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Authors: Charity Shumway
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I felt myself uncoiling.
All year, everyone had said “You’ll see, it’ll all work out in the end,” and I’d wanted to throw things at them and remind them that was easy for them to say since they were in the enviable positions of having more than twenty-eight dollars in their bank accounts. All year, it felt like I was barely catching shallow, ragged breaths. But as a sense of command over floor –2 seeped into me, I could feel a physical change. I knew this job wasn’t permanent—that after I found these five hundred women I was most likely going to find myself hurling résumés into the void again—but finally, at least for the moment, the buzz of anxiety lifted.
I needed to spend the day photocopying the collected TGTW coverage so I’d have handy access at my desk, but before I did anything so boring, I wanted to further put down roots and actually talk to one of these women. I went to the shelves, pulled a volume from the seventies, and picked a winner. Cicely Ross, ’78. She’d do just fine. Charm had done her up in a long prairie dress, which drew my eye, but I also zoned in on Ms. Ross because she’d gone to my college, which meant that, unlike the other women I was going to have to aimlessly google, for Cicely Ross I could simply log in to the alumni directory, type her name, and voilà. Which is exactly what I did. And just like that, Dr. Cicely Ross Rumbachand appeared, complete with street address, e-mail, and phone number.
I dialed and a man’s voice answered. When I asked if Cicely was available he said, “I’m sorry, she’s not.”
“It would be great if I could leave a message,” I cheerily replied, just thrilled with myself for having so swiftly and successfully tracked her down.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “That won’t be possible. Cicely passed away a few weeks ago.”
I put my hand over my mouth. Then I apologized and got off the phone as quickly as possible, all the gusto drained right out of me. Maybe I was by myself in this basement, but XADI and Regina were out there, and at some point they were going to want to know how things were going. And suddenly, it seemed possible my reports might not be so great. Not that all the women were going to be dead, obviously, but there was a chance these conversations might be a little less smooth and sunny than I’d imagined.
I should have just moved right along and dialed another woman, but I felt suddenly phone shy. I tried to practice a theoretical call, rehearsing lines. “Hello, I’m calling from Charm magazine. Hello, I’m calling about Charm magazine’s Ten Girls to Watch contest.” I even mouthed the words. Nope, still not ready to dial again.
I needed something repetitive and calming to ease me back into it. I needed to make copies. I grabbed a couple of the bound volumes and walked quickly away from the phone.
One full track around the perimeter of floor –2 confirmed that there really was no one else down here, and I hadn’t found any signs of copy machines either. I didn’t feel an entirely rejuvenated sense of confidence yet, but I felt collected enough to at least reach for the phone. From his outpost somewhere in the building, Ralph answered . . . halfway through the first ring. Which made me wonder what Ralph did all day, other than wait for his phone to ring.
“Well hello there, Dawn,” he said before I had a chance to say anything. The copy machine, he informed me, was on floor –1, on the east side, and it was unlocked. I thanked Ralph and made my way upstairs.
After graduation, Helen had encouraged me to send pitches to magazines. I’d whipped up dozens of story ideas. Not a single editor replied to a single one of them, but I still liked some of what I’d come up with. Like “Tone Your Calves While Copying,” tip no. 6 in an article on office exercises I’d pitched to Girl Talk.
During one particularly bleak stretch of temping as a legal secretary at a law firm (a job made all the more
All year, everyone had said “You’ll see, it’ll all work out in the end,” and I’d wanted to throw things at them and remind them that was easy for them to say since they were in the enviable positions of having more than twenty-eight dollars in their bank accounts. All year, it felt like I was barely catching shallow, ragged breaths. But as a sense of command over floor –2 seeped into me, I could feel a physical change. I knew this job wasn’t permanent—that after I found these five hundred women I was most likely going to find myself hurling résumés into the void again—but finally, at least for the moment, the buzz of anxiety lifted.
I needed to spend the day photocopying the collected TGTW coverage so I’d have handy access at my desk, but before I did anything so boring, I wanted to further put down roots and actually talk to one of these women. I went to the shelves, pulled a volume from the seventies, and picked a winner. Cicely Ross, ’78. She’d do just fine. Charm had done her up in a long prairie dress, which drew my eye, but I also zoned in on Ms. Ross because she’d gone to my college, which meant that, unlike the other women I was going to have to aimlessly google, for Cicely Ross I could simply log in to the alumni directory, type her name, and voilà. Which is exactly what I did. And just like that, Dr. Cicely Ross Rumbachand appeared, complete with street address, e-mail, and phone number.
I dialed and a man’s voice answered. When I asked if Cicely was available he said, “I’m sorry, she’s not.”
“It would be great if I could leave a message,” I cheerily replied, just thrilled with myself for having so swiftly and successfully tracked her down.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “That won’t be possible. Cicely passed away a few weeks ago.”
I put my hand over my mouth. Then I apologized and got off the phone as quickly as possible, all the gusto drained right out of me. Maybe I was by myself in this basement, but XADI and Regina were out there, and at some point they were going to want to know how things were going. And suddenly, it seemed possible my reports might not be so great. Not that all the women were going to be dead, obviously, but there was a chance these conversations might be a little less smooth and sunny than I’d imagined.
I should have just moved right along and dialed another woman, but I felt suddenly phone shy. I tried to practice a theoretical call, rehearsing lines. “Hello, I’m calling from Charm magazine. Hello, I’m calling about Charm magazine’s Ten Girls to Watch contest.” I even mouthed the words. Nope, still not ready to dial again.
I needed something repetitive and calming to ease me back into it. I needed to make copies. I grabbed a couple of the bound volumes and walked quickly away from the phone.
One full track around the perimeter of floor –2 confirmed that there really was no one else down here, and I hadn’t found any signs of copy machines either. I didn’t feel an entirely rejuvenated sense of confidence yet, but I felt collected enough to at least reach for the phone. From his outpost somewhere in the building, Ralph answered . . . halfway through the first ring. Which made me wonder what Ralph did all day, other than wait for his phone to ring.
“Well hello there, Dawn,” he said before I had a chance to say anything. The copy machine, he informed me, was on floor –1, on the east side, and it was unlocked. I thanked Ralph and made my way upstairs.
After graduation, Helen had encouraged me to send pitches to magazines. I’d whipped up dozens of story ideas. Not a single editor replied to a single one of them, but I still liked some of what I’d come up with. Like “Tone Your Calves While Copying,” tip no. 6 in an article on office exercises I’d pitched to Girl Talk.
During one particularly bleak stretch of temping as a legal secretary at a law firm (a job made all the more
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