Star Skivvies
The new job is right next to the gaping wound where the World Trade Center used to be. I feel it is an ominous sign. The basic premise is that I'm responsible for interviewing potential carers, nannies, nursing aides, butlers, chefs, housekeepers and other staff for the créme de la créme of New York Society. Brenda, my boss, explains my duties in great detail.
"So then you, like, pick up the phone when it rings, and there will be, like, a person on the other end, and you have to say like 'Hello Star Skivvies, How may I help you?' and they will reply..."
The office is beige and pink. They play supermarket music continually at a tone set to resemble Chinese water torture. Brenda wears brown tweed and shoulderpads. I spend an hour playing Solitaire on the computer. The phone rings.
"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"
A quavering voice trembles across the line.
"It's Po-lly. Who're you? Ah don't know yer voice. Who are ya?"
I put the call on hold and tell Brenda that it's Polly. She mouths over (using accompanying hand gestures) that I should tell Polly, one of their clients, a Texan Septuagenarian millionairess living in New York, that her nurse, Ramona, has gone to the hospital to have a cyst removed from her inner thigh and that Nurse Gloria will be changing her old-person nappies today. Charades over, Brenda resumes Instant Messaging with Leroy in the PR department, unaware that I have secretly logged onto her IM and can read every sordid detail of their last steamy stationary cupboard encounter together. I go back to the call.
"Hi Polly, Ramona can't make it today..."
"I know, but I don't want a noo nurse, I jes' want my Ramona or nobody young lady...."
There is a scuffle in the background. A croaky male voice yells "Is she young? Good lookin'? Ready fer anythin'?"
Polly's voice tremulously re-emerges.
"Shurrup Bill. That's ma husband. Tell me young lady, this Gloria, is she... black?"
"Erm... no?"
"Wa-all, Ah guess ah kin have a noo nurse jes' fer one day. Ah'm jes' worried about the time it takes me to open the door. It takes me a real long time to open the door. What if ah spend all that time gettin' to the door, and she ain't there no more?"
I check the time. It's 10.20am. Gloria is scheduled to arrive at 11am.
"Polly, tell you what, how about you set off for the door now, and by the time you get there, she'll probably be standing on the doorstep waiting for you."
"Oh. Ah guess. Oh. Ah'll get up now. Oh it hurts. Oh the pain..."
I hang up.
Star Skivvies prides itself on its staff selection process, which is, according to the website, "likened to Fort Knox" in its ability to filter out 'smokers', 'those with fake documentation', 'illegals' and other 'undesirables'. How they managed to miss the chain-smoking illegal on the front desk answering the phone for ten bucks an hour with a fake SS number and no work visa is anyone's guess. The clue is, perhaps, in the white skin, English accent, and Brenda's IQ level. I can see that this job will push me to unendurable new intellectual heights. I am already relishing the challenge.
"So then you, like, pick up the phone when it rings, and there will be, like, a person on the other end, and you have to say like 'Hello Star Skivvies, How may I help you?' and they will reply..."
The office is beige and pink. They play supermarket music continually at a tone set to resemble Chinese water torture. Brenda wears brown tweed and shoulderpads. I spend an hour playing Solitaire on the computer. The phone rings.
"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"
A quavering voice trembles across the line.
"It's Po-lly. Who're you? Ah don't know yer voice. Who are ya?"
I put the call on hold and tell Brenda that it's Polly. She mouths over (using accompanying hand gestures) that I should tell Polly, one of their clients, a Texan Septuagenarian millionairess living in New York, that her nurse, Ramona, has gone to the hospital to have a cyst removed from her inner thigh and that Nurse Gloria will be changing her old-person nappies today. Charades over, Brenda resumes Instant Messaging with Leroy in the PR department, unaware that I have secretly logged onto her IM and can read every sordid detail of their last steamy stationary cupboard encounter together. I go back to the call.
"Hi Polly, Ramona can't make it today..."
"I know, but I don't want a noo nurse, I jes' want my Ramona or nobody young lady...."
There is a scuffle in the background. A croaky male voice yells "Is she young? Good lookin'? Ready fer anythin'?"
Polly's voice tremulously re-emerges.
"Shurrup Bill. That's ma husband. Tell me young lady, this Gloria, is she... black?"
"Erm... no?"
"Wa-all, Ah guess ah kin have a noo nurse jes' fer one day. Ah'm jes' worried about the time it takes me to open the door. It takes me a real long time to open the door. What if ah spend all that time gettin' to the door, and she ain't there no more?"
I check the time. It's 10.20am. Gloria is scheduled to arrive at 11am.
"Polly, tell you what, how about you set off for the door now, and by the time you get there, she'll probably be standing on the doorstep waiting for you."
"Oh. Ah guess. Oh. Ah'll get up now. Oh it hurts. Oh the pain..."
I hang up.
Star Skivvies prides itself on its staff selection process, which is, according to the website, "likened to Fort Knox" in its ability to filter out 'smokers', 'those with fake documentation', 'illegals' and other 'undesirables'. How they managed to miss the chain-smoking illegal on the front desk answering the phone for ten bucks an hour with a fake SS number and no work visa is anyone's guess. The clue is, perhaps, in the white skin, English accent, and Brenda's IQ level. I can see that this job will push me to unendurable new intellectual heights. I am already relishing the challenge.
MIMI IN NY | 1:47 PM |
