeing the foreign factories. Hers also has a bank of mail slots that are rarely used for anything except junk mail and human resources’ paper memos. All our cubicles are lined up outside Allison’s and Riley’s office doors. As we pass Sandra’s office, her lights are out and the desk is undisturbed. A pile of mail has already been dropped unceremoniously on mine.
“Have a seat,” Allison says, gesturing toward one of the two sturdy black chairs opposite her standard plain oak office desk. She sits in her rolling chair, rattles the mouse to awaken her computer, and squints briefly at the screen.
Joan stands in the doorway and I focus on acting calm to mask my excitement over the news of traveling on my first sourcing trip. And out of the country, no less.
“Joan, would you please order flowers for Sandra? Sign the card from all of us in our buying group,” Allison says. She fishes for her handbag in her desk drawer and pulls out a credit card, extending it toward Joan. “Here, use my corporate card.”
“Sure. Anything else?” Joan asks, pulling off her glasses and letting them dangle against her chest from a beaded chain. Her face is soft and round and has a tired appearance. It’s as if she’s witnessed a lot around here. She steps forward to take the card.
“You’ll need to cancel Sandra’s airline tickets and get Julia booked on the same flights as soon as possible.” Allison looks at me. “Tell me you have a valid passport?”
