Chapter 2: CHAPTER TWO
Alana used to be the receptionist before I came along and I suppose the girl hated the job as much as I do. She was promoted to office manager and completely resents the fact that for two fifteen-minute breaks and one lunch hour, she has to cover reception for me. I cannot tell you how many times I have come back to find irate callers on the line. Something tells me that she answers the phone using my name and just treats people like crap to get me in trouble, though I haven't been able to prove this yet.
Yeah, I'm the first to admit I'm not exactly the best receptionist material. I kind of feel like reception is beneath me, but because it's with a reputable ad agency and I just got my degree, it's necessary to pay my dues. I figured I could start at reception and move my way up.
That said, I hoped my "due" days were coming to a merciful end. I'd been there almost a year with not even a hint of advancement. The economy wasn't making matters any easier.
I'm stuck. While I live at home in my childhood room and get nice home-cooked meals every night, I wanted to get the hell of out of Dodge.
I know I'm only twenty-two, but I totally thought I would have it made by this age. That's highly ambitious, but I can't help it. I've always grown up feeling like I was special, like I was meant to do something really amazing with my life and make an impact on people. That's probably why I've dabbled in so many different genres over the years. From guitar lessons to stunts, to photography summer camp, to horseback riding, to taking painting and sculpting courses at the Y, to, last but not least, writing. I've tried everything to find my something and, in the end, walked away with nothing concrete to show for it. Maybe if I just buckled down and stayed with one thing it could happen, but my fear is that everything else might pass me by.
Naturally, I thought advertising would be the perfect platform for me to showcase my creativity and make an impact on the world but just like the ads themselves, nothing ever is as it seems.
"OK, I'm here now."
The nasal voice of Alana shot through my thoughts like a drill. I looked up at her while removing my headset and gave her a smile. A fake smile, but a smile nonetheless.
I got up and displayed the desk proudly with my arms. "It's all yours."
She gave me a quick sneer before plopping down on the ramrod chair with an exaggerated sigh.
I grabbed my bag and quickly headed out the door before she decided to use the bathroom or something. I caught the elevator down and headed out to my usual bench beside a coffee shop and pulled out my iPhone to pilfer the free Wi-Fi.
It was a beautiful fall day with a sun that warmed your arms and nary a brown leaf in sight. The Pacific Northwest enjoyed an Indian summer this year, and so far the rain had taken a vacation for much of September. Usually, at this time of year—hell, at all times of the year—we are submitted to a daily battering of rain, general dampness, and a wind that likes to turn your umbrellas inside out.
After I perused Facebook for ten minutes, learning absolutely nothing interesting about the people in my life (or slightly outside of my life, as seems to be the case with Facebook), I changed my status to a song lyric and moved on to read my sister's blog.
Ada started this fashion blog about six months ago and she's actually been doing really well with it. She's always been very fashion-forward. How can she not be when she fits into all of our mother's hand-me-downs? Our mother used to be a model way back in the day, so she has tons of designer goods in storage. Of course, with my generous thighs, big ol' bubble butt and giant rack, I don't wear the clothes as well as my sister. They're not my style, anyway.
But I appreciate the way my sister can rock the designer stuff with vintage items and apparently so does everyone else. Just by posting a picture of herself every day and writing a blurb about what she was wearing, she gets tons of hits to her blog, enough so that she started making money from advertising.
It's funny, my sister and I kind of grew apart when I went off to college. I guess the age difference was really apparent, and to be honest, I had no idea how to relate to her. She was a preteen when I left and when I came back, I still wanted to treat her like my cute little sister.
Now, because we've had a year bunked in the same house again, I do feel closer to her. She is starting to become more like a friend, which is great in some ways, but sometimes I wonder when I should play the role of the big sister. When I see her posing flamboyantly in a skimpy outfit on display for the entire world to see, I can't understand what she's after. I wouldn't feel comfortable putting myself out there like that. But the last time I mentioned she could become a prime target for stalkers (or even worse), she just brushed it off and made the point that mom approved.
I'll admit that I am a little jealous, which is kind of ridiculous because I'm her older sister. But she's got her path; she's following it and making progress.
The exact opposite of me.
My cell rang, leaving that depressing thought in my head as I answered.
"Hi, pumpkin," my mother said in her lilting voice. She still had a faint Swedish accent but for the life of me I couldn't really hear it.
"Hi, Mom," I answered with a sigh, knowing she was just checking up on me to make sure I was all in one piece.
"How are you feeling? Any troubles?"
"No. I'm fine."
"How is work? You still have a job, right?"
I let out a puff of air again and muttered "yes." This was her daily question. The daily reminder to not even think about quitting my job. It's like she knew.
"Listen," she continued, "what are you and Ada doing this weekend? Uncle Albert was hoping we could all get together."
My dad's brother Albert lived on a huge plot of beach-side land on the foggy Oregon coast and thanks to the proximity to us we often drove out there to see him. He was divorced and lived alone with his twin boys, Matthew and Tony, two nineteen-year-old troublemakers.
I had nothing planned for the weekend. If I didn't go to the coast, I would just end up sitting at home and having a Lost marathon by myself.
After I told her I'd be there and hung up, I stretched back on my bench, the sun heating up my maroon leggings, and half-heartedly nibbled on some cut-up veggies. I eyed a nearby Subway and almost succumbed to the call of a melted bacon sub but resisted.
I finished up and plodded back to the office, defeated by the drudgery of the nine-to-five life. The sun teased the freckles across my nose and the lightest breeze tossed my hair so I could see the shades of violet dye in the black strands. I wanted to stay outside, surrounded by the quaint buildings, the golden green trees, the people bustling to-and-fro in lives more exciting than mine, and most of all I wanted these last rays of summer to last forever. But duty called, as it always did.
I walked into the lobby and waited for the elevator. As I stood there on the cold, hard tiles, I felt the presence of someone behind me. Strange, I didn't see anyone when I came in, nor did I hear the door open or close behind me.
A creepy feeling swept over me. I remembered the dream I had. Suddenly, I felt inexplicably afraid.
I hesitated at turning around. In my "overactive imagination" I thought I would see something horrible, but I did it anyway.
There actually was someone there sitting on the white lobby couch. It was an old lady who looked like she was trying disastrously hard to be a young lady. She must have been about eighty, wearing a red taffeta dress adorned with tiny pom poms and outlandish makeup smeared across her face. She had exaggerated purple eyeliner, Tammy Faye Bakker eyelashes, a swipe of orange across her sagging cheekbones, and most disturbing of all, red lipstick that was half on her lips and half on her teeth. She sat there smiling broadly at me. Frozen, it seemed, or locked in time.
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