Bringing my gaze back to the typewriter, I absent-mindedly
selected one of the cigarettes and pulled it out of the pack, tapping it
lightly on the inside of my left wrist and placing it between my lips. Instantly a flame appeared in front of me,
and I cupped my right hand around it, leaning in for the light. The flame and
the hand holding it belonged, of course, to Roger. I didn't quite smile as I
looked up into the dark glasses he always wore.
"How are you?" he asked as he flicked the gold
lighter closed.
"Fine," I said, "although I could have done
with one less Russian."
His laugh was low and insinuating as he walked back to his
desk. After a moment I heard his purr as he connected to his next prospect on
the phone.
Back at the typewriter, my eyes finally cleared. The
nicotine had settled me down. I resumed typing Joe's correspondence, which he spoke
into a Dictaphone machine and I typed while playing it back.
Dear Mr. Blakely: In response to your letter of 27 September, blah…blah…blah.
Dear Mr. Blakely: In response to your letter of 27 September, blah…blah…blah.
Don't get me wrong, I liked Joe. As secretary to the Sales
Department at Honeywell, Inc, in their Minneapolis headquarters, I was the envy
of most of the girls who were secretaries and file clerks and copy girls in
other departments around me. The pay was good, well over $400 a month, and the
seven salesmen I worked for were movers and shakers in the company. Joe was the
boss, the Sales Manager, and he was decent – easy-going, calm, fatherly to a
young girl in her first serious job. It's just that his correspondence
was…well, so deadly boring. So predictable, I could have written it myself. And
sometimes I did, changing a phrase here and there to make a letter read better.
Joe never mentioned it, so I guess he didn't notice. He just signed the letters
and I sent them out.
Speaking of predictable, there was Roger, although you
couldn't say he was boring. Roger was like a dog on a scent, with his expensive-looking
slightly shiny suits (silk, some of the other girls said), his black hair
slicked back from his forehead, and his ever-present dark glasses. Married, of
course, he mumbled when he spoke so you had to lean in to hear. Probably he
thought it was seductive. Well, it was. The thing about Roger was that he was
both seductive and at the same time somehow repulsive – a combination I had a
hard time resisting. I suspected he was sloshed most of the time, even in the
morning. He was after me, that was for sure. He hung around my desk when he was
in the office. He took me out to lunch, sometimes alone and sometimes with the
other guys. I couldn't imagine why. Maybe his wife wasn't any fun.
It had all started a month or so ago.
"How about Charlie's for lunch?" Ken, one of the
salesmen, said to Nels.
"Sure, sounds good. Bert, Roger, how about you?"
Bert looked up from his desk. "I have to finish this
bid – it'll only be a few minutes."
"Let's bring our new secretary out to Charlie's,"
Roger mumbled, standing up and putting his perfectly tailored jacket on over
his immaculate white shirt. "I'll bet she's never been to Charlie's.
Right, Dana?" He looked over at me with a grin. I shook my head no.
Charlie's was a really expensive restaurant downtown where business people went
for lunch. Of course I hadn't been there, I was only 19. The other men smiled
knowingly, and nodded at Roger.
"Sure, let's take Dana to Charlie's. Bert, put that
thing down. It's lunchtime. It'll be there when you get back and Dana can't
type it anyway. She's going to lunch with us."
On the way out, Roger stopped at the door of Joe's office.
"Joe, we're takin' Dana to Charlie's. D'you wanna come?"
"No, I'll man the fort here. Have a good lunch."
Of course, if Joe went he would have to pay for everybody. He was the boss. I
knew that because I processed the expense reports.
Off we went to Charlie's for steaks and fancy potatoes and
Cherries Jubilee and, of course, Martinis and Manhattans and Tom Collinses, not
one, but two or three.
"Dana, what d'you want to drink? A Martini, p'rhaps?"
Roger murmured. He was sitting next to me in the round leather booth they
called a banquette.
"I'll have a Black Russian, please," I replied.
"But, of course," he smiled as he motioned to the
waiter. "A double Chivas over, and a Black Russian, if you don't
mind."
"My pleasure, sir." I was with the men, so no one questioned
whether I was old enough to drink.
Could I have picked a less alcoholic drink? Probably. But I
wanted to show how worldly I was, like them. Black Russian was a serious drink,
although sweet enough to be feminine. It was a James Bond sort of drink, and
that's the way I felt - glamorous, worldly, mysterious, possibly dangerous, eating
and drinking lunch with the men. I felt at one with the scene - the rich aroma of seared filet mignon, the whisper
of plates being set down with flair by tuxedoed waiters, a cigarette held
casually but elegantly in my right hand, and the strong sweet taste of vodka
and Kahlua punctuated by one perfect hazelnut.
Soon I became a regular at office lunches, and these were my
trademarks. I drank Black Russians and smoked Benson and Hedges cigarettes,
flip-top box.
"Are you busy this weekend?" Roger stood by my
desk, a casual smile on his face. Of course his eyes were impossible to read
behind the dark glasses. It was 2 p.m. on a Friday and he was on his way out of
the office for the weekend.
"Um, yes, I think so. I have some plans."
"Oh, too bad. I was hoping we could meet for drinks,
maybe stop by the house. You've never seen my house, right?" He paused and
his dark glasses looked intently in my direction. I didn't say anything.
"So, here's my phone number." He handed me a yellow While You Were
Out message slip with a number written on it. "Call me if you find you
have any time."
I took the slip of paper, trying not to touch his fingers,
and put it on my desk. The only coherent thought in my mind was the realization
that he wasn't mumbling for a change. What did he mean "call me"? Did
he mean "at home"? What about his wife?
"Thanks. OK, maybe I will. I think I'll be busy
though." I couldn't think of what else to say so I turned back to my
typewriter. Roger picked up his leather briefcase and raised his hand in a mock
salute as he went out the door. My mind was in a whirl, and I lit another
cigarette to get my bearings. Soon my fingers were flying again over the
typewriter keys. I refused to think about Roger.
When I wasn't at work, my girlfriend Cathi and I liked to
bar hop. We had fake IDs, like everyone we knew who wasn't yet 21, the legal
drinking age in Minnesota. No one looked at them closely, unless of course you
were so young you looked like a baby.
We loved the restaurants that had good bars and weren't too
expensive, like Michaels. There might be a pianist playing "The Shadow of
Your Smile," one of my favorites, a slow, sad, swinging song that fit my
melancholy mood.
At these bars we drank ice cream drinks and this night the
pianist at Michaels was in rare form, already coloring the air with the sad
songs I loved.
"I'll have a brandy Alexander."
"Are you 21, sweetheart?"
"Sure. Want to see my ID?"
"No, that's OK. One brandy Alexander coming right
up."
"What are you going to have, Cath?"
"I'll have one of those crème de menthe things….oh
yeah, a grasshopper."
"Yes, ma'am. Are you girls local? I think I've seen you
in here before."
"Yup, we're from right here. At least for now."
Soon we had frothy sweet drinks to go with our sweet selves.
Cath and I both took out our packs, I my flat box of Benson
and Hedges, and Cath her soft pack of Menthol Kools. The bartender raced over
with a light.
I hadn't mentioned anything about Roger's weekend invitation
to Cath, and I didn't feel like bringing it up now. It was on my mind, though,
seductive curiosity and revulsion side by side. I sat back with a sigh, blowing
smoke rings high into the dimly lit air of the bar. Men. What was with them?
Roger was obviously a guy on the make, a scalp collector. Maybe they all were.
I had no respect for them. I could use them as easily as they could use me.
Wasn't I supposed to be finding a husband? I couldn't
imagine how it would work out.
"Cath, I'm going to the ladies,"
"OK Dan. I'll be here."
I passed the pay phone on my way into the ladies. On the way
out I stopped in front of it and fumbled for a moment in my purse. My mother's
voice came into my mind: "A lady never fumbles in her purse." I
smiled to myself. Well, I'm no lady, Mom. I came up with a yellow slip of paper
and a number. And a dime.
A phone rang at the other end of the line, then it stopped.
"Yeah."
"Hello. Roger? Yes," I laughed softly. "It's
me."
In the lounge, the pianist started up again, the slow sad
strains of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" filtering in through the door to
where I stood with the phone in my hand.
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