I was twenty-four years old and living in New York. I wanted to be a screenwriter. I’d heard about a job that sounded perfect for me. A friend knew of a Mr. Stone who’d once worked at Columbia Pictures doing God knows what. He’d just retired, but the studio was going to pay for him to have a secretary for another year. I went to the Coca-Cola Building, on Fifth Avenue, wearing my most secretarial outfit that didn’t include stockings but should’ve. I met Mr. Stone, who was cold, officious, and intimidating. I learned that while he would rarely be in the office, I was to answer his phone and handle his insurance claims. I would make five hundred dollars a week (a fortune!) to sit at a desk and do very little. I had no idea why he hired me, but I was ecstatic. I would get to work at Columbia Pictures (and possibly meet people who could help me with my career) and would have an infinite amount of time to do nothing but write.
I sat behind a desk facing Mr. Stone’s former office. It had a desk, a large couch, and some pictures of his happy-looking grown children. I was near many other, older secretaries, all of whom looked the part. They had hairdos and wore skirts and heels (and stockings). They were career secretaries and didn’t know what to make of me. I wore jeans and sneakers, didn’t brush my hair, and had no idea how to politely answer a phone or do insurance claims. Eventually, I realized that I didn’t have to know how to do these things, because I never needed to do them. In fact, I did absolutely nothing, because there was nothing for me to do.
I had the brand-new (the first of its kind) Macintosh computer at home, but it was too big to carry, so I planned to do my writing by hand. Unfortunately, though, I found it kind of hard to get started. I made some phone calls and organized my wallet. I redid my makeup and cleaned out my purse. At lunch, I ate an enormous amount, because I had an employee card, which made it really cheap. After the first week, I’d gained three pounds and written nothing.
Seeing I was at a loss, the secretary beside me taught me how to knit, and I figured if writing didn’t come one day, it would come the next. But it never came. In fact, I never did any writing. Just knowing I had all day to do it paralyzed me and then depressed me, so I went to the cafeteria and ate mashed potatoes and brought back lots of candy.
Occasionally, Mr. Stone would call to see if something had arrived in the mail, and I tried to sound grown up. Sometimes when he called I’d be lying under my desk taking a nap. He hadn’t actually come in yet, and I assumed he never would. My friends called me and pretended to be him, saying that he was on his way in and would be expecting a blow job. I begged them to visit me. At first they did, and I treated them to a cheap lunch. Afterward, we went into Mr. Stone’s office and looked at the pictures of his perfect children. I let them make long-distance calls and steal office supplies. But soon they got tired of visiting and stealing, and I was forced to endure my fabulous job alone.
Napping became a priority, and I discovered Mr. Stone’s very nice couch. As the weeks passed, I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes open. I’d become an eating, sleeping zombie. I didn’t even try to write, or pretend to try. The stress was killing me. I realized that I would never be a writer, let alone anything where you’re required to stay awake during the day. What once seemed like an enormous salary now seemed stingy. I felt I should have been paid a great deal more for this pointless, miserable job that was ruining my life.
One day, after a particularly wonderful meat-loaf lunch, I took to Mr. Stone’s office. As always, I closed the door, loosened my belt buckle, and lay down on the soft couch. I fell asleep and was immediately awakened by a man’s voice.
“What the hell is going on here?” Mr. Stone shouted. I sat up. I was groggy. I was fired. ♦
