I gave up my seat on the steel bus bench to a shaggy guy in a puffy red ski jacket with the size sticker still on it and a dog in a pink turtleneck sweater.
I had three hours to fill before my next shift. A night gig on the bar at a mediocre hotspot in Midtown. It was mostly tourists buying fifteen-dollar Cosmos, but the tips were good. It wasn’t enough time to run home to Jersey and take a nap like I wanted to. But I could hit the library and look for a new server gig or check the freelance site and see if I’d landed any projects.
Pretty please, sweet baby Jesus.
When I’d first arrived here, I thought landing a job as a graphic designer would be easy. I’d run my own small business back in Boulder and done well. But it turned out New York firms didn’t enjoy taking a chance on a self-taught designer who needed a flexible schedule for “family emergencies.”
Restaurants and bars, however, didn’t give a shit what hours you took as long as you showed up when you were on the schedule. I took freelance projects when I got them and held down five regular part-time gigs.
Make that four. Thanks, Charming. And George.
I indulged myself in a little fantasy.
Mogul Entrepreneurial Me storming into Charming’s corner office, because of course he had one, and firing him on the spot because I’d just purchased the company after he pissed me off. If I were wildly wealthy, I’d do shit like that. Sure, I’d give back. Rescue dogs. Eradicate cancer. Take care of the elderly. Buy nice interview outfits for women who needed better jobs. I’d start a spa where women could get massages along with gynecological exams, mammograms, and dental cleanings. With a bar.
And for fun, I’d buy up corporations and fire assholes.
I’d wear a Satan-red dress and heels and have security drag him out of his chair. Then I’d give everyone an extra week of paid vacation just for dealing with him.
Fantasy complete, I put my mental energy into picking out the best bus route to the library. I needed to replace my pathetic pizza income ASAP.
The wind stabbed at my exposed skin like a thousand tiny daggers.
It was effing cold. My righteous anger kept me as warm as it could. But January in Manhattan was arctic. And depressing. The last snow had been pretty for all of five minutes. But the traffic snarls and gray slush defied whitewashing. Plus, it had made my commute into the city an even bigger nightmare.
I shifted the straps of my backpack, hiking it up higher. My ancient laptop had the dead weight of a sleeping toddler.
“Excuse me?”
I debated pretending like I hadn’t heard her. New Yorkers didn’t strike up conversations at bus stops. We ignored each other and pretended we lived in soundproof, eye contact-proof personal bubbles.
But I recognized the red leather under a very nice ivory wool winter coat.
“Ollie?” Charming’s date asked tentatively. She was tall, and not just because she was in a pair of suede boots that I’d sell a kidney for.
Long-legged. High cheekbones. Killer haircut. Emerald the size of a postage stamp on her middle finger.
“Ally,” I said warily.
“I’m Dalessandra,” she said, reaching into an impossibly chic clutch. “Here.”
It was a business card. Dalessandra Russo, editor-in-chief Label Magazine.
Whoa. Even I’d read Label before.
“What’s this for?” I asked, still staring at the linen card.
“You just lost a job. I’ve got one for you.”
“You need a server?” I hedged, still not understanding.
“No. But I could use someone with your… personality. Show up at this address on Monday morning. Nine a.m. Ask for me. Full-time. Benefits.”
My stupid, optimistic heart started to sing a diva-worthy aria. My father had always warned me I was just a little too Pollyanna and not enough Mr. Darcy.
“I just show up, and you give me a job?” I pressed, trying to squash the hope that bloomed inside me.
“Yes.”
Well, that was vague.
“Hey, lady. You maybe got another job in there for me?” a burly guy in ripped cargo pants and a hunter-safety-orange ski cap asked hopefully. He had a spectacular beard and wind-reddened cheeks. His smile was oddly beguiling.
She looked him up and down. “Can you type?”
He winced, shook his head.
“How about sort packages? Deliver things?”
“Now that I can do! I worked in a mail room for two years in high school.”
High school looked like it had been about thirty years ago for him. I recognized a fellow Pollyanna.
Dalessandra produced another card, and—using a ballpoint pen that looked like it was made from actual gold—scribbled something on the back. “Go here Monday and give them this card. Full-time. Benefits,” she said again.
The man held it like it was a winning lottery ticket. “My wife ain’t gonna believe this! I’ve been out of work for six months!” He celebrated by hugging every person at the bus stop, including our lovely benefactress and then me. He smelled like birthday cakes and granted wishes.
“See you Monday, Ally,” she said before walking down the block and sliding into the backseat of an SUV with tinted windows.
“Ain’t this the greatest day?” Guy Pollyanna asked, elbowing me in the ribs.
“The greatest,” I repeated.
I didn’t know if I’d just hit the lottery or if this was a setup. After all, the woman had been on a date with Charming the Doucheweasel.
But I literally couldn’t afford to not take the chance.
