ARISING (eBook)

1

1974

The ad leaps out at her. Writer for new weight—loss company.

“A whole company just to get rid of some pounds?” Abby asks. I’ve lost more important things.

Nobody here to answer, better get used to that.

She taps her pencil against the newspaper, debating. But there’s nothing hopeful in the Females column and the bills piled on the desk are staring at her.

“You don’t give me any choice,” she tells them, circling the ad.

Her letter brings a phone call with a surprising question: “How’s your weight?”

“Okay for normal purposes.” I hope this woman has a sense of humor.

But the crisp voice just says,“Come for an interview Monday morning. Nine sharp. Bring samples of your work. Ask for Miss Franklin.”

What do you wear for an interview these days? She takes her best suit out of the closet. A respectable black. Trying it on, Abby sees a woman in the mirror she barely remembers. She hasn’t worn this since the funeral.

The offices are in a Manhattan skyscraper. She’s afraid of heights, what if there’s a fire? But the elevator releases her safely on the 22nd floor. Large gilt letters proclaim DIETERS UNITED above a montage of obese people on the march.

The reception area is an intimidating mix of glass, chrome and leather chairs. The young woman behind the desk informs her that Miss Franklin isn’t available yet. Waiting, Abby tries to remember the speech she had rehearsed, but her mind’s going in circles. If only she had more samples, if only they were more impressive, if only she were younger. She had omitted her age in her letter. Do they hire women past forty?

She studies the blown-up photos on the walls. “Before” and “After” shots, mostly women. The Befores face forward in clothes that accentuate their bulk. Afters wear flattering clothes, figures turned at a slimming three-quarter angle. She recognizes the technique, Paul used it in fashion brochures.

By the time Miss Franklin is “available” it’s almost ten. So much for nine sharp, she could have had that second cup of coffee.

Clutching her portfolio she’s directed to an office that’s all gray: walls, carpet, chairs. The gaunt woman behind the desk matches the décor: short gray hair, gray suit. Removing her glasses she looks Abby over. “You should lose ten pounds.”

That’s what I call a welcome. But she’s being gestured to a chair by the desk.

“Your resume doesn’t include much experience,” Miss Franklin says. “However I’m interested in your having written magazine articles. Did you bring samples?”

“A few,” Abby says, fumbling in her portfolio.

“We are looking for a writer who can create marketing materials. Have you written articles about dieting?‘

“I wrote one about teenagers trying to lose weight.”

“Our clients tend to be older than adolescents.”

“I’m a fast learner and. . . .”

“You may leave those samples with me.”

“Thank you,” she says, handing over the meager papers. “Miss Franklin,” she adds. The book she’d bought advised saying the interviewer’s name several times. It also advised commenting on something personal in the office. Miss Franklin’s desk is bare of anything personal, but on the windowsill there’s a row of miniature wooden animals.

“What charming little cows.”

“They’re pigs.”

“Pigs! I’m a city girl so my knowledge of farm…”

“I bought them in Mexico.”

“Mexico! One of my favorite places.” Memory is stabbing her, the four days she and Paul had in Acapulco.

She tries to smile at Miss Franklin, but sunlight from the window makes it hard to see. Squinting, she makes out the lapel pin, a silver circle enclosing the number 24.

“What a lovely pin. Is the 24th your birthday?”

“That’s the number of pounds I lost.”

“How wonderful.” You’d look less witchy if you had some padding.

“Our employees are required to weigh in on Monday mornings. If you have any problem with that, let me know now.”

“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t have a problem.”

“If we like your writing we’ll call you for another interview. However, I must tell you that I have several other people to see.”

“I understand. Thank you. Miss Franklin.”

She picks up her purse—upside down. Lipstick, mascara, comb and tissues go flying over the carpet.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. Kneeling—there goes my pantyhose—she grabs her things. There goes the job, too.

Shoving everything into her purse, she stands up. “I’d just like to say…”

“I’m afraid I don’t have more time this morning.”

“I’m sure you’d find I’m a hard worker “ (rapid delivery borrowed from a Katharine Hepburn movie ) “and I have a real appetite for learning.”

“Appetite? Is that meant to be a pun?”

What gets me brownie points? “Yes. Humor would spice up brochures, don’t you agree? Just a dash to hold readers’ interest.”

Miss Franklin hesitates. “That might be a new approach.”

Dieters United was founded by the CEO of a pasta company. Mr. Portman had been portly indeed, Abby thinks, looking at his portrait in a place of honor on the wall when she’s called back for a second interview.

“Is there an after of him?” she asks the receptionist.

“That is his after, honey. He doesn’t have to be thin, he’s rich.”

Miss Franklin has a test assignment. “We need a slogan. It should have the company name in it. See what you can come up with in an hour.”

Seated at a desk in the middle of a busy aisle, Abby stares at the typewriter.

Panic’s at high tide. She has to get this job. No safety net without Paul’s salary.

After precisely one hour she’s summoned to Miss Franklin’s office.

“I have something I think you’ll like,” Abby says. “Dieters United Slenderize Together.”

“I don’t think….”

“Think of the initials—D, U, S, T. Dust off those pounds! Those letters could be on all the brochures.” Do I sound as if I know what I’m talking about?

The verdict hangs in the air. A moment, three. . . .

“I’ll run it past Mr. Portman.”

She’s hired “on a trial basis,” Miss Franklin tells her, phoning two days later. “Be here Monday morning nine sharp, so you can weigh in.”

There’s no editorial department she’s informed when she arrives, so they’re putting her in Marketing. “You have a private office,” Miss Franklin announces. The “private” office has glass walls, in a row of identical cubicles.

“Glass walls were our controller’s idea,” Miss Franklin says. “This way we can keep an eye on everybody.”

A girl can’t even pull up her pantyhose in private around here. Abby considers “running that past” Miss Franklin, but the woman doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor.

The office is barely large enough for a desk, two chairs and a file cabinet. No window.

Not even a door, everyone could walk right in.

It’s Goldfish Row, she thinks later, walking past the other “fish bowls.” It strikes her that it isn’t possible to see what someone’s typing. Why not take a chance? Lunch time, when no one’s around. She needs something to laugh about.

This little pig went to Marketing
This little pig stayed home and ate
And this little pig

Someone’s watching! She knows before she looks up. She yanks the paper out of the typewriter, but it’s too late. He’s walking in, a heavy man, coat folded over his arm, aroma of tobacco mixed with pungent cologne. His face is too familiar.

“You seem quite busy,” he says.

“Yes, Mr. Portman.” Did he see what I was typing?

“You recognize me,” he says, taking possession of the other chair. It makes the office feel claustrophobic.

“Yes, from….” She’s starting to say his picture looming over the reception area. “I’ve seen your photo in newspapers.”

“So you’re Abby.” He laughs at her surprise.“I keep close tabs on my employees. Very close tabs.”

“I’m sure you...