Pounding the Pavement Read Online Free PDF Page A

for money again!”
    “What? No, I never said—” I am interrupted by another squawk of the telephone.
    “I thought you said you were solvent,” says Mom.
    “I am. Just, with health insurance, things are going to get tight.”
    “You have to have insurance! Don’t you worry about your health at all?”
    “Of course, I do. Why do you think I was flossing?”
    “You’re being really selfish, you know.”
    “Yes, Dad already told me so.”
    “Don’t get snippy.”
    “I’m not snippy. Mom, I have to go.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I want to call the health insurance offices before they close.”
    I hang up. Almost immediately, my phone rings again. No longer is it music to my ears. It’s probably my mother calling back to demand an apology. Unfortunately, I am in no position to be screening calls so I answer it begrudgingly.
    “Hello?”
    “Sarah? Mark Shapiro here.”
    “Oh, hi, Mark.”
    “Listen, I just found you the perfect job.”
    “You did?”
    “You wanted a media company, didn’t you? Well, you got it!”
    “What kind of media? Publishing? Film?”
    “Commercials!”
    Oh. Not quite the media I’d been hoping for.
    “You’re in luck,” Mark continues. “It’s a great place. They do lots of steady work. But they just lost one of their employees and they need someone to replace him ASAP.”
    “What’s the job?”
    “Hmmm? Umm, hang on … let me find it for you.” I hear him riffle through pages. “Oh, okay. It’s for an office manager. Sounds good, right?”
    No. Does not sound good. Sounds, at best, tolerable.
    “Yeah, okay. I’ll give it a shot.”
    “Super! They want you to start tomorrow at nine a.m.”
    “What? I don’t need to go in for an interview first?”
    “Ummm, not exactly. They really just need a temporary replacement for the time being.”
    Temping?
I groan. “Mark, I told you. I can’t temp. If I work for even one day, I’ll lose all my unemployment benefits for the week.” Yes, I agree. It’s one hell of a lousy rule. But, hey, I didn’t make it.
    “I know. But there’s a very good chance it could turn into a full-time gig. If they like you, they might decide to keep you on. Don’t you think you should at least look into it?”
    “Umm, well …” Shit. I’ve been had. Because, unfortunately, as a rule, I don’t turn down potential full-time job leads. “Okay.”
    “Great. The company is called Stellar Productions. They are located at 581 Broadway. Ask for Gregory.”
    When I hang up this time, I do indeed yank out the phone cord. Because if any more sticky situations come up, I know for a fact I won’t be able to talk my way out of them.
    S haring a workspace is a lot like sharing a toothbrush. This I realize the moment I find myself chewing on the end of a pen that doesn’t belong to me. I remove the cap from my mouth and discreetly look to see if anyone else in the office has caught me in so vile an act.
    Stellar Productions isn’t much of an office. A cunning real estate agent would probably call it “raw space,” making it sound exotic and appetizing, like a tray of sushi. Of course, all “raw space” really means is there is no clearly defined reception area, no navigable layout, only a lump of carelessly constructed cubicles. Frankly, Iprefer my offices more well-done. Cooked to a crisp, thank you very much.
    By as early as 10 a.m., the excitement of embarking on a somewhat promising new job has all but vanished. So has the anticipation. And so has the curiosity. Instead I am filled with a frothy, bubbling rage. I’ve already decided I hate everyone who works here. I hate the haughty executives who wouldn’t deign to introduce themselves to me, who flee to the sancity of their windowed offices in the back, emerging only every now and then to toss their outgoing mail on my desk, without even the courtesy of a “please” or “thank you.” I hate the boy who has been hogging the company stereo system, proudly inserting his mixed