Part 1: The Party

You hate these fucking good-bye, good-luck excuses to eat over-priced, mediocre pastries and day drink (you don’t mind the day drinking part).You wish they’d leave you out of the “planning” part of it, but they don’t. No. You, in addition to the other shit you have to do, are tasked with “coordinating” it. It’s their fucked up way of making you feel like they actually value what you do around here.

You will run the errands, do the grunt work, collect the money. The ”work” nobody else wants to be bothered with. The bosses lean back in their recliners and tell you with straight faces (it pisses you off that they think you are that stupid to actually believe the bullshit they feed you) that you are being tasked with this responsibility because you are the only one who can do it right.

Of course. Like you do your own job “right,” better than “right” yet, here you are, 10 years into the job, and the only thing they want you to do independently, is the shit that nobody else has time for.

They forget how well you know them. Sitting back in their black vinyl recliners, which nearly caused a mutiny in the office since the style (and cost) of the recliners indicated the rank and seniority of the ass sitting in it. God forbid an executive should recline in the same make and model as the first deputy!

If the asses rocking back and forth in those chairs deemed it necessary to have a party every time an assistant came to her senses and resigned, why the hell didn’t they plan it? Never mind.

You know why.

These “good-bye, good luck” parties are torture-for everyone involved. The assistants are an egotistical, competitive hypocritical bunch who can’t stand one another. They are all crabs in a bucket. When one leaves, it means another crab inches his way up the bucket- into a bigger office, with another opportunity to make rank. They will smooch and kiss as much ass as necessary until they have their fill of shit, come to their senses and move on. And the cycle continues.

There will be no good bye, good luck party for you. No recliner either. Ten years you’ve been here. Spinning your wheels, your ass has been stuck on a coffee stained canvas rolling chair for a decade; it didn’t even have a lever to adjust the height.

It’s your responsibility to collect the money, which you hate doing because it seems like you’re begging for it. As if you want to have this fucking party. You hate them all.

The polite, persistent emails that your supervisor, aka The Troll reminds you to send (on behalf of her boss-the boss) are never enough to remind these assholes to chip in-or at least get their money in on time. When the emails don’t work, you’re told to make the rounds, knock on doors, visit offices. You are always told to come back after lunch after ”I have a chance to get to the bank.” At that point you give up. With a sigh, you throw in a few extra dollars of your own money to cover what you didn’t get.

***

Your boss insists on having the food catered by that place on Montague which, you’ll have to go and pick up, because they don’t deliver. You know the weather will be inclement that day.

***

Now your boss sends an email insisting that the gathering must start on time, as she always says, but they never do-they never will. 

You get to setting up the conference room-it’s supposed to be a secret, but every fucking assistant pokes their head in while your decorating, “oh yeah…I have to give you money…” say and dip out.

Never once do they offer to help, but they’ll be the first ones pawing the goodies they didn’t pay for. Finally, the conference room is ready for the party. You’ve put up all the balloons, and the good bye, good luck banners, spread the red plastic table cloth on the conference room table, set up the paper plates, and stack the red solo cups, put the sweets and treats at the center of the table, as you were directed to.

You look up, check the clock mounted on the wall in the conference room: 2:30.

This thing is supposed to start now.

Sigh.

Here come the neophytes-the new hires that arrive on time because they don’t understand the way shit works around here.  

Why can’t you hide at your desk, like all the other assistants avoiding this nonsense, doing the million and one projects (that is actually in your job description), assigned to you, which if not complete by end of day, your ass will be handed to you by The Troll.

The Troll, hates that you have two masters degrees and she has an associate’s. And so, she hates you. She thinks you’re “uppity.” Nobody likes “uppity” on a black girl who is supposed to be grateful.

Why can’t you do like the old guard, (of which you belong-you’ve been here longer than most of them), sit at your desk, killing time, bullshitting. But we know that you are the only one in the office who can’t bullshit, because you are the only one who is required to work. 

You check the clock again: 2:45. You shake your head and curse. You and the old guard know that The Boss must always make her grand entrance, which demands the entire office be present, which is unlikely at 2:30. Most assistants are at court-the ones The Boss wants there.

No. You must go in and set up the party as per The Boss’s directive. There’s no way your task(s) can be completed by end of day. But that was the master plan.

And..

…Your ass will be handed to you by The Troll. The squat, frizzy haired, no-neck sycophant loves handing your ass to you.

Against all odds, you actually do your fucking job. You have to. Otherwise she’d have had you fired years ago. She thinks you want her job but you are already doing it, and it’s not as if, unlike you are unqualified for it. You’ve applied for her position in other bureaus, several times.

No luck.

Are you surprised?

When The Troll’s head isn’t stuck up The Boss’s ass, lips constantly puckered, she’s got nothing better to do but micromanage you-anticipating a fuck up-it’s her raison d’etre when it comes to you.

***

The good thing about these ridiculous gatherings are that they keep you busy enough to avoid the Troll. But it also means you have to feign amusement; chuckling at stupid jokes from the eager to please neophytes who show up on time-ready to impress.

You almost feel sorry for them.

Now. In struts the old guard, strolling into the conference room like the cool kids you remember from high school-super popular; the ones who did no work, yet somehow managed to graduate with honors. They strut their stuff to the back of the room, forming a huddle around The Troll.

They’ve been around. They know how this shit works. They know The Troll is The Ice Queen’s eyes and ears-her number 2. In fact, The Troll and The Boss are rumored to be related (it hasn’t been officially proven or confirmed, but both The Troll and The Ice Queen share the same, frizzy-haired, no neckness), and being opportunist fucks, the old guard know it’s in their best interests to stay in The Troll’s good graces, which means laughing at her jokes, abiding her endless sports references whether or not they followed the sport. The Troll needs sycophants too. If they can do this, they will always have their way with The Boss.

***

The Ice-Queen never attends these gatherings on time. You can always tell the way she feels about the assistant that’s leaving according to the time The Queen decides to make her entrance.

***

No one can eat until the Ice Queen makes her entrance and takes her throne. She will make a long-winded speech; might shed crocodile tears (if she tolerated you), or (if she didn’t like you), regale the room with vivid accounts of fuck-ups that the departing assistant made in court, and then she would add how pleasantly and wonderfully surprised she was that the assistant started winning cases.

If The Boss hated you, either she wouldn’t show up; if she did, she’d take personal digs-disparaging comments about the way the assistant dressed, or wore her hair, disguised as light-hearted roasts, yet delivered in true mean girl fashion.

***

Good-bye, good luck- please. What a ruse. Make no mistake-the parties were to celebrate The Ice Queen-to keep her cold blood relevant. 

She could not abide the fact that she would take in these stray, feeble creatures under her wings only to have them bite the hand that fed (choked) them. She couldn’t bear that they became strong enough to go out into the world and find their own food.

Good bye and good luck parties were held to strike fear into the tender hearts of the neophtytes. To let them know who The Boss was and what she was capable of.

They were a warning…

For reinforcement, she would turn to The Old Guard, they reaped the benefits of loyalty-they didn’t have to work, she would work them however, whenever, she needed to. All that was required of them was to follow…

It was, for them, the sweetest quid pro quo they’d ever know.

The Queen would turn to the Old Guard, then to The Troll, and put her hand over her heart. She would smile, and they would smile and bow their heads in fealty. Then, and only then, you might see the glimmer of tears in The Ice Queen’s eyes.

For that was all she required.

Part 2: After The Party…

“Don’t be shy!” Said the Ice Queen to her subjects-this is a celebration! Eat. Drink! She makes her leave with The Troll following paces behind her, head bowed in submission, back to her fiefdom.

Finally. You take a red solo cup and fill it with 2/3 vodka a pinch of orange juice. Gulp it down. Make another, take it back to your desk. You’ve got work to do before you’re called to clean the mess.

You are the only one that can.

You are the only one that will.

You are the only that has to.

***

Part 3

The silver lining beneath the bullshit is that “planning” for these gatherings allows you to leave the office and run your own errands, one of which involves a visit to Montague Wines and Spirits where you’ll pick up a couple of 187 ml bottles of Gallo Pinot Grigio for the road (and whatever other boxed white wine you can hide in your purse). The dude at the counter won’t even look you in the eye anymore. He’s so used to you shit.

You don’t blame him.

He’s as disgusted with you as you are with yourself. He knows you are weak. He won’t even engage in those conversations anymore, the ones where you pretend to be an oenophile-a true wine connoisseur. He’s on to you. You know how to talk a good game. He sees you for what you are: a well-dressed, well spoken, well-educated, drunk.

He rings up your purchase. Hands you the tiny bottles and the box. He doesn’t ask you if you need a bag. He knows you’ll stuff it in your oversized purse.

You hand over the last five bucks in your wallet. He doesn’t even look you in the eye.

***

You check your watch; it’s almost 2. You take tiny sips of the wine as you walk towards Willow Street, down toward Truman Capote’s old home. You wonder about his life there. The house is…unremarkable.

It’s in the complete opposite direction of where you should be going, but you love the seclusion of this part of Brooklyn. You keep walking south, towards Dumbo…but of course, just your fucking luck, the hipster’s are congregating today.

***

Annoyed, you still continue your stroll through Brooklyn Heights, down towards the cobblestoned streets of Dumbo drinking those little alcoholic-sized bottles of wine (in public! In broad fucking daylight), to escape your life. To forget broken Brooklyn dreams. To forget the fact that you will never be seen by those you want to see you.

They will never see you.

They don’t try to.

They don’t want to.

They need nothing

from you.

They don’t care about the work you do-

for them.

They don’t know (don’t care) about the irony…

You’ve been in school acquiring more knowledge than required because you were told you have to be twice as educated, twice as nice…thrice as…

Fuck it.

Because you didn’t believe that could be true now, in this day and age…and not here, where you worked, with people who looked like you, true the higher up the ladder, there were few

But…

you never went to school to do

That…but if you did, you’d be

One of them.

Or so you thought. So they made you believe…

When you showed up for that interview in your high powered suit, and those three white women didn’t know what the fuck to do with you.

“Nice suit,” they’d said.

And that was it.

Here you are. This is the role they chose for you.

***

Glorified secretary.

Errand girl.

Part 4

And what’s worse, what’s really killing you is that before they became bosses, executives and first deputies, you knew them. Really knew them. And you thought that they knew you. You got drunk together, attended each other’s weddings and baby showers, and bris; you held their newborn babies. You cried and confessed, discussed dreams and regrets-aspirations and atonements. You were a family. 

Salary or rank didn’t matter. Until it did.

And that broke your heart.

***

You run into one another on the crowded elevator every now and again, murmuring hi to one another. That’s it. Soon you won’t see them again, because they’ve moved on to Montclair–husband and kids; the suburban life.

No room for you there.

***

And here. You. Are.

Same place you started 10 years ago. Walking up and down Montague Street, through Brooklyn Heights; back and forth across the Promenade, avoiding the work you wished that you loved to do but there’s no growth for you there and you know it. So you discreetly sip from 187 ml. bottles of Pinot Grigio (sometimes cans of Sophia Coppola Blanc de Blancs because they look just like little cola cans) while you walk past hipsters, housewives and wealthy kids.

One morning a well-known actress (whom you used to admire) nearly ran you off the sidewalk careening towards you on her bike. She had the audacity to act like it was your fault for being there.

You just want to move on. 

But where?

What exactly do you want to do?

Who are you?

You look around, bewildered.

Angry.

You hate these people who treat their dogs with more respect than you, couldn’t care less that their Huskies, Sheepdogs, and other expensive pedigrees piss and shit all up and down Pierrrepont Street, as if it were a dog park. There’s dog shit everywhere, and on sweltering days, the scent of baked shit and piss permeate the air.

You are drowning in a sea of over-styled, wild haired, excruciatingly beautiful humans, whom you can tell have never been told no, or experienced the humiliation of rejection. They hang out laughing, lounging, free as the breeze, splayed all across and ontop of each other across benches all along the promenade.

This is “Brooklyn” to them. East New York is Brooklyn too-don’t see too much lounging, laughing, life is but a breeze type camaraderie there. Don’t see much of these transplants over there.

***

Bright-eyed moms with cheerful smiles and buoyant gaits waltz in and out of Lord and Taylor (still size 6’s after pushing out two kids; another on the way!) giddy toddlers (or elderly white folks) with black caregivers who give you curious glances upon seeing you strolling along in the middle of the afternoon, free of white dependents.

Who are you and what do you do?

You hold your head high as you walk, emulating the haughty air of the people in these parts. You can, at least, play the part.

You pretend not to see them, the way that they ignore you. You brush past the pretty, lithe Asian girl on her phone with the most annoying inflections you’ve ever heard.

Of course, she doesn’t notice you coming towards her. You refuse to move since she’s the one oblivious. She doesn’t own the damn sidewalk. It’s this pretentious privilege you cannot abide. Why should you be the one to step aside.

Your shoulder’s clash, knocking her off balance. She’s stunned and stops a moment, huffing and hurt. You know she’s looking at you, but you don’t look back.

You. Keep. Walking.

Now you’re annoyed as you burst into ______.  No matter the time or day, the place is teeming with people with too much time and money to spend/waste.

They loiter, chit chat about the weather, this bullshit and that-as if life and death weren’t happening, as if they are the only ones that inhabit the world. You are feeling claustrophobic. You can’t breathe. You just want to leave…this…place.

You take your place in line.

The cashier takes her time ringing up the person ahead of you, the box of pastries you hold is weighing on your arm. She’s chatting him up as if you have time for this. You don’t have time for this.

You hate everyone who does have time for this.

You have to get back to the office, and it’s a long way to go with a heavy box of pastries in your hand.

She catches the daggers you are shooting at her. ”

Next,” she says lazily, barely glancing at you as she cashes you out. Mumbles “Have a nice day…”

As you step out of the store, you’re nearly toppled over by a group of adolescent boys and girls; the box of pastries nearly falls to the ground.

You catch it, just in time. You’ve always had good reflexes. The kids push past you, giggling, chatting; barreling towards the salad bar, oblivious to the disaster that almost occurred.

They don’t see you…

***

They don’t have to.