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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 at least
they stayed put on my emaciated frame。 A blue button…down； a
not…too…perky ponytail； and a pair of slightly scuffed flats
pleted my look。 It wasn’t great—in fact； it bordered on supremely
ugly—but it would have to suffice。They’re not going to hire me or
reject me on the outfit alone； I remember thinking。 Clearly； I was
barely lucid。
I showed up on time for my elevenA 。M。 interview and didn’t panic
until I encountered the line of leggy； Twiggy types waiting to be
permitted to board the elevators。 Their lips never stopped moving；
and their gossip was punctuated only by the sound of their stilettos
clacking on the floor。Clackers； I thought。That’s perfect。 （The
elevators！）Breathe in； breathe out； I reminded myself。You will not
throw up。 You will not throw up。 You’re just here to talk about
being an editorial assistant； and then it’s straight back to the
couch。 You will not throw up。 “Why yes； I’d love to work at
Reaction！Well； sure； I supposeThe Buzzwould be suitable。 Oh； what？ I
may have my pick？ Well； I’ll need the night to decide between there
and Maison Vous。Delightful！”
Moments later I was sporting a rather unflattering “guest” sticker
on my rather unflattering pseudosuit （not soon enough； I discovered
that guests in the know simply stuck these passes on their bags； or；
even better； discarded them immediately—only the most uncouth losers
actuallywore them） and heading toward the elevators。 And then 。 。 。
I boarded。 Up； up； up and away； hurtling through space and time and
infinite sexiness en route to 。 。 。 human resources。
I allowed myself to relax for a moment or two during that swift；
quiet ride。 Deep； pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh
leather to turn those elevators from the merely functional to the
almost erotic。 We whisked between floors； stopping to let out the
beauties atChic； Mantra； The Buzz； andCoquette 。 The doors opened
silently； reverently； to stark white reception areas。 Chic furniture
with clean； simple lines dared people to sit； ready to scream out in
agony if anyone—horror！—spilled。 The magazines’ names rested in bold
black and identifiable； individual typeface along the walls that
flanked the lobby。 Thick； opaque glass doors protected the titles。
They’re names the average American recognizes but never imagines to
be turning and churning and spinning under one very high city roof。
While I’d admittedly never held a job more impressive than frozen
yogurt scooper； I’d heard enough stories from my newly minted
professional friends to know that corporate life just didn’t look
like this。 Not even close。 Absent were the nauseating fluorescent
lights； the never…shows…dirt carpeting。 Where dowdy secretaries
should have been ensconced； polished young girls with prominent
cheekbones and power suits presided。 Office supplies didn’t exist！
Those basic necessi