Blog #45 – The Meet/Cute Gone Completely Awry…

As I mentioned previously, I moved to New York right after I graduated from college*, and I was staying with Stacy, a friend who lived in Brooklyn.

“You ever heard of Fifth Avenue Personnel?” I asked Stacy, plopping down on our comfy couch when I returned from my disastrous interview at Pratt & Pratt**. I took a can of Heineken out of a bag from A & P where I stopped to buy a couple of things on the way home. I offered the beer to Stacy.

“Yeah, thanks,” she said, opening the beer. “Fifth Avenue is one of the biggest employment agencies in Manhattan. I temped for them a couple of times. Why?” Stacy asked, taking a sip of her beer.

I took another beer from my bag, popped it open, then recapped how I met Tom Blazell, a recruiter from that agency**.

Stacy broke into convulsive laughter when I recalled how I thought Tom was looking for a prostitute. “I can see where you might’ve thought that, but we’ve got a labor shortage going on.”

I shook my head, “Wow, I can’t imagine that. I went to apply for a clerk’s position at the card shop in the mall back home last year, and there was a line of about 500 people there, most of whom were out in the mall. They ran out of applications before I got inside.”

“Yeah, it was the same way in Kentucky,” Stacy said nodding. She’s from Ashland, Kentucky, about 20 minutes away from my hometown in WV.

The next day, I decided to call The Fifth Avenue Guy as well as a several other staffing agencies. And the next time I emerged from the subway in Midtown, it was a sizzling hot summer day, a double deodorant kind of day as one of my BFF’s from high school used to say. I still had an umbrella just in case…not gonna make that mistake again.**

A block or so later, a section of the sidewalk was surrounded by orange and white barricades where three very large and sweaty men in orange vests were using jackhammers and such to repair the sidewalk. A tall man with intense B.O. rushed past me, knocking me into the edge of a hole in the sidewalk surrounded by the barriers. I lost my balance, wobbled sideways, but, thankfully, I didn’t fall. All the while, the early morning commuters  meandered around me, completely oblivious.  I collected myself and went on to the infamous Fifth Avenue Personnel, which was in a 30-story building next to an elegant Italian Restaurant.

An overweight security guard told me that the staffing agency was on the 19th floor, and he directed me to the elevators. “Make sure you go to the second set of elevators. The first bank only goes to the 15th floor,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, wondering if I have NEWCOMER stamped on my forehead since most EVERYONE in New York talked to me like I’m retarded. But as much as I try to abolish the WV twang, I guess you can’t completely eliminate it from your speech no matter how dutifully you remove the ya’lls and those long I’s (i.e. like Paula Dean  might say, I really like PIE…emphasis on the “I”)…

I stepped into the elevator, turned around with my back to the wall, and five seconds later, a REALLY hot-looking guy walked in.  Late 20s, dark hair, about 6 foot 3, at least, slightly broad shoulders and sparkling blue eyes.

“What floor?” he asked with a smile that would light up Vegas.

“Nineteen, thanks.”

“Fifth Avenue Personnel?”

“Yeah?” I said, slightly surprised. “How’d you know?”

“They have the whole floor.”

“Oh,” I said, my face reddening, that Newcomer tattoo now beaming in NEON lights.

“What kind of job are you looking for?”

“Hopefully, something in publishing.”

He nodded, “Where are you from?”

“West Virginia,” I replied.

“Wow, that must’ve been some serious culture shock when you first moved here?” he asked grinning.

“Not exactly. I had been here several times in college,” I said as the elevator stopped on the 12th Floor to pick up two more passengers, a black woman, late 50s, in a red suit, her glasses dangling on a rather worn-looking chain and an older man, in a wrinkled suit who REEKED of cigar smoke.

I stepped sideways, a little closer to Mr. Handsome to get away from the cigar fumes that were already starting to make my eyes burn and water.

“So, what about you?” I asked.

“I’m from Jersey. I’m interviewing for a paralegal position at Rodgers & Ficklestein on 41st.  I’m Kevin, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.

I nodded, shaking his hand, “Kennedy, Kennedy Smith.”

He flashed that dazzling smile again, and I felt the temperature in my face rise a little. Dammit! Don’t go all school girl now…

When the elevator doors opened onto the 19th floor, I started to walk out when Kevin said, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” I said smiling over my shoulder when I noticed an odd look cross his face. He was looking down, presumably at my behind.  I started to ask him what the hell he was looking at when the black lady in the red suit came up to me and mumbled, “Honey, the whole back of your skirt is split in two.”

“Oh, my God, thank you,” I gushed to the older woman, my face flushing crimson as Kevin sped past me, with an embarrassed nod and wave.

I nodded, looking down, totally wishing a moon-sized crater would indeed swallow up me up! Or aliens would decide I had to be the next probing victim, ANYTHING, to get me OUT of this moment in time! 🙂

“Follow me. I have a sewing kit in my desk,” said the lady in the red suit.

“Thank you!” I said. But…FUCK! When I almost fell in the hole, my skirt ripped, and I didn’t hear the telltale RIPPING sound because of the noise of the construction workers. Jesus, H, can I NOT go to ONE interview without some sort of freakish calamity occurring?

After thanking the very nice lady in the red suit THREE times, I scurried into the ladies room. I sat on the toilet in one of the stalls sewing up the back of my skirt. THANK YOU, Mom for teaching me to sew!!. After meeting Tom, I took a typing test, and went on about my day.

I never ran into Kevin/Mr. Handsome again, but that was best. Just KNOWING he’d seen me walking around without a care in the world while exposing my pantyhose-covered ass to all of New York City was enough to make my cheeks burn when the memory involuntarily surfaced while all alone. If I actually saw him again, I’m sure the fire in my facial epidermis would likely make me faint, which heaven forbid, he might take as a swoon, and then I’d have yet ANOTHER humiliating scene to suppress! 🙂

Upon leaving Tom’s office with my haphazardly sewn skirt, I was accosted by not ONE but TWO recruiters from rival agencies…sorry, guys…I’m already registered with SIX staffing firms…take a hike… 🙂

TA for now…

KS/TenaciousBITCH

*See Blog #42 – The Fifth Avenue Guy

** Again refer to the aforementioned Blog #42