As Seen On Tv. Sarah Mlynowski
It’s all about the nod. “Between digital TV and integrated marketing services—we’re about to experience the modernization of the marketing of the soda industry as we know it—” Nod, nod. Between nods, I treat myself to sips of my coffee, while still maintaining eye contact.
I wonder if he conducts an interview a day just to hear himself talk.
“I can tell you’re highly intelligent,” he tells me.
And he can tell this by my continual nodding? He’s good.
“Thank you, Ronald. I think you’re very intelligent, too, and I am quite confident I would learn an immeasurable amount from you.”
He nods. Not quite my nod, but not bad, I grudgingly admit. “That you could.” His gaze drifts to the ceiling. Probably thanking the heavens for his virtuosity. “When we did the launch for our mandarin-and-vanilla-flavored caffeine-free soda…”
I have to use the bathroom.
Now.
“…you should have seen their faces when we won the ADDY award for the…”
Can I interrupt him to use the bathroom? People don’t like being interrupted. I have to wait for a natural pause in the conversation.
How is he not taking a breath? How has he not toppled over for lack of oxygen?
When he takes another bite of his burger, I make a jump for it. “Excuse me, I have to use the rest room. I’ll be right back.” I slide away from the table while he’s still chewing.
Ronald is staring at me strangely. Once I’m standing, I realize that a) the stall is only a foot away from the table, and b) he is staring at my unstrapped Mary Janes. Can’t do anything about the shoes, so I just smile as if nothing’s wrong.
If I ever design a restaurant, I’m putting the bathrooms all the way in the back.
The door handle rattles in my hand.
“I’m in here!” Someone screams from the other side.
Now what? Do I sit back down? Can I just stand here ignoring him? What’s she doing in there? Washing her hair? Why do women take so long in the bathroom? Don’t they consider that other people need to use it? She has rudely barricaded herself in there for over five minutes. I slink back into our booth and cross my legs. No more coffee.
Ronald is perusing my resume with one of his short stocky fingers. “What are your salary requirements?”
I hate that question. Do I say more than I want so he can offer me less, or less than I want to undercut the competition? “What range are you offering?”
“Forty to fifty.” Fifty’s not bad. I’ll take fifty. “Depending on experience.”
“I’m looking for fifty. I have the experience.”
“You don’t have Manhattan experience, but I think you’ll work out fine. Forty-five.” He smiles, showcasing gold fillings. “When can you start?”
Is that a job offer? Or a casual question? I take another sip of coffee to try to appear calm and normal and not as though his every word has the power to alter the course of my life. “I…um…I’d have to give two weeks notice. And then I’d like a week to move and organize myself. So if I give notice immediately I could start in three weeks.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you in three weeks.”
That was an offer. I just got an offer. I squeeze the metal rim of the ketchup-stained table in excitement. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll have all the paperwork drawn up and at your office by Wednesday morning.”
“Thank you,” I say, overwhelmed with gratitude. Ronald pays the bill, shakes my hand and then makes a run for his golf game. “We’ll be in touch,” he says, and disappears outside.
The bathroom door flies open and the toilet hog sashays through the restaurant. I notice that a woman in a beige suit is slowly rising from her seat, eyeing the open door, about to make a run for it.
I hurl myself to the empty stall before the suit-clad woman beats me to it. Since I’m far closer, I get there first and lock the door behind me. In my hurry, I almost trip on my de-strapped shoes, but in midfall I catch myself on the sink.
I might be a direct offspring of the goddess of agility.
Two minutes later, while still cramped in the stall, I decide that I’m going to surprise Steve and drop by Manna to say goodbye. I still have some time before I have to catch my flight. I undo the bun in my hair—wet and scrunch it because Steve likes it down and sexy, and then rummage in my purse for my lipstick to smooth out my lips.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“I’m in here!” I scream while doing up my shoes.
Funny, there’s never a rush when you’re on the inside, is there?
“I did it,” I tell Steve.
“That was quick. It’s only nine-ten.” His morning voice is raspy and sexy and I wish I were lying next to him instead of back in my office with the door closed.
“I wanted to give Liza the full two weeks notice.”
“How’d she take it?”
“She was pissed. Told me I screwed her or something. But she would have said that no matter how much notice I gave. I want some time off to move. I don’t want my last day here to be a Tuesday, the trucks come Tuesday night, and I start at Soda Star 9:00 a.m. Wednesday.” I kick my feet up on the desk and swivel in my chair, executive style. I love my chair. I hope Soda Star has good chairs. Really, a proper, comfortable turbo chair makes all the difference in one’s performance.
“Congrats on your unemployment. I still can’t believe you got a job on your first try. Have you heard anything more from Ronald McDonald?”
After Ronald Newman’s cheeseburger appreciation, Steve has named my future boss after his favorite so-not-kosher hamburger joint. “Not yet. He said tomorrow, I think. Okay, gotta go. I have to give my thirty days notice at my apartment.” I estimate the discussion with Jocelyn, the superintendent, will take at least a half hour. She’s a talker.
By later Tuesday morning I’ve given Jocelyn notice (“New York! How exciting! Good for you! Can we show your place tonight? The rental market is fantastic these days. Do you know—”), e-mailed all my friends and acquaintances about the furniture I’m trying to sell, with digital pictures included, and placed an ad for my car in the weekend classifieds.
I am a goddess of efficiency.
“But you didn’t hear from Ronald McDonald?” Steve asks me on the phone that night as I turn my lights out, crawl into bed, and recount my excellent organizational skills, the portable phone balanced on my shoulder.
“I’m sure he’ll send me something tomorrow.”
By Wednesday at five-thirty, I’m starting to get a wee bit edgy. After biting my nails until my fingers are raw and red, something I haven’t done since I was twelve, I call Soda Star.
“Thank you for calling Soda Star. Our office hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday. If you know your party’s extension, please dial now. Otherwise, press one to leave a message for marketing, two for operations, three for sales…”
Ten minutes later: “If you do not know the department you wish to speak to, please dial the first four letters of the person’s last name you wish to reach. Have a nice day.”
“N” is six. “E” is three. “W” is…where’s “W”?
“I’m sorry, you lazy moron, you’ve run out of time.” The phone disconnects.
Bitch. I hang up and plan my attack. First, I write the numbers on a Post-it note, and then I redial.