eight or so people, I preferred to wait like a normal person. Like most days, however, the
line today was twenty or more poor professional souls, wearily waiting in line for their
expensive caffeine fix, and I had to jump in front of them. It was not something I
relished, but Miranda didn’t seem to understand that the latte I presented to her each
morning could not onlynot be delivered but could easily take a half hour at prime time to
purchase. A couple weeks of shrill, angry phone calls on my cell phone (“Ahn-dre-ah, I
simply do not understand. I called you a full twenty-five minutes ago to tell you I’d be in,
and my breakfast is not ready. This is unacceptable.”), and I had spoken to the franchise
manager.
“Um, hi. Thanks for taking a minute to talk with me,” I said to the petite black woman
who was in charge. “I know this sounds absolutely crazy, but I was wondering if we
could work something out in terms of me having to wait in line.” I went on to explain, as
best I could, that I work for a rather important, unreasonable person who doesn’t like to
wait for her morning coffee, and was there any way I could walk ahead of the line, subtly,
of course, and have someone prepare my order immediately? By some stroke of dumb
luck, Marion, the manager, was going to FIT at night for a degree in fashion
merchandising.
“Ohmigod, are you kidding? You work for Miranda Priestly? And she drinks our lattes?
A tall? Every morning? Unbelievable. Oh, yes, yes, of course! I’ll tell everyone to help
you right away. Don’t worry about a thing. She is, like, the most powerful person in
fashion,” Marion gushed as I forced myself to nod enthusiastically.
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And so it came that I could, at will, bypass a long line of tired, aggressive, self-righteous
New Yorkers and order before those who had been waiting for many, many minutes. It
didn’t make me feel good or important or even cool, and I always dreaded the days I had
to do it. When the lines were hellishly long like the one today—snaking around the entire
counter and pushing its way outside—I felt even worse and knew I’d be walking out with
a full load. My head was pounding at this point, and my eyes already felt heavy and dry. I
tried to forget that this was my life, the reason I’d spent four long years memorizing
poems and examining prose, the result of good grades and lots of kissing up. Instead, I
ordered Miranda’s tall latte from one of the new baristas and added a few drinks of my
own. A grande Amaretto Cappuccino, a Mocha Frappuccino, and a Caramel Macchiato
landed in my four-cup carrier, along with a half-dozen muffins and croissants. The grand
total came to $28.83, and I made sure to tuck my receipt into the already bulging,
specially designated receipt section of my wallet, all of which would be reimbursed by
the always reliable Elias-Clark.
I had to hurry now, as it was already twelve minutes since Miranda had called and I
knew she’d probably be sitting there, seething, wondering exactly where I disappeared to
every morning—the Starbucks logo on the side of the cup didn’t ever clue her in. But
before I could pick up all the stuff from the counter, my phone rang. And as usual, my
heart lurched. I knew it was her, absolutely, positively knew it, but it scared me
nonetheless. The caller ID confirmed my suspicion, and I was surprised to hear that it
was Emily, calling from Miranda’s line.
“She’s here and she’s pissed,” Emily whispered. “You’ve got to get back here.”
“I’m doing everything I can,” I growled, trying to balance the carrying tray and the bag
of baked goods on one arm and hold the phone with the other.
And thus the basic root of the hatred that existed between Emily and me. Since she was
in the “senior” assistant position, I was more of Miranda’s personal assistant, there to
fetch those coffees and meals, help her kids with their homework, and run all over the
city to retrieve the perfect dishes for her dinner parties. Emily did her expenses, made her
travel arrangements, and—the biggest job of all—put through her personal clothing order
every few months. So when I was out gathering the goodies each morning, Emily was left
alone to handle all of the ringing phone lines and an alert, early-morning Miranda and all
of her demands. I hated her for being able to wear sleeveless shirts to work, where she
wouldn’t ever have to leave the warm office six times a day to race around New York
fetching, searching, hunting, gathering. She hated me for having excuses to leave the
office, where she knew I always took longer than necessary to talk on my cell phone and
smoke cigarettes.
The walk back to the building usually took longer than the walk to Starbucks, since I had
to distribute my coffees and snacks. I preferred to hand them out to the homeless, a small
band of regulars who hung out on stoops and slept in doorways on 57th Street, thumbing
the city’s attempts to “clean them up.” The police always hustled them away before rush
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hour kicked into high gear, but they were still hanging out when I was doing the day’s
first coffee run. There was something so fantastic—invigorating, really—in making sure
that these overpriced, Elias-sponsored coffee faves made it into the hands of the city’s
most undesirable people.
The urine-soaked man who slept outside the Chase Bank got a daily Mocha Frappuccino.
He never actually woke up to accept it, but I left it (with a straw, of course) next to his
left elbow each morning, and it was often gone—along with him—when I returned for
my next coffee run a few hours later.
The old lady who propped herself up on her cart and set out a cardboard sign that
readNO HOME/CAN CLEAN/NEED FOOD got the Caramel Macchiato. I soon found
her name was Theresa, and I used to buy her a tall latte, like Miranda’s. She always said
thank you, but she never made a move to taste it while it was still hot. When I finally
asked her if she wanted me to stop bringing them, she vigorously shook her head and
mumbled that she hates to be picky, but she’d actually like something sweeter, that the
coffee was too strong. The next day I had her coffee flavored with vanilla and topped
with whipped cream. Was this better? Oh yes, it was much, much better, but maybe now
it was a touch too sweet. One more day and I finally got it right: it turns out Theresa liked
her coffee unflavored, topped with whipped cream and some caramel syrup. She flashed
a near-toothless smile and began guzzling it each and every day, the moment I handed it
to her.
The third coffee went to Rio, the Nigerian who sold CDs off a blanket. He didn’t appear
to be homeless, but he walked over to me one morning when I was handing Theresa her
daily fix and said, or, rather, sang, “Yo, yo, yo, you like the Starbucks fairy or what?
Where’s mine?” I handed him a grande Amaretto Cappuccino the next day, and we’d
been friends ever since.
I expensed twenty-four dollars more every day on coffee than necessary (Miranda’s
single latte should’ve cost a mere four dollars) to take yet another passive-aggressive
swipe at the company, my personal reprimand to them for Miranda Priestly’s free rein. I
handed them out to the filthy, the smelly, and the crazy because that—and not the wasted
money—was what wouldreally piss them off.
By the time I made it to the lobby, Pedro, the heavily accented Mexican delivery boy
from Mangia, was chatting in Spanish with Eduardo near the elevator bank.
“Hey, here’s our girlie,” said Pedro as a few Clackers peered over at us. “I’ve got the
usual: bacon, sausage, and one nasty-looking cheese thing. You only ordered one today!
Don’t know how you eat this shit and stay so thin, girl.” He grinned. I suppressed the
urge to tell him he didn’t have a clue what thin looked like. Pedro knew full well that I
was not the one eating his breakfasts, but like every one of the dozen or so people I spoke
to before eightA .M. each day, he didn’t really know the details. I handed him a ten, as
usual, for the $3.99 breakfast, and headed upstairs.
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She was on the phone when I entered the office, her snakeskin Gucci trench draped
across the top of my desk. My blood pressure increased tenfold. Would it kill her to take
the extra two steps over to the closet, open it, and hang up her own coat? Why did she
have to take it off and fling it over my desk? I put down the latte, looked over at Emily,
who was too busy answering three phone lines to notice me, and hung up the snakeskin. I
shook off my own coat and bent down to toss it underneath my desk, since mine might
infect hers if they mingled in the closet.
I grabbed two raw sugars, a stirrer, and a napkin from a stock I kept in my desk drawer
and wrapped them all together. I briefly considered spitting in the drink but was able to
restrain myself. Next, I pulled a small china plate from the overhead bin and dumped out
the greasy meat and the oozing Danish, wiping my hands on her dirty dry cleaning, which
was hidden beneath my desk so she couldn’t see it hadn’t been picked up yet. I was
theoretically supposed to clean her plate each day in the sink in our mock-up kitchen, but
I just couldn’t bring myself to bother. The humiliation of doing her dishes in front of
everyone prompted me to wipe it down with tissues after each meal and scrape off any
leftover cheese with my fingernails. If it was really dirty or had been sitting for a long
time, I’d open a bottle of the Pellegrino we kept by the case and dump a little bit on. I
figured she should be thankful I wasn’t using a spritz or two of desk cleaner. I was
reasonably sure that I had reached a new moral low—what was worrisome was that I’d
sunk to it so naturally.
“Remember, I want my girls smiling,” she was saying into the phone. I could tell from
her tone she was talking to Lucia, the fashion director who’d be in charge of the
upcoming Brazil shoot, about how the models should appear. “Happy, lots of teeth, clean
healthy girls. No brooding, no anger, no frowning, no dark makeup. I want them shining.
I mean it, Lucia: I will accept nothing less.”
I set the plate on the edge of her desk and placed the latte and the napkin with all
necessary accessories next to it. She didn’t look at me. I paused for a moment to see if
she’d hand me a pile of papers off her desk, things to fax or find or file, but she ignored
me and I walked out. Eight-thirtyA .M. I’d been awake now for three full hours, felt like
I’d already worked for twelve, and could finally sit down for the very first time all
morning. Just as I was logging on to Hotmail, anticipating some fun e-mails from people
on the outside, she walked out. The belted jacket cinched her already tiny waist and
complemented the perfectly fitted pencil skirt she wore beneath it. She looked dynamite.
“Ahn-dre-ah. The latte is ice cold. I don’t understand why. You were certainly gone long
enough! Bring me another.”
I inhaled deeply and concentrated on keeping the look of hatred off my face. Miranda set
the offending latte on my desk and flipped through the new issue ofVanity Fair that a
staffer had set on the table for her. I could feel Emily watching me and knew her look
would be one of sympathy and anger: she felt bad that I had to repeat the hellish ordeal
all over again, but she hated me for daring to be upset about it. After all, wouldn’t a
million girls die for my job?
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And so with an audible sigh—something I’d perfected lately, so it was just enough
Miranda could hear but not nearly enough she could ever call me on it—I once again put
on my coat and willed my legs to move toward the elevators. It was going to be another
long, long day.
The second coffee run in twenty minutes went much more smoothly; the lines at
Starbucks had thinned a little and Marion had come on duty. She herself got to work on a
tall latte as soon as I walked in the door. I didn’t bother overspending on a larger order
this time because I was too desperate to just get back and sit down, but I did addventi
cappuccinos for both Emily and me. Just as I was paying for the coffee, my phone rang.
Goddamn it to hell, this woman was impossible. Insatiable, impatient, impossible. I
hadn’t been gone for more than four minutes; she couldn’t possibly be freaking out yet.
Again, I balanced my tray in one hand and pulled my phone from my coat pocket. I’d
already decided that such behavior on her part warranted my having another cigarette—if
just to hold up her coffee a few minutes longer—when I saw that it was Lily calling from
her home phone.
“Hey, bad time?” she asked, sounding excited. I looked at my watch and saw that she
should’ve been in class.
“Um, sort of. I’m on my second coffee run, which is really great. I’m really, really
enjoying myself, just in case you were wondering. What’s up? Don’t you have class
now?”
“Yeah, but I went out with Pink-Shirt Boy again last night and we each drank a few too
many margaritas. Like, eight too many. He’s still passed out here, so I can’t just leave
him. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Yeah?” I was barely listening, since one of the cappuccinos was starting to leak and I
had the phone wedged in between my neck and my shoulder as I used my one free hand
to pluck a cigarette from the box and light it.
“My landlord had the nerve to knock on my door at eight o’clock this morning to tell me
that I’m being evicted,” she said with not a little bit of glee in her voice.
“Evicted? Lil, why? What are you going to do?”
“It seems they finally caught on that I’m not Sandra Gers and that she hasn’t lived here
in six months. Since she’s technically not family, she wasn’t allowed to pass down the
rent-controlled apartment to me. I knew that, of course, so I’ve just been saying I’m her. I
don’t really know how they found out. But whatev, it doesn’t really matter, because now
you and I can live together! Your lease with Shanti and Kendra is just month by month,
right? You subletted because you had no place to live, right?”
