recognizes but never imagines to be turning and churning and spinning under one very
high city roof.
While I’d admittedly never held a job more impressive than frozen yogurt scooper, I’d
heard enough stories from my newly minted professional friends to know that corporate
life just didn’t look like this. Not even close. Absent were the nauseating fluorescent
lights, the never-shows-dirt carpeting. Where dowdy secretaries should have been
ensconced, polished young girls with prominent cheekbones and power suits presided.
Office supplies didn’t exist! Those basic necessities like organizers, garbage cans, and
books were simply not present. I watched as six floors disappeared in swirls of white
perfection before I felt the venom and heard the voice.
“She. Is. Such. A. Bitch! Icannot deal with her anymore. Who does that? I mean,
really—WHO DOES THAT?” hissed a twenty-something girl in a snakeskin skirt and a
very mini tank top, looking more suited for a late night at Bungalow 8 than a day at the
office.
“I know. Iknooooooow. Like, what do you think I’ve had to put up with for the past six
months? Total bitch. And terrible taste, too,” agreed her friend, with an emphatic shake of
her adorable bob.
Mercifully, I arrived at my floor and the elevator slid open.Interesting, I thought. If
you’re comparing this potential work environment to an average day in the life of a
cliquey junior high girl, it might even be better. Stimulating? Well, maybe not. Kind,
sweet, nurturing? No, not exactly. The kind of place that just makes you want to smile
and do a great job? No, OK? No! But if you’re looking for fast, thin, sophisticated,
impossibly hip, and heart-wrenchingly stylish, Elias-Clark is mecca.
The gorgeous jewelry and impeccable makeup of the human resources receptionist did
nothing to allay my overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. She told me to sit and “feel
free to look over some of our titles.” Instead, I tried frantically to memorize the names of
all the editors in chief of the company’s titles—as if they were going to actually quiz me
on them. Ha! I already knew Stephen Alexander, of course, forReaction magazine, and it
wasn’t too hard to rememberThe Buzz ’s Tanner Michel. Those were really the only
interesting things they published anyway, I figured. I’d do fine.
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A short, svelte woman introduced herself as Sharon. “So, dear, you’re looking to break
into magazines, are you?” she asked as she led me past a string of long-legged model
look-alikes to her stark, cold office. “It’s a tough thing to do right out of college, you
know. Lots and lots of competition out there for very few jobs. And the few jobs that are
available, well! They’re not exactly high-paying, if you know what I mean.”
I looked down at my cheap, mismatched suit and very wrong shoes and wondered why
I’d even bothered. Already deep in thought over how I was going to crawl back to that
sofa bed with enough Cheez-Its and cigarettes to last a fortnight, I barely noticed when
she almost whispered, “But I have to say, there’s an amazing opportunity open right now,
and it’s going to go fast!”
Hmm. My antennae perked up as I tried to force her to make eye contact with me.
Opportunity? Go fast? My mind was racing. She wanted to help me? She liked me? Why,
I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet—how could shelike me? And why exactly was she
starting to sound like a car salesman?
“Dear, can you tell me the name of the editor in chief ofRunway ?” she asked, looking
pointedly at me for the first time since I’d sat down.
Blank. Completely and totally blank, I couldn’t remember a thing. I couldn’t believe she
wasquizzing me! I’d never read an issue ofRunway in my life—she wasn’t allowed to ask
me aboutthat one. No one cared aboutRunway . It was afashion magazine, for chrissake,
one I wasn’t even sure contained any writing, just lots of hungry-looking models and
glossy ads. I stammered for a moment or two, while the different names of editors I’d just
before forced my brain to remember all swirled inside my head, dancing together in
mismatched pairs. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I was sure I knew her
name—after all, who didn’t? But it wouldn’t gel in my addled brain.
“Uh, well, it seems I can’t recall her name right now. But I know I know it, of course I
know it. Everyone knows who she is! I just, well, don’t, uh, seem to know it right now.”
She peered at me for a moment, her large brown eyes finally fixated on my now
perspiring face. “Miranda Priestly,” she near-whispered, with a mixture of reverence and
fear. “Her name is Miranda Priestly.”
Silence ensued. For what felt like a full minute, neither of us said a word, but then
Sharon must have made the decision to overlook my crucial misstep. I didn’t know then
that she was desperate to hire another assistant for Miranda, couldn’t know that she was
desperate to stop this woman from calling her day and night, grilling her about potential
candidates. Desperate to find someone, anyone, whom Miranda wouldn’t reject. And if I
might—however unlikely—stand even the smallest chance of getting hired and thereby
relieve her, well, then attention must be paid.
Sharon smiled tersely and told me I was going to meet with Miranda’s two
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assistants.Two assistants?
“Why yes,” she confirmed with an exasperated look. “Of course Miranda needs two
assistants. Her current senior assistant, Allison, has been promoted to beRunway ’s
beauty editor, and Emily, the junior assistant, will be taking Allison’s place. That leaves
the junior position open for someone!
“Andrea, I know you’ve just graduated from college and probably aren’t entirely familiar
with the inner workings of the magazine world . . .” She paused dramatically, searching
for the right words. “But I feel it’s my duty, myobligation, to tell you what a truly
incredible opportunity this is. Miranda Priestly . . .” She paused again just as
dramatically, as though she were mentally bowing. “Miranda Priestly is the single most
influential woman in the fashion industry, and clearly one of the most prominent
magazine editors in the world. The world! The chance to work for her, to watch her edit
and meet with famous writers and models, to help her achieve all she doeseach and every
day, well, I shouldn’t need to tell you that it’s a job a million girls would die for.”
“Um, yeah, I mean yes, that does sound wonderful,” I said, briefly wondering why
Sharon was trying to talk me into something that a million other people would die for.
But there wasn’t time to think about it. She picked up the phone and sang a few words,
and within minutes she’d escorted me to the elevators to begin my interviews with
Miranda’s two assistants.
I thought Sharon was starting to sound a bit like a robot, but then came my meeting with
Emily. I found my way down to the seventeenth floor and waited inRunway ’s
unnervingly white reception area. It took just over a half hour before a tall, thin girl
emerged from behind the glass doors. A calf-length leather skirt hung from her hips, and
her unruly red hair was piled in one of those messy but still glamorous buns on top of her
head. Her skin was flawless and pale, not so much as a single freckle or blemish, and it
stretched perfectly over the highest cheekbones I’d ever seen. She didn’t smile. She sat
next to me and looked me over, earnestly but with little apparent interest. Perfunctory.
And then, unprompted and still having not introduced herself, the girl I presumed to be
Emily launched into a description of the job. The monotone of her statements told me
more than all of her words: she’d obviously gone through this dozens of times already,
had little faith that I was any different from the rest, and as a result wouldn’t be wasting
much time with me.
“It’s hard, no doubt about it. There will be fourteen-hour days, you know—not often, but
often enough,” she rattled on, still not looking at me. “And it’s important to understand
that there will be no editorial work. As Miranda’s junior assistant, you’d be solely
responsible for anticipating her needs and accommodating them. Now, that could be
anything from ordering her favorite stationery to accompanying her on a shopping trip.
Either way, it’s always fun. I mean, you get to spend day after day, week after week, with
this absolutely amazing woman. And amazing she is,” she breathed, looking slightly
animated for the first time since we started speaking.
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“Sounds great,” I said and meant it. My friends who’d begun working immediately after
graduation had already clocked in six full months in their entry-level jobs, and they all
sounded wretched. Banks, advertising firms, book publishing houses—it didn’t matter—
they were all utterly miserable. They whined about the long days, the coworkers, and the
office politics, but more than anything else, they complained bitterly about the boredom.
Compared with school, the tasks required of them were mindless, unnecessary, fit for a
chimp. They spoke of the many, many hours spent plugging numbers in databases and
cold-calling people who didn’t want to be called. Of listlessly cataloging years’ worth of
information on a computer screen and researching entirely irrelevant subjects for months
on end so their supervisors thought they were productive. Each swore she’d actually
gotten dumber in the short amount of time since graduation, and there was no escape in
sight. I might not particularly love fashion, but I’d sure rather do something “fun” all day
long than get sucked into a more boring job.
“Yes. It is great. Just great. I mean, really, really great. Anyway, nice to meet you. I’m
going to go get Allison for you to meet. She’s great, too.” Almost as quickly as she
finished and departed behind the glass in a rustle of leather and curls, a coltish figure
appeared.
This striking black girl introduced herself as Allison, Miranda’s senior assistant who’d
just been promoted, and I knew immediately that she was simplytoo thin. But I couldn’t
even focus on the way her stomach caved inward and her pelvic bones pushed out
because I was captivated by the fact she exposed her stomach at work at all. She wore
black leather pants, as soft as they were tight, and a fuzzy (or was it furry?) white tank
top strained across her breasts and ended two inches above her belly button. Her long hair
was as dark as ink and hung across her back like a thick, shiny blanket. Her fingers and
toes were polished with a luminescent white color, appearing to glow from within, and
her open-toe sandals gave her already six-foot frame an additional three inches. She
managed to look incredibly sexy, seminaked, and classy all at the same time, but to me
she looked mostly cold. Literally. It was, after all, November.
“Hi, I’m Allison, as you probably know,” she started, picking some of the tank top fur
from her barely there leather-clad thigh. “I was just promoted to an editor position, and
that’s the really great thing about working for Miranda. Yes, the hours are long and the
work is tough, but it’s incredibly glamorous and a million girls would die to do it. And
Miranda is such a wonderful woman, editor,person, that she really takes care of her own
girls. You’ll skip years and years of working your way up the ladder by working just one
year for her; if you’re talented, she’ll send you straight to the top, and . . .” She rambled
on, not bothering to look up or feign any level of passion for what she was saying.
Although I didn’t get the impression she was particularly dumb, her eyes were glazed
over in the way seen only in cult members or the brainwashed. I had the distinct
impression I could fall asleep, pick my nose, or simply leave and she wouldn’t
necessarily notice.
When she finally wrapped things up and went to go notify yet another interviewer, I
nearly collapsed on the unwelcoming reception-area sofas. It was all happening so fast,
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spiraling out of control, and yet I was excited. So what if I didn’t know who Miranda
Priestly was? Everyone else certainly seemed impressed enough. Yeah, so it’s a fashion
magazine and not something a little more interesting, but it’s a hell of a lot better to work
atRunway than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of
havingRunway on my résumé was sure to give me even more credibility when I
eventually applied to work atThe New Yorker than, say, havingPopular Mechanics there.
Besides, I’m sure a million girlswould die for this job.
After a half hour of such ruminations, another tall and impossibly thin girl came to the
reception area. She told me her name but I couldn’t focus on anything except her body.
She wore a tight, shredded denim skirt, a see-through white button-down, and strappy
silver sandals. She was also perfectly tanned and manicured and exposed in such a way
that normal people are not when there’s snow on the ground. It wasn’t until she actually
motioned for me to follow her back through the glass doors and I had to stand up that I
became acutely aware of my own horrendously inappropriate suit, limp hair, and utter
lack of accessories, jewelry, and grooming. To this day, the thought of what I wore—and
that I carried something resembling abriefcase —continues to haunt me. I can feel my
face flame red as I remember how very, very awkward I was among the most toned and
stylish women in New York City. I didn’t know until later, until I hovered on the
periphery of being one of them, just how much they had laughed at me between the
rounds of the interview.
After the requisite look-over, Knockout Girl led me to Cheryl Kerston’s office,Runway
’s executive editor and all-around lovable lunatic. She, too, talked at me for what seemed
like hours, but this time I actually listened. I listened because she seemed to love her job,
speaking excitedly about the “words” aspect of the magazine, the wonderful copy she
reads and writers she manages and editors she oversees.
