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know.
    Now I was beginning to feel anxious. “Yes,” I said, “they wait up for me. Could you hurry, because my friend is waiting for
     me right now and he’s probably getting worried and making some phone calls.”
    The cabdriver picked up speed as I had requested, but that only made me more anxious. Then, all of a sudden, he pulled over
     to the side of the road two blocks away from the church. I grabbed the door handle to jump out of the car but he turned, reached
     into the backseat, and placed his hand firmly over the lock. A small car pulled up behind us and stopped. A manjumped out of the car behind us and opened my door from the outside. He reached for me as if he were about to pull me out
     of the car when the driver stopped him.
“Ce n’est pas bon. On ne peux pas faire ça,”
he said. “This isn’t good. We can’t do this.”
    In an instant, the man who was trying to pull me toward him let go of me and slammed my car door shut. My driver took off,
     sped forward for two blocks, pulled up in front of the Madeleine, and I dashed out, slamming the cab door behind me. No one
     followed me as he sped away and I was breathless, standing in front of the church, scared to death. I had just come so close
     to being abducted I could hardly breathe, and I was grateful to be alive.
    Despite my near abduction, I decided to leave the security of my family in Michigan and go to Washington DC, anyway, rent
     a cheap place with some friends, and find a job. I had lots of interests and I wanted to experience life and the workplace
     so I wouldn’t end up being bored or boring. My father understood my desire to break away and he gave me the grand sum of forty
     dollars to get started on my new life. “Go to Washington,” he told me. “If you don’t find a job in two weeks, write yourself
     a check for a plane ticket and come back home.”
    When my five friends and I arrived in Washington, we found an inexpensive apartment to share in Georgetown, just outside of
     DC. That took care of my forty dollars, so I headed straight over to a popular clothing store called Brooks Brothers (it was
     very posh at the time) to apply for a job in sales. I needed some money coming in right away so I could eat. I wanted to continue
     at school to get my master’s degree in art. But if I did, I would have to pay for it myself.
    The job interview was my first real one, and I tried to present myself in a good light. I knew the position was competitive,
     so during my interview I made sure to be friendly, positive,and to look like I had something on the ball. After all, I had lived in Paris! I must have done okay because I was hired on
     the spot as a salesperson for Brooks Brothers. Although I knew this job would be temporary, at least I had a paycheck coming
     in. I had bigger goals than sales, but this was exactly what I needed to do right now.
    I concentrated on being the best salesperson I could be. In the midseventies, there were very few women on the floor at a
     primarily men’s store, not because men were considered better than women at sales. There was no way to know, because in the
     posh clothing stores back then, it was considered improper for a woman to ask a man, “What side do you dress on?” when he
     was buying pants that needed to be hemmed. I actually didn’t know what that meant until a fellow salesperson told me. It seemed
     that any reference to a man’s genitals was out of the question for a woman at the time, so we could not fit the men in suits.
    Of course, that was where the money was. While a suit might cost a couple hundred dollars and in many cases, up from there,
     a shirt cost about $18.50. Ties, undershirts, and handkerchiefs were inexpensive and we worked on commission. I did the math
     and realized that I would need to sell a load of stuff to make any money at all, so that was exactly what I set out to do.
    I served many a VIP during the time I worked at Brooks Brothers in Washington, including Ethel