There’s a little-known law in New York City that says you can’t hold a person responsible for their actions if they’ve had less than four hours of sleep.
Okay, that’s a lie, but there should be such a law. It would justify me standing on the sidewalk in rainbow unicorn pajamas, bunny slippers, and curlers. At the butt crack of dawn. In Hell’s Kitchen.
Of course, I don’t remember what I look like until after I’ve rushed out the front door of my apartment building and it’s slammed shut behind me, locking me out.
I tip my head back and stare up at the six-story red-brick edifice. It stares blankly back at me with shuttered windows and no hope of re-entry. Mother of pearl! This is the kind of day where I should just crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and stay there. Unfortunately, even if I could get into my building, I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. A group of construction workers have attacked the empty lot next to my building with their jackhammers. It’s 6 a.m. Legally they can’t start until 7 a.m., and I’ve come out here to have a polite word. Or tear a strip off their hides. Whatever gets it done.
As I pull on the lobby handle, I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass door, and grimace.
My red hair is neatly rolled into big pink curlers – a habit I brought with me from Peach Pit, Georgia, where the mantra is “the higher the hair, the closer to God”. My face is a pale oval of exhaustion, with faint blue circles under my eyes. I worked at one of my part-time gigs last night, bartending at a bachelorette party that stretched hours past when my shift was supposed to end.
And I’ve just realized my rainbow unicorn pajama top (don’t ask – present from parents who refuse to admit that at twenty-five I’m way past my Lisa Frank phase) is buttoned unevenly. By two entire buttons.
If I want the construction crew to take me seriously, I need to change into something a little less “insane asylum escapee” before I go storming over there.
“Not today, Universe. Pretty please with sugar on top?” I give one last futile tug on the handle.
This can’t be happening. I have a job interview at noon, and it is the dream job. I’m interviewing for a position as personal shopper at Hudson’s. Yes, that Hudson’s – the enormous shop that takes up most of a block on Fifth Avenue. The swankiest department store with the most gorgeous, outrageous, innovative displays in the entire U. S. of A.
It’s the whole reason I came to New York – to pursue a career in fashion.
Unfortunately, there’s not much out there for a girl who had to drop out of college in her sophomore year. For two years, I’ve applied for job after job, my reservoir of buoyant optimism fading a little more with each polite rejection email. The closest I’ve come to a job in the fashion industry has been writing about upcycling for an online neighborhood blog. I get paid in coffee.
But finally I have a shot at a real job. A shot at paying down my credit card bills and filling my cupboards with something that’s not Ramen. A shot at feeding my foster dog fancy kibble instead of the cheap stuff. And I foolishly told my parents about it, which means they’ll have told everyone in Peach Pit, and worse, they’ll make it sound like I’ve already been hired. Their faith in me is endless, touching, and very misplaced.
I can practically hear the gossips tittering under the helmet hairdryers at Betty’s Kut & Kurl – with my Aunt Loretta leading the chorus of snickers. “Weird Winona suckered someone into hiring her.”
But I don’t have the job yet. It’s a very competitive position, and I need to knock their socks off, not yawn in their faces.
Which means these jack-holes need to turn off their jackhammers so I can grab a little more sleep.
Oh, the heck with it. I’m already outside. I’ll just suck it up, march over there, and say my piece. On the bright side, today will be the first time I’ve ever walked by a bunch of construction workers without being catcalled.
I square my shoulders and hurry over to the scene of the noise-crime. A chill April wind blows concrete dust through the air, making me sneeze, and I shiver and hug myself.