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lose all hope of killing her yourself。 And thatwould be a shame。
2
I knew nothing when I went for my first interview and stepped onto
the infamous Elias…Clark elevators； those transporters of all
thingsen vogue 。 I had no idea that the city’s most well…connected
gossip columnists and socialites and media executives obsessed over
the flawlessly made…up； turned…out； turned…in riders of those sleek
and quiet lifts。 I had never seen women with such radiant blond
hair； didn’t know that those brand…name highlights cost six grand a
year to maintain or that others in the know could identify the
colorists after a quick glance at the finished product。 I had never
laid eyes on such beautiful men。 They were perfectly toned—not too
muscular because “that’snot sexy”—and they showed off their lifelong
dedication to gymwork in finely ribbed turtlenecks and tight leather
pants。 Bags and shoes I’d never seen on real people shoutedPrada！
Armani！ Versace！ from every surface。 I had heard from a friend of a
friend—an editorial assistant atChic magazine—that every now and
then the accessories get to meet their makers in those very
elevators； a touching reunion where Miuccia； Giorgio； or Donatella
can once again admire their summer ’02 stilettos or their spring
couture teardrop bag in person。 I knew things were changing for me—I
just wasn’t sure it was for the better。
I had； until this point； spent the past twenty…three years embodying
small…town America。 My entire existence was a perfect cliché。
Growing up in Avon； Connecticut； had meant high school sports； youth
group meetings； “drinking parties” at nice suburban ranch Homes when
the parents were away。 We wore sweatpants to school； jeans for
Saturday night； ruffled puffiness for semiformal dances。 And
college！ Well； that was a world of sophistication after high school。
Brown had provided endless activities and classes and groups for
every imaginable type of artist； misfit； and puter geek。 Whatever
intellectual or creative interest I wanted to pursue； regardless of
how esoteric or unpopular it may have been； had some sort of outlet
at Brown。 High fashion was perhaps the single exception to this
widely bragged…about fact。 Four years spent muddling around
Providence in fleeces and hiking boots； learning about the French
impressionists； and writing obnoxiously long…winded English papers
did not—in any conceivable way—prepare me for my very first
postcollege job。
I managed to put it off as long as possible。 For the three months
following graduation； I’d scrounged together what little cash I
could find and took off on a solo trip。 I did Europe by train for a
month； spending much more time on beaches than in museums； and
didn’t do a very good job of keeping in touch with anyone back Home
except Alex； my boyfriend of three years。 He knew that after the
five weeks or so I was starting to get lonely； and since his Teach
for America training had just ended and he had the rest of the
summer to kill before starting in September； he surprised me in
Amsterdam。 I’d covered most of Europe by then and he’d traveled the
summer before； so after a not…so…sober afternoon at one of the
Coffee shops； we pooled our traveler’s checks and bought two one…way
tickets to Bangkok。
Together we worked our way through much of Southeast Asia； rarely
spending more than 10 a day； and talked obsessively about our
futures。 He was so excited to start teaching English at one of the
city’s underprivileged schools； totally taken with the idea of
shaping young minds and mentoring the poorest and the most
neglected； in the way that only Alex could be。 My goals were not so
lofty： I was intent on finding a job in magazine publishing。
Although I knew it was highly unlikely I’d get hired atThe New
Yorker directly out of school； I was determined to be writing for
them before my fifth reunion。 It was all I’d ever wanted to do； the
only place I’d ever really wanted to work。 I’d picked up a copy for
the first time after I’d heard my parents discussing an article
they’d just read and my mom had said； “It was so well written—you
just don’t read things like that anymore；” and my father had agreed；
“No doubt； it’s the only smart thing being written today。” I’d loved
it。 Loved the snappy reviews and the witty cartoons and the feeling
of being admitted to a special； members…only club for readers。 I’d
read every issue for the past seven years and knew every section；
every editor； and every writer by heart。
Alex and I talked about how we were both embarking on a new stage in
our lives； how we were lucky to be doing it together。 We weren’t in
any rush to get back； though； somehow sensing that this would be the
last period of calm before the craziness； and we stupidly extended
our visas in Delhi so we could have a few extra weeks touring in the
exotic countryside of India。
Well； nothing ends the romance more swiftly than amoebic dysentery。
I lasted a week in a filthy Indian hostel； begging Alex not to leave
me for dead in that hellish place。 Four days later we landed in
Newark and my worried mother tucked me into the backseat of her car
and clucked the entire way home。 In a way it was a Jewish mother’s
dream； a real reason to visit doctor after doctor after doctor；
making absolutely sure that every miserable parasite had abandoned
her little girl。 It took four weeks for me to feel human again and
another two until I began to feel that living at Home was
unbearable。 Mom and Dad were great； but being asked where I was
going every time I left the house—or where I’d been every time I
returned—got old quickly。 I called Lily and asked if I could crash
on the couch of her tiny Harlem studio。 Out of the kindness of her
heart； she agreed。
I woke up in that tiny Harlem studio； sweat…soaked。 My forehead
pounded； my stomach churned； every nerve shimmied —shimmied in a
very unsexy way。 Ah！ It’s back； I thought； horrified。 The parasites
had found their way back into my body and I was bound to suffer
eternally！ Or what if it was worse？ Perhaps I’d contracted a rare
form of late…developing dengue fever？ Malaria？ Possibly even Ebola？
I lay in silence； trying to e to grips with my imminent death；
when snippets from the night before came back to me。 A smoky bar
somewhere in the East Village。 Something called jazz fusion music。 A
hot…pink drink in a martini glassoh； nausea； oh； make it stop。
Friends stopping by to wele me Home。 A toast； a gulp； another
toast。 Oh； thank god—it wasn't a rare strain of hemorrhagic fever；
it was just a hangover。 It never occurred to me that I couldn’t
exactly hold my liquor anymore after losing twenty pounds to
dysentery。 Five feet ten inches and 115 pounds did not bode well for
a hard night out （although； in retrospect； it boded very well for
employment at a fashion magazine）。
I bravely extracted myself from the crippling couch I’d been
crashing on for the past week and concentrated all my energy on not
getting sick。 Adjustment to America—the food； the manners； the
glorious showers—hadn’t been too grueling； but the houseguest thing
was quickly being stale。 I figured I had about a week and a half
left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I pletely ran
out of cash； and the only way to get money from my parents was to
return to the never…ending circuit of second opinions。 That sobering
thought was the single thing propelling me from bed； on what would
be a fateful November day； to where I was expected in one hour for
my very first job interview。 I’d spent the last week parked on
Lily’s couch； still weak and exhausted； until she finally yelled at
me to leave—if only for a few hours each day。 Not sure what else to
do with myself； I bought a MetroCard and rode the subways；
listlessly dropping off résumés as I went。 I left them with security
guards at all the big magazine publishers； with a halfhearted cover
letter explaining that I wanted to be an editorial assistant and
gain some magazine writing experience。 I was too weak and tired to
care if anyone actually read them； and the last thing I was
expecting was an interview。 But Lily’s phone had rung just the day
before and； amazingly； someone from human resources at Elias…Clark
wanted me to e in for a “chat。” I wasn’t sure if it would be
considered an official interview or not； but a “chat” sounded more
palatable either way。
I washed down Advil with Pepto and managed to assemble a jacket and
pants that did not match and in no way created a suit； but