Briefcase Girl
A) It was one block away.
B) They had delicious coffee.
C) The owner was hot.
D) Like really hot.
About six months after I moved close to Bagel Rising I landed a temp job at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter (it was so long ago that it was all of that wrapped in one company). I wanted to make a good impression in hopes to land a permanent position there. After a week of temping I decided to go shopping because all of my work clothes were not quite “business formal”. To give you an idea of my attire status prior to this position, I was often under dressed for my job at the Boys and Girls club where my primary duties included playing dodge ball with the kids up in the field or throwing a connect four tournament. I was basically one step away from wearing pajamas to work (and yes, I'm totally going to buy pajama jeans and I almost shed tears of joy when I heard of their existence). So I went to Macy’s, bought three suits and upped the ante on how important people would think I was at Morgan Stanley. I mean, sure, all I did was make labels for file folders, pretend I understood the ins and outs of Microsoft Office and occasionally run across the street to Starbucks to fetch a coffee for someone with a real job; however, I figured there were enough employees that for all they knew I could be a new multimillion dollar recruit from Smith Barney (which no one in their right mind ever thought).
On the Monday after buying my new duds (do people still say that?), I suited up, put on some heels, did my hair (yes, I actually “do my hair” and it still looks the way it does so shut your mouth.) and put on some lipstick and lip liner (which I was oddly really into and which looked completely ridiculous on my otherwise non made up face. Also I have non existent lips so I would pretty much lip line my face where my lips should be and color inside the lines.). But when I went to leave the apartment I realized that I had no purse…or pocketbook, or whatever it is you call an adult female bag these days. Not that I needed one, I had put a twenty dollar bill and my license in my pocket and was good to go, but I wasn't totally a professional without some sort of bag to carry all my would be professional stuff. All I had was a Jansport backpack…which I still have…and tried to use on a hike last year. Terrible idea...stop judging me. I was a bit frantic and started tearing my room apart in search of anything that could pass as a professional bag. I noticed something in the closet that appeared to be a rather thin, sleek briefcase that belonged to my boyfriend at the time. I asked him what the briefcase-esque item was, to which he replied “an architecture/art portfolio”. I had no idea what that was but asked if I could use it “to go with my outfit”. He obliged because he was a nice guy and because he was used to me doing things that made no sense. I emptied his briefcase of his architectural renderings, CAD stuffs, drawings, model-y type thingy-ma- jigs and I looked around for things to put in the briefcase. I decided upon the following items:
1) A pen.
2) My “wallet” that was small enough to fit my license only. (I didn’t have anything else anyways. I had no bank account at the time, I cashed all my paychecks at the bank it was drawn from, I stashed all my money in books and other secret hiding places in my apartment and I paid all my bills with money orders. Yes, I'm like an 80 year old man.)
3) A loose cigarette.
4) A tank top to slip into if I wanted to grab drinks after the job. The button down ‘business formal’ top I had under my suit coat was old, didn’t fit me anymore, and was so tight that the buttons were barely hanging on and you could see my stomach trying to bust on out. Fricken. Hot. T. T. I. E. I don’t know why I just typed it that way.
So now I was ready. I left the apartment, with my new suit on, my doll size button down dress shirt, my heels, my lipstick, my hairdo, and my adult briefcase/art portfolio thingy and I headed straight for the coffee shop before I got on the T. When I went in, I noticed the owner was there and one other employee who used to call me the latte queen because I purchased one to three lattes a day, yet I pretended it was because of my striking good looks and air of royalty. I ordered my latte and let them admire my new professional look (nobody was looking at me), paid with the cash that I had in my pocket, put some sugar in my latte and walked out. All without saying a word but smiling widely like a crazy person. I got on the T, walked from the Park Street stop to the High Street Tower where Morgan Stanley Dean Witter was located, went up the elevator, walked into my bosses office and as I went to grab a pen from my briefcase to write down notes on the tasks my boss wanted me to do that day (all two of them) I realized I didn't have my briefcase on me. I panicked. And not because I didn’t know where I had left it but because I knew exactly where I had left it. I left it at Bagel Rising. F. I couldn't leave it, cut my losses, get a new license and never get another delicious coffee from Mr. hot owner again either because the briefcase wasn’t mine. And yes, I would have actually left it there if the briefcase were mine. I’m that insecure. I felt the blood rush to my face while I imagined in horror Mr. hottie owner and Mr. nondescript employee dude who called me latte queen looking through my briefcase to find…dear god. What kind of a person carries an entire briefcase to hold four items, three of which I could have put in my pockets? And a tank top? A flippin tank top?
I took a deep breath, I summoned up my courage, I had this conversation:
Them: “Bagel Rising.”
Me: “Ah, yes, hi. Is this the Bagel Rising that sells coffee?” No Deidre, it’s not. It’s the “Bagel Rising” that sells office furniture. Please try and make this conversation as painful and awkward as possible.
Them: “Um. Yes. This is the Bagel Rising that sells coffee. We also sell bagels.”
Me: “Oh right, yes. Hi this is Deidre.”
Them: Silence.
Me: “This is Deidre.”
Them: Silence.
Me: “This is Deidre”. Yup I said it three times. “You know, Latte Queen.”
Them: “I’m sorry did you say queen?”
Me: “I’m Deidre Daly” Ah I see where I’m going with this, they probably don’t recognize my first name simply because I haven’t been following it up with my last name.
Them: Silence.
Did they hang up?
Me: “I think I may have left something there.”
Them: “Oh. Ok. What did you leave?”
Me: “I think I left my briefcase.”
Them: “Could you describe the briefcase and what’s in it?”
Me: Bastards. “It’s um. A briefcase. And it has um…hmmm…well, I think I had a pen…a ah, a wallet. Annnnnd a cigarette and maybe a tank top? Yes. And a tank top.”
Them: “Yes Deidre. We have it here. Come by whenever to grab it.” Click.
And I took my new suited up ass, my heels, my hairdo, and my lipsticked and lined face where my lips should be back to Bagel Rising and picked up my briefcase. I didn't bother to check to see if anyone stole my valuables. I bought another coffee from them, left the coffee place, opened the briefcase, snagged the loose cigarette and smoked it as my soul cried a little.
When I was living in Allston, MA there was a bagel and coffee shop called Bagel Rising that I would go to at least once a day because:
A) It was one block away.
B) They had delicious coffee.
C) The owner was hot.
D) Like really hot.
About six months after I moved close to Bagel Rising I landed a temp job at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter (it was so long ago that it was all of that wrapped in one company). I wanted to make a good impression in hopes to land a permanent position there. After a week of temping I decided to go shopping because all of my work clothes were not quite “business formal”. To give you an idea of my attire status prior to this position, I was often under dressed for my job at the Boys and Girls club where my primary duties included playing dodge ball with the kids up in the field or throwing a connect four tournament. I was basically one step away from wearing pajamas to work (and yes, I'm totally going to buy pajama jeans and I almost shed tears of joy when I heard of their existence). So I went to Macy’s, bought three suits and upped the ante on how important people would think I was at Morgan Stanley. I mean, sure, all I did was make labels for file folders, pretend I understood the ins and outs of Microsoft Office and occasionally run across the street to Starbucks to fetch a coffee for someone with a real job; however, I figured there were enough employees that for all they knew I could be a new multimillion dollar recruit from Smith Barney (which no one in their right mind ever thought).
On the Monday after buying my new duds (do people still say that?), I suited up, put on some heels, did my hair (yes, I actually “do my hair” and it still looks the way it does so shut your mouth.) and put on some lipstick and lip liner (which I was oddly really into and which looked completely ridiculous on my otherwise non made up face. Also I have non existent lips so I would pretty much lip line my face where my lips should be and color inside the lines.). But when I went to leave the apartment I realized that I had no purse…or pocketbook, or whatever it is you call an adult female bag these days. Not that I needed one, I had put a twenty dollar bill and my license in my pocket and was good to go, but I wasn't totally a professional without some sort of bag to carry all my would be professional stuff. All I had was a Jansport backpack…which I still have…and tried to use on a hike last year. Terrible idea...stop judging me. I was a bit frantic and started tearing my room apart in search of anything that could pass as a professional bag. I noticed something in the closet that appeared to be a rather thin, sleek briefcase that belonged to my boyfriend at the time. I asked him what the briefcase-esque item was, to which he replied “an architecture/art portfolio”. I had no idea what that was but asked if I could use it “to go with my outfit”. He obliged because he was a nice guy and because he was used to me doing things that made no sense. I emptied his briefcase of his architectural renderings, CAD stuffs, drawings, model-y type thingy-ma- jigs and I looked around for things to put in the briefcase. I decided upon the following items:
1) A pen.
2) My “wallet” that was small enough to fit my license only. (I didn’t have anything else anyways. I had no bank account at the time, I cashed all my paychecks at the bank it was drawn from, I stashed all my money in books and other secret hiding places in my apartment and I paid all my bills with money orders. Yes, I'm like an 80 year old man.)
3) A loose cigarette.
4) A tank top to slip into if I wanted to grab drinks after the job. The button down ‘business formal’ top I had under my suit coat was old, didn’t fit me anymore, and was so tight that the buttons were barely hanging on and you could see my stomach trying to bust on out. Fricken. Hot. T. T. I. E. I don’t know why I just typed it that way.
So now I was ready. I left the apartment, with my new suit on, my doll size button down dress shirt, my heels, my lipstick, my hairdo, and my adult briefcase/art portfolio thingy and I headed straight for the coffee shop before I got on the T. When I went in, I noticed the owner was there and one other employee who used to call me the latte queen because I purchased one to three lattes a day, yet I pretended it was because of my striking good looks and air of royalty. I ordered my latte and let them admire my new professional look (nobody was looking at me), paid with the cash that I had in my pocket, put some sugar in my latte and walked out. All without saying a word but smiling widely like a crazy person. I got on the T, walked from the Park Street stop to the High Street Tower where Morgan Stanley Dean Witter was located, went up the elevator, walked into my bosses office and as I went to grab a pen from my briefcase to write down notes on the tasks my boss wanted me to do that day (all two of them) I realized I didn't have my briefcase on me. I panicked. And not because I didn’t know where I had left it but because I knew exactly where I had left it. I left it at Bagel Rising. F. I couldn't leave it, cut my losses, get a new license and never get another delicious coffee from Mr. hot owner again either because the briefcase wasn’t mine. And yes, I would have actually left it there if the briefcase were mine. I’m that insecure. I felt the blood rush to my face while I imagined in horror Mr. hottie owner and Mr. nondescript employee dude who called me latte queen looking through my briefcase to find…dear god. What kind of a person carries an entire briefcase to hold four items, three of which I could have put in my pockets? And a tank top? A flippin tank top?
I took a deep breath, I summoned up my courage, I had this conversation:
Them: “Bagel Rising.”
Me: “Ah, yes, hi. Is this the Bagel Rising that sells coffee?” No Deidre, it’s not. It’s the “Bagel Rising” that sells office furniture. Please try and make this conversation as painful and awkward as possible.
Them: “Um. Yes. This is the Bagel Rising that sells coffee. We also sell bagels.”
Me: “Oh right, yes. Hi this is Deidre.”
Them: Silence.
Me: “This is Deidre.”
Them: Silence.
Me: “This is Deidre”. Yup I said it three times. “You know, Latte Queen.”
Them: “I’m sorry did you say queen?”
Me: “I’m Deidre Daly” Ah I see where I’m going with this, they probably don’t recognize my first name simply because I haven’t been following it up with my last name.
Them: Silence.
Did they hang up?
Me: “I think I may have left something there.”
Them: “Oh. Ok. What did you leave?”
Me: “I think I left my briefcase.”
Them: “Could you describe the briefcase and what’s in it?”
Me: Bastards. “It’s um. A briefcase. And it has um…hmmm…well, I think I had a pen…a ah, a wallet. Annnnnd a cigarette and maybe a tank top? Yes. And a tank top.”
Them: “Yes Deidre. We have it here. Come by whenever to grab it.” Click.
And I took my new suited up ass, my heels, my hairdo, and my lipsticked and lined face where my lips should be back to Bagel Rising and picked up my briefcase. I didn't bother to check to see if anyone stole my valuables. I bought another coffee from them, left the coffee place, opened the briefcase, snagged the loose cigarette and smoked it as my soul cried a little.
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