Read Online Diary of a Working Girl by Daniella Brodsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Daniella Brodsky
Ads: Link
Mergers and Acquisitions department of Salomon Smith Barney. It is the one I’d seen advertised in the paper. My duty would be to support one of the Managing Directors. I can do that! No problem. And after we’d spoken about how glowingly perfect I am (according to my resume and alleged computer skills), I’ve almost forgotten that I have to take the tests at all.
“Before you run into the testing center,” Ms. Banker explains in a wide-eyed manner, “I’d like you to meet the man you’d be reporting to. He actually just came in to meet with me about his particular requirements, and I asked him to stay for a moment to meet you. Please do not embarrass the Financial Professional Recruiting Agency or yourself.”
I am glad at this opportunity, because I’m always great with interviews—I do this for a living! As I glance at her thumbtack-hung posters—waves crashing off pointed rocks under a crystal blue sky, above the word, “Success;” another depicting a skier doing the downhill underneath the word, “Compete,”—I wonder why, if she thought she was helping people so much, she felt the need to act like a mean know-it-all. Fingering Ms. Banker’s Precious Moments figurine of a girl wearing glasses at a desk, which seemed almost sinister, given the situation (you know, resting on the desk of a mean cow), I picture the balding, stout man, stuffed into a cheap-looking suit, sporting a record-breaking comb-over, who would most likely walk through that door. He’d probably take one look at a young, pretty thing like myself and hire me on the spot.
“Thomas Reiner, meet Lane Silverman,” says Ms. Banker as she came back into her inspiration-filled office with him. I stand up to 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 50
50
D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y
shake his hand, noting that he is not, in fact, old at all. My guess—
about thirty-two. His full head of soft brown hair is neatly shaved at the back and sides and just the right length up top. He looks like someone you would glance at, but never look twice at in a bar; the sort of man you would describe as “nice.” His female friends probably tried to fix him up all the time, selling him with phrases like, “He is the nicest man I know and so smart!” I feel a wave of pity for him.
We both take the vinyl seats on the interrogation end of her desk, and Ms. Banker props herself up, back perfectly straight (straighter than when she’d met with me, I note) in her own high-backed Staples special, hands folded in prayer position.
“So, Lane, Ms. Banker tells me your computer skills are excellent, and I see you’ve graduated from NYU and spent lots of time as a freelance writer. All very impressive. Writing skills are highly regarded for positions like this. But, I must ask why you are choosing to switch careers at this particular time?”
“Well, I just want to meet men, really,” I say, smiling to show it was a joke. A joke. Of course, it’s a joke. Of course. Ms. Banker’s brows scrunch up so tightly, they virtually disappear. But when Reiner’s face breaks into a gleaming smile (he has very white teeth) and he begins laughing, she lets them ease back into two separate entities again and even manages an under-her-breath laugh/sigh to show she is obviously in agreement with popular opinion—her important, paying client’s popular opinion.
“Obviously, you have very good interpersonal schmoozing skills,” he says. “Is that what you studied in college?”
“Well, that was my minor, but English was my major.” I try to communicate levity with my eyes rather than my hands in the spirit of smooth calm. Nevertheless, of their own will, they make half gestures in my lap that could have gotten me confused with a sign language translator.
21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 51
D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 51
“You’d never tell from where I wound up, but I actually studied literature in my undergrad days as well. Big American lit
“Before you run into the testing center,” Ms. Banker explains in a wide-eyed manner, “I’d like you to meet the man you’d be reporting to. He actually just came in to meet with me about his particular requirements, and I asked him to stay for a moment to meet you. Please do not embarrass the Financial Professional Recruiting Agency or yourself.”
I am glad at this opportunity, because I’m always great with interviews—I do this for a living! As I glance at her thumbtack-hung posters—waves crashing off pointed rocks under a crystal blue sky, above the word, “Success;” another depicting a skier doing the downhill underneath the word, “Compete,”—I wonder why, if she thought she was helping people so much, she felt the need to act like a mean know-it-all. Fingering Ms. Banker’s Precious Moments figurine of a girl wearing glasses at a desk, which seemed almost sinister, given the situation (you know, resting on the desk of a mean cow), I picture the balding, stout man, stuffed into a cheap-looking suit, sporting a record-breaking comb-over, who would most likely walk through that door. He’d probably take one look at a young, pretty thing like myself and hire me on the spot.
“Thomas Reiner, meet Lane Silverman,” says Ms. Banker as she came back into her inspiration-filled office with him. I stand up to 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 50
50
D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y
shake his hand, noting that he is not, in fact, old at all. My guess—
about thirty-two. His full head of soft brown hair is neatly shaved at the back and sides and just the right length up top. He looks like someone you would glance at, but never look twice at in a bar; the sort of man you would describe as “nice.” His female friends probably tried to fix him up all the time, selling him with phrases like, “He is the nicest man I know and so smart!” I feel a wave of pity for him.
We both take the vinyl seats on the interrogation end of her desk, and Ms. Banker props herself up, back perfectly straight (straighter than when she’d met with me, I note) in her own high-backed Staples special, hands folded in prayer position.
“So, Lane, Ms. Banker tells me your computer skills are excellent, and I see you’ve graduated from NYU and spent lots of time as a freelance writer. All very impressive. Writing skills are highly regarded for positions like this. But, I must ask why you are choosing to switch careers at this particular time?”
“Well, I just want to meet men, really,” I say, smiling to show it was a joke. A joke. Of course, it’s a joke. Of course. Ms. Banker’s brows scrunch up so tightly, they virtually disappear. But when Reiner’s face breaks into a gleaming smile (he has very white teeth) and he begins laughing, she lets them ease back into two separate entities again and even manages an under-her-breath laugh/sigh to show she is obviously in agreement with popular opinion—her important, paying client’s popular opinion.
“Obviously, you have very good interpersonal schmoozing skills,” he says. “Is that what you studied in college?”
“Well, that was my minor, but English was my major.” I try to communicate levity with my eyes rather than my hands in the spirit of smooth calm. Nevertheless, of their own will, they make half gestures in my lap that could have gotten me confused with a sign language translator.
21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 51
D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 51
“You’d never tell from where I wound up, but I actually studied literature in my undergrad days as well. Big American lit
Similar Books
