Penny Post #45: Do You Believe Me?

04.03.2024

She locked her car without paying for parking. Her dad had promised her that no one checked this late in the day. She opened up the umbrella and positioned it so it would protect both her and her tote bag that rested under her left arm. She walked through the parking lot, carefully avoiding the puddles that stained her DSW Steve Maddens. She walked up the steps at the edge of the parking lot, the heels of her shoes echoing on the concrete. The umbrella she gripped with both palms bristled against the wind. Her ankles, painfully bare, felt the sharp rain as the rest of her body couldn't. She had worn her favorite rain jacket, not yellow, though equal in measure, to repel the rain wanting to soak her skin. 

She boarded the two-fifteen train to Grand Central Terminal. The cars were empty but for a disgruntled conductor whose "tickets please" sounded as if she was collecting evidence of entry into Hell. A quick flash of the phone screen before settling into her hard cover. The pages were wet with the rain and crinkled when touched. She turned each page, marking her progress with a careful pencil. She did her best to ignore the expletives echoing a few rows behind her. Her best wasn't good enough, so she shut her book (relishing the softness of the crease) and rested her head on the window. The rain fell so hard that you could barely make it out except for a dark enough background and a focused stare. Her ankles felt slightly warmed by the air blowing from the vent under the window. 

Next station: Grand Central Terminal. She buttons her rain jacket as far as it will go in either direction, neck stiff. She tucks her hair into the hood, with the umbrella ready to open at any moment. She adjusts her tote bag tighter around her right arm. She walks through the crowd that has formed outside of the train doors, praying that no one steals anything from her. Her heart races to the rhythm of her footsteps: up the stairs, past the tourists, through the front doors, and onto Vanderbilt Avenue. Immediately her ankles prickle against the chill. 

She walks, desperately planting one foot in front of another as she tries to level her breathing. She trusts the grid that, according to Apple Maps, will bring her to 48th and 6th in approximately 8 minutes. 

18 minutes, and one or two unintended detours later, she pushes through the revolving door at Simon & Schuster. Grateful to have made it in one piece, though wet hair strewn across her face and chest, she unzips her rain jacket. She pads her soles on the runner carpet of the front entrance, wishing there was a warm towel she could use to dry her ankles. She helplessly runs her fingers through her hair, trying to straighten it and failing inevitably. 

"You look lost." The security guard at the front door approaches her. 

Lost? Oh no. Yes, I'm lost. But metaphorically, you know? But not lost literally, physically. I made it. The headquarters of Simon & Schuster. I'm here for an interview. 

Instead:

"Oh, haha. Just trying to dry myself from the rain. But, no, I'm here for an interview. Simon & Schuster. Aimée Bell is expecting me." 

"Right this way." Rain jacket draped over her right arm, tote perched high on her shoulder, she follows the man in the black jacket. 

She learns that his name is Paul and that he is kind and only ever trying to help. 

“Best of luck,” he says, before leading her to the elevators. 

Wondering about luck and circumstance while on her way to the 13th floor, she rides the elevator up.  

She is told to wait for a few minutes. Once alone, she takes deep breaths: In for four, out for six. 

"She's ready for you." 

---

She enters a dark office that looks unfinished except for a large bookshelf that stands from floor to ceiling on the wall facing the windows. The woman sitting at the desk greets her in kind, softly shaking her hand. 

She notices her resume printed on the desk in front of her. Her eyes widen and her breath hitches. She pins her shaking hands below her thighs. 

"It seems that you have the soul of a writer."

It seems that way, doesn't it?

Instead:

"Yes. I do."

"I read some of your stuff."

Her tongue swells, filling her whole mouth. She swallows hard. 

How?

Instead: 

"Wow. Thank you."

"You are extremely gifted."

Her mouth dries completely. 

"I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"You need to be a writer, not an editorial assistant."

But I'm here to become your editorial assistant.

Instead:

"Really? You think so?"

"You are an untapped talent. You need to write. Not sit in a cubicle from 9-5." 

She couldn't breathe even if she tried: in for four, out for six. Her hands stuck to the bottom of her thighs, sticky with sweat. 

"Work in a bookstore. Apply for writer retreats. Finish your novel."

"Right." Words failed. 

"Let's find you a champion agent."

"Right." She blinked away the disbelief that made her bones brittle. 

"Okay?"

No, I'm not okay. And I have a hard time believing I will ever be okay again. 

Instead:

"I'm going to cry." She didn't know what to say except for to name the thing that would surely happen next.  

"Save the tears for when we pop champagne at your first book launch." 

This is a sick joke. Bring out the cameras. Bring out Nick Cannon or some other celebrity who I won't remember the name of as they interview me on Punk'd. 

"Well, it was so nice to meet you. You have a long & successful career ahead of you."

Nick, please, come out. This is your last chance. Please! Save me! 

Instead, she utters as many thank yous as she knows how to say. She rides the elevator down from the thirteenth floor, wiping her palms against her skirt and blinking in doubt at the numbers on the elevator panel. 

She zips up her rain jacket once again; umbrella clutched above her. Shaking & shivering, the rain suddenly feels warm pelting against her ankles. She makes her way onto fifth, trying to find her way back to Grand Central. She finds a McNally Jackson instead and immediately decides to take a later train. 

Four books, one fountain pen, & one free tote later, she boards the 5:41 train to New Haven. She is in such a fog of haze, of disbelief, of uncertainty, she doesn't realize that the train she's supposed to be on is two tracks down until her car is already moving out of the tunnels and into the rain. She writes down as much as she can remember about the day, knowing it will be one she won’t ever want to forget. She ends up in Fairfield, chowing down a slice of cheese pizza to quiet her rumbling stomach, waiting for the 7:18 train to Darien. 

She arrives home, several hours after that fateful interview, drowning in the sweetest bliss and the most fierce disbelief. She repeats the story to her parents, to her boyfriend, to her friends. She writes it down and shares it with her Substack audience, wondering if they'll believe her. 

Do you believe me?

Until next time, 

Kiera