Queen of Babble in the Big City Read Online Free PDF Page B

dollars? Are they insane? We sold one just like this at Vintage to Vavoom in Ann Arbor for one fifty. And this one is like a size two. Who can even fit into something this small?
    “May I help you?”
    Oh. Right. I’m not here to shop.
    “Hi,” I say, flashing what I hope is a dazzling smile in the direction of the clerk in the plaid pants (she’s being ironic), with the multiple facial piercings. “I was wondering if the manager was around?”
    “Why do you want to see the manager?”
    Hmmm. Multiple Facial Piercings has a bit of an attitude, I see. Then again, seeing as how her shop is on a busy avenue in the Village, she probably sees all kinds. She probably has to be suspicious. Who knows what kind of crazy creepolas come in here? If they get a lot like that guy I just saw on the corner, with his pants down around his ankles, pawing through the trash can and muttering about Stalin, I can see why she might be a little standoffish with strangers.
    “Actually,” I say brightly, “I’m wondering if the store might be hiring. I’ve got years of experience in vintage retail, in addition to—”
    “Leave your résumé at the counter,” Multiple Facial Piercings says. “If she’s interested, she’ll call you.”
    But something tells me that the manager will never call. Just like the human resources representative from the costume department at the Metropolitan Museum of Art never called. Just like the head of the Museum of the City of New York’s Costume and Textile Collection never called. Just like Vera Wang never called. Just like any of the gazillion places at which I’ve dropped off résumés haven’t called.
    Only in this case, I know the manager’s not going to call because she’s seen my résumé and she thinks I’m underqualified for the position, or because there aren’t any openings, or because I don’t have any local references, like all those other places. I know the manager’s not going to call because she’s never even going to see my résumé. Because Multiple Facial Piercings has already decided she doesn’t like me, and is going to throw my résumé into the trash the minute I step out of her store.
    “My hours are superflexible,” I say, in a last-ditch effort. “And I have a lot of seamstressing experience. I’m great at alterations—”
    “We don’t do in-store alterations,” Multiple Facial Piercings says with a sneer. “If people want something altered these days, they just take it to their dry cleaner.”
    I swallow. “Right. Well, I notice this Jonathan Logan you have here has some damage. I could easily repair this—”
    “People who buy our clothes want to make repairs themselves,”Multiple Facial Piercings says. “Leave your résumé at the counter, and we’ll call you…”
    Her heavily made-up eyes flick from the top of my head—my hair is pulled back in a wide, Jackie O–style scarf—to my dress, a rare 1950s Gigi Young blue and white polka dot with an accordion-pleated skirt—to my shoes—white ballet-style flats (because you can’t wear heels when you’re tromping around Manhattan). It is clear from her expression that Multiple Facial Piercings doesn’t like what she’s seeing.
    “…or not.” Multiple Facial Piercings tosses her Mohawk, then lifts a hand to wave at me. I see that what I’d taken for festively colored sleeves is actually her bare arm, the skin of which is completely covered in tattoos. “Buh-bye.”
    “Um.” I can’t stop staring at the tattoos. “Bye.”
    Okay. Okay, so maybe the New York employment scene is a little…different from the one back in Ann Arbor.
    Or maybe I just hit the wrong store on the wrong day.
    Yeah, that’s it. They can’t all be like that one. Maybe heading to the Village first thing was a mistake.
    Or maybe I shouldn’t even be thinking retail. Maybe I should try hitting some bridal shops—not Vera Wang, obviously, since I already crashed and burned there (the woman who answered the phone at