Chapter Text
Fiddling with the sleeves of your new blouse, you wait for the elevator to reach the sixth floor. You hate yourself for fidgeting but you can’t help it today. This new position is a step up for you, making a good first impression is important. If this doesn’t work out, you don’t know what you’re going to do.
As the doors slide open, you check the waistband of your wide-legged pants once more before approaching the front desk. Seated on a high stool behind the desk is a woman who you would describe as the epitome of prim and proper. Her dark dress buttoned up to her neck, lapels ironed, her hair pulled tight with every strand in place. Behind her are rows and rows of desks, young women flitting around the office, running to offices that line the edge of the bullpen.
“May I help you?” she inquires, her voice stiff.
With a nervous nod you say, “Yes, ma’am. It’s my first day. I’m Paul Anderson’s new typist?”
She hums and flips through a bound book on her desk. “Yes, I see that. I am Miriam Flannery, Office Manager. I oversee every typist and secretary here. Allow me to show you the office before you get started.” Rising, Flannery walks - more like stalks - through the bullpen, doling information out to you in a monotone voice.
The entire eastern wall is covered in windows, bathing the office in gorgeous natural light. At least you weren’t going to be stuck under fluorescent lights in a cave somewhere. That New York City view could cheer anyone up. You had only been here for a few weeks, but the familiarity of the skyline steadies you a bit. Slowly you tune back in to Flannery’s monologue.
“. . they will process your initial paperwork. Here is the mailroom, where you can also retrieve supplies. Next to it is the breakroom, there is coffee and a refrigerator to store your lunch. Here is the filing room, where we store paperwork for all of the corporate offices. Later on, one of the other girls will show you filing protocol.” You barely had a chance to see anything as Mrs. Flannery waved her hands in general directions, keeping a swift pace.
She stops at a desk directly next to a window, an office door a few paces off. “This is your desk. You have been provided with a top-of-the-line, brand new Remington Rand typewriter. Please take care of it, the replacement process is not enjoyable.” Flannery turns around sharply, eyeing you from behind thick-framed glasses. “Now a few of MY ground rules.”
She holds a finger up, “One: This is a place of business. I expect you to handle yourself with class and decorum at every moment of the day. Vulgarity is frowned upon.” Two fingers are held up, “Two: Punctuality is a necessity in our business. We start on the dot and expect everyone in the office to subscribe to this practice.” A third finger joins, “Three: Personal visitors are prohibited. As I said, this is an office, not a lovers’ lane. Finally: If you do your work and do it well we will not have any issues. Understood?” Though feeling slightly dazed, you nod which seems to satisfy the office manager. “If you have questions, I will be in the reception area.” The tall woman marches back to the front desk, not leaving any room for said questions.
Before you even have a chance to set your handbag down, a short, balding man emerges from the office immediately adjacent to your desk. “Hey there, Betty right?” You politely correct him, honestly believing he was mistaken. “Ah, I get women’s names mixed up all the time. I see long hair and painted face and it all blends together. I’m Paul. Come on in, let’s go over your job duties.”
Ignoring the irritation in your gut you follow him into the smoky office, doing your best to suppress a cough. The space is an obvious homage to Anderson’s glory days. Old sports memorabilia takes up an entire wall, next to which are several framed certificates and plaques. Someone liked for people to be aware of his success. Always a great sign in a superior, right?
You sit in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs in front of his desk while Anderson settles in behind it. After exchanging pleasantries about commutes and weather, he delivers a well-practiced speech about the company, their goals for the fiscal year and quarter, etc. Information you’re already aware of, but must politely nod to as if it was all new.
“The job is pretty simple,” Anderson continues. “Sit in on any meetings I have and take notes. Transcribe letters I dictate to you. Monitor my correspondence. Now, make sure everything is perfect. I get a lot of mail so I expect you to read through everything and let me know when I need to respond. I’ve been told you’re a firecracker, but try to tone that down here. Things are easier on everyone if you keep your thoughts to yourself and do the work. What else is there. . . oh, in my experience, women just make coffee better than us men, so I may ask you to do that from time to time. I think that about covers it. Sometimes things pop up, but I trust you’ll be flexible, yeah?”
“I will do my best, sir.”
“Alrighty!” Anderson stands from his chair, buttoning his jacket. “It’s been nice to meet ya, Ruth. I feel like we’re gonna work well together,” he reaches out for a handshake which you return firmly. Possibly a little too firmly.
“Not Ruth,” you remind him. “But I sure hope so.” You move to leave when Anderson stops you.
“Just a little tip for ya? Try to look more like a lady, sweet-cheeks. Spend your first week’s pay on some new dresses,” your boss adds as he leads you out of his office. Hot blood blazes through your veins and it takes everything in you to give your boss a tight-lipped smile and nod. No matter how much you want to shove all the papers off of his desk and tell him to go to hell, you know this job was too vital. You had to keep in mind that you were lucky to be here at all.
He closes his door and you sigh, wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into. The clicking of heels alerts you to yet someone else approaching you. Although this sight was far friendlier than the last two. Her fiery red hair was coiffed perfectly in the latest style and her eyes were bright green and warm. She props a hip against your desk, leaning in with a smile.
“You working for Anderson?”
“Sure am.”
“I’m Suzy, I sit right over there,” she gestures to a desk not too far from your own.
You introduce yourself, exchanging a small handshake. “Nice to meet you, Suzy.”
“Word to the wise, he’ll never get your name right no matter how many times you tell him. He just picks a common one and moves on. He knows you’re a typist, but he’ll still ask you to make him coffee, he likes it black in the biggest cup you can find,” Suzy takes in a deep breath, “Everyday at 2:30 he has a phone call with his mistress, so don’t go into his office until 3:15 unless you wanna reason to gouge your eardrums. On Fridays his wife makes him the worst smelling casserole in the world for lunch, so steer clear of him or he’ll try to make you take it. ”
All you manage is a blink. “Did you. . . work for him at some point?”
“Thankfully no, but I’ve watched him fire four typists in the last three months. It’d be nice to have someone stick around for a while.”
That’s encouraging.
“But don’t worry,” she lays a gentle hand on your arm. “If you follow Flannery’s rules, do what Anderson asks, and keep your head down you’ll be fine. Flannery’s a fuddy-duddy, but she’s fair for the most part. I’ve been working here the longest out of any of the girls here, so holler if you need anything. I’ll let ya get settled in.”
The moment Suzy walks away, Anderson pokes his head out, needing you to take notes during a phone call that had just come in. You scurry in with a pad and pencil and furiously take notes of the hour-long phone call. Anderson tasks you with typing up the notes and dealing with information that needs to be forwarded to other retailers and suppliers. Before you know it, it’s lunchtime and the office slowly began to quiet as everyone took their breaks. You hear the chatter of several women in the break-room but you can’t tackle social hour today. From the moment you had stepped in the door you were overwhelmed with massive amounts of information and your brain had almost reached its capacity for processing.
As soon as Anderson leaves his office to attend lunch, you lay your head against the desk, inhaling deeply, hoping to calm yourself. The pile of notes you had taken during your first meeting mocks you, begs to be organized and typed - you know the more time that passes since the meeting, the more confused you’ll be by your own shorthand. You ghost your hands over the nicest typewriter you’ve ever seen, admiring the shiny keys and smooth roll. You insert a sheet of paper and roll it to the correct indentation.
You poise your hands above the keys to begin typing when a dark figure falls outside the window nearest your desk. You let out a small cry, thinking someone must have jumped from the rooftop and was plummeting to the sidewalk below. Leaping from your chair you press your face to the glass, trying to find whomever had jumped. Much to your surprise he was right beneath your windowsill, holding on to the ledge tightly. He was yelling at someone above him, though his words were lost through the thick glass. Though you could imagine the colorful language you’d be using in a similar situation.
Briefly he struggles to gain a foothold against the brick below him, his feet slipping every so often which threatens to take ten years off of your life. Oddly enough, he maintains a cool temperament the whole time, face blank of emotion, fear seemingly nonexistent. Finally he seems stable enough to release one hand from the ledge, reaching down to grab a leather strap dangling from his harness you hadn’t noticed before. Seconds later, the strap is anchored to a rod next to the window. Now that he seems to be out of danger for the time being, you notice an identical leather strap attached to the opposite side of the window - and then the pieces fall into place. Someone had been careless with the window-washer rigging and this man had nearly paid dearly for it. He looks up again, catching sight of you still pressed against the glass, eyes wide with worry.
Then this man has the audacity to smile at you? Like he hadn’t just about plummeted at least ten stories to his death? Crystal blue eyes peer up at you beneath dark loose locks of hair hanging over his forehead. Then he gives you a thumbs up - you’re guessing to let you know he’s okay - and he rappels down to the ground floor of the building. And as mysteriously as he drops into your life, he’s gone. You glance around the office, still completely alone.
Well. . . what a first day.