Aim to Please (wlw)

ch. 1 • a job opening

6 months prior.

Anxiety was not even the top of the emotional iceberg that was inside my mind. I stood in front of a massive skyscraper, a reflective glass beacon of corporate mystery. Inside, on each floor, were multi-million-sometimes multi-billion-dollar companies. Included, on most floors, was a CEO or a lead board member.

Said important individuals had assistants. Multiple, for some.

At almost 30-years-old, I believed what I needed in life was a career change. The last 6 years of my life had been confirmed in the claustrophobic trenches of cubicles, stamping documents and fixing the money issues of the rich. The pay was alright, the benefits were decent, and the people- they people were trash. More personality exists in a tardigrade than the minds of my previous coworkers.

So, here I stood, in front of one of hundreds of highrises in the fringes of the city, attempting to muster up the gumption to enter.

Ms. Laurie Montague, a 38-year-old fashion mogul with the reputation of grandiose and extravagance, was looking for a personal assistant. The job advertisement was not public, but word-of-mouth. Fortunately, quite a few people I knew had modeled for her previously.

I sent in my resume and a headshot, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And 2 months later, my self-consciousness almost had me turn around and run with my tail between my legs. In a fit of aggravation, I stomped my foot and entered the building through the revolving doors.

Opulence. Modern, black-and-white, edgy opulence. The floors were marbled and the furniture was sleek. Everything about this lobby gave me an odd feeling, one akin to being too poor to be here.

My heeled footsteps echoed as I approached the main desk. A bored, dead-eyed young man was sitting in front of a dual monitor setup. He looked up at me, and without speaking, asked me what the fuck I wanted.

"I'm here for an interview with Ms. Laurie Montague," I choked out.

He simply pressed a button on the intercom station beside him. The tonal feedback of the transmission made my skin crawl. After a few seconds, a static-laden voice agreed to my entry.

I found myself at a loss. The walls were all so slick and there was no indication of an elevator or stairs. Modernism and minimalism are fine, of course-quite attractive, actually- but this was nonsense. A soft whine settled in my throat, immediately killed by my self-control.

Ding.

The Miracle on 41st Street. Walls parted and showcased an elevator with a waiting attendant. She stared at me questioningly, amusement dancing in her eyes. I sighed and clicked my way to her unnecessarily hidden mode of transportation.

"Are you going to Montague and Co?"

"Yes ma'am."

The elevator call system was a smorgasbord of tiny buttons. Completely blank with no indication of levels. I wrung my hands and rolled my shoulders, listening to each beep and counting the floors. Suddenly, however, a trio of fast beeps rang out and the elevator's speed increased. I gasped and stumbled slightly.

"Ah, apologies. I should have warned you, Miss," the attendant said nonchalantly. "Once we get to level 30, it goes into 'express' mode to the upper floors. There are 108 floors, and Ms. Montague is located on level 98."

"I bet the views are...immaculate," I coughed out as nausea took over. My stomach flipped and my ears popped constantly for a few seconds.

She just chuckled. "Well, sometimes you can't see much. Because of the clouds."