It was the first working summer of my adult life. Newly twenty years of age and ready to make a mark in the world by way of an ergonomically sufficient office chair and hours of transferring calls. The office life called out to me, because I was obsessed with the film Working Girl. While all my other same aged friends were hustling it in retail, I said no thanks, I’m in it for the free post-it’s, jet setting with a hot coffee in the early a.m. amongst the city commuters and of course the outfits. I was ready to become a modern version of Tess McGill.

Prior to my first proper office job, I had little part-time gigs with my family’s small business, which were unpaid internships basically, except they were certainly “paid” on my resume. Of course I fudged it to appear that I had knowledgeable experience with bookkeeping and data entry. As daddy’s little girl venturing out into the big city, my father was prepped on becoming a fictional boss for when HR called for references. He gleefully agreed like it was a game and it was I suppose. The summer before I had written a scathing letter to Clinique’s customer service expressing how one of their cleansers left a burning effect on my face, (this was also my first intermediate go at a skincare routine). He was impressed that his Jane Austen like of a daughter feared no wrath when it came to expressing my personal views while attempting to take down capitalism in my late teens. (Clinique’s marketing replied to me and offered a gift voucher of some kind, can’t remember what I did with it.) However, there no calls from any HR reps for my sweet dad to pull out his acting skills, but I did end up getting an entry level offer as a receptionist at a small start-up ad agency. I rushed over to Banana Republic since I had observed the young office-women during rush hour on the train who donned a simple peacoat, some type of crewneck sweater and tapered pants. I needed to get that same outfit. Nothing from my Wet Seal collection would have sufficed.

The padded feel of the adjustable desk chair made it seem official, like I was granted keys to the adult kingdom where I would soon find out that 3pm meant caffeine refills at Starbucks and affairs with nicotine. My supervisor was a medium build post-pregnancy formed woman in maybe her early 30’s, can no longer remember her name but we’ll call her Marge. She seemed nice enough, distant but adequately supportive when it came to the “if you have any questions you can come to me” portion of our conversations. I was stationed at the front of the office, almost the first thing you saw through the large looking glass doors from the elevator lobby. So image was everything. On my first day of work I wore a light blue v-neck BCBG ribbed sweater with 3/4 sleeves, taken from the sale rack and purchased with some of my high school graduation gift money. I wasn’t fooling around this summer, I looked the part of what I wanted people to assume that I was older than twenty, at most twenty-two. My bottom half was a black Banana Republic polyester-wool blend a-line skirt that came just below the knees (not on sale, yet it was certain that it would be a basic tool in my office style) and black Steve Madden loafers with a chunky heel. It gave me the right elevation and comfort.

It took me three days to learn the phone system and a few more days to memorize everyone’s names and phone extensions. By day five, I was absolutely smitten with the quality in my phone voice, it was the right sense of young adult meets agency spiel. “Sure, who may I say is calling?”, “What is the call regarding?”, “and he has your number -“. From Monday 9am to 6pm I was the receptionist. I managed all incoming phone calls, greeted, chatted with and signed off on all packages, while also memorizing the Fed Ex, UPS and DHL guys’ names who always dropped in with a smile. I coordinated many things, tasks, meetings, pick-up’s and drop-off’s. And I took pride in my front office nook by making sure myself, the furniture, flowers and magazines all looked the part. Marge didn’t encourage too much loitering in the receptionist lobby a.k.a. my office - so there were no candy bowls or anything of the nature that would cause stagnant foot traffic. At times there would be the copywriters, Derek in particular, a very tall Korean-American 23 year old Junior Copywriter who would sit himself down at one of the chairs when no one else was around and we would just chat, mostly about current films. Admittedly, at first I believed he had a crush on me until the day he asked me what he should get his girlfriend for her birthday. 😒 Noted, I said to myself. Then there was Steven, the Gucci clad dandy who quickly became my very first gay work husband, he spent most of his time adoring what I was wearing, the shine of my hair and other compliments, but at the same time putting down my Chinatown LV Speedy bag. The truth hurt, but isn’t that what a gay bestie is for? Then there was Thomas in Accounts Research who looked up to guys like tall Derek, especially being in a wheelchair. Thomas was nice and apparently a Judge’s son, always said in a tone that meant to either forewarn you or impress you. He definitely had a bit of a crush on me, his afternoon loitering was obvious and even when Marge would notice, she couldn’t say anything because it’s Thomas, a son of a court Judge and in a wheelchair. Thomas would bring me chocolate pastries that he had “some extra of” and once told me that my freckles were “sooo cute”, which he followed up with a chuckle. He made me feel like a Japanese Manga character.

Being a receptionist was like being the office bartender, someone who you would rally up to, elbows on counter, mumbling the question “how’s it goin up here”, but then loudly, “any packages for me?” Some approached my desk with their sins, just like they would a bartender. What I offered was casual nods of support, a cheeky smile to let them know that the day is almost over and some fake one liner about what I presumably did over the weekend. Bartenders lie and so do receptionists, we don’t care enough to know things, but we cannot say so aloud.

Besides afternoon smoke breaks with Steven, the highlight of my day was the Office Depot website. I want to say that my love for office supplies began the day my father took his sweet, rambunctious six year old daughter to the office for some weekend work. That day is still ingrained into my memory, visiting desk to desk just to see all the assorted colored pens sitting haphazardly inside a cup and feeling leather bound books with different hand writings. And the tape dispensers, how enthralled I was by these various office supplies. So, when it was the day to place an order, the fact that it was my job to do so, the power I felt of whatever I chose would make some sort of impact in these office worker’s lives.

But, did they ever impact my life?

Once in a while, usually by Steven’s encouragement and influence, I was invited to offsite work lunches. The co-workers fancied the neighborhood spots, so whatever tapas, Italian, Szechuan or tavern food was closest. The day we ventured to Chevy’s may as well been an office field trip. Still unaware of agency life, the setting found me amidst a junior team and sometimes a senior member from the design department. I guess these were my people, the majority of them were in my smoke break group. There was one day when it was a special lunch at a more expensive brew pub with almost every single employee present. It was to welcome in the newly employed Senior Graphic Designer, Liz. It was noticeable from her hello that she was from Michigan, maybe Chicago. She looked like a graphic designer, even though I had no idea what that was supposed to or should have looked like. Whatever it was, Liz played the part well, dressed in a heather gray crewneck sweatshirt, wide legged blue jeans (almost like carpenter pants but without the side pockets, and I remember thinking that it was definitely a Japanese brand), sand colored puka shells necklace and black Converse high-tops. In the mornings Liz would roll in with her North Face backpack and a street vendor coffee and a brown bag of breakfast pastry. Soon enough Liz began to loiter around my space, pacing back and forth whenever she needed peace and quiet, which I gave her except for when the phone rang. I watched the graphic designer in think mode, the creases from the canvas of her Converse sneakers made a tiny squeak every time her pace turned the other direction. Liz would sigh and then I knew that our moment of silence was over and she returned hastily towards the design team’s office.