Her boss was Jerry Gelb, a big bearded man with a deep voice and little black eyes that never showed pity, love, or even an attention span. Gelb was angry all the time. Or at least in a very bad mood. But he liked Patty. He teased Patty the way she imagined an older brother would — Patty was the eldest of three; her only brother was six years her junior. Jerry called her Patsie (her nickname as a child) and would take her along on lunches with his two leading authors. They were Harold Gould (winner of two National Book Awards) and Roberta York, the formidable and ancient intellectual, who would cheer Patty up by describing her own frustrations as a secretary sixty years ago. Roberta talked about being kept late without pay, being pressured to sleep with the boss, and how she collapsed into tears when, after having rejected the boss, he would needle her mercilessly. “Things haven’t changed much,” Gelb would agree in a tone that implied he was innocent of such behavior. But Roberta’s talk didn’t stop him from screaming into Patty’s intercom when she made the mistake of letting a rejected writer through her screening of telephone calls.
“You’re paid twelve thousand dollars a year to remember to say, ‘He’s in a meeting,’ and you can’t even do that right! Get in here!”
Her mouth quivered as she entered, closing the door behind her so no one could hear his ranting.
“What do I have to do!” he yelled, standing up at his desk. Behind him was a view of Fifth Avenue swarming with tiny cars and insect people. “Do you know what that asshole”—he pointed with contempt at his phone—“screamed at me? I had to listen to a nut call me a liar and a thief because you don’t pay attention! When I tell you not to put someone through, listen to the name! Remember it!” he shrieked at her. Though his voice was basso, the attitude— his arms waving in the air, his eyes scanning wildly — was hysterical and shrill.
Tears spilled from her eyes. She put up no struggle against either his accusations or her shame. She thought and felt nothing but shame, appalling shame at her uselessness.
“I’ve warned you over and over. How often can I make the excuse to myself and to the other editors here whom you repeatedly screw up with your incompetence, how many times can I say,” and now he transformed himself into a mincing pose, holding his hands up in front of him, like a puppy begging for food, “ ‘Oh, poor little Patsie. she’s so silly and helpless, but we don’t mind ’cause she can bat her eyes so pretty.’ ”
Later, of course, she could answer this abuse. Later, she wouldn’t agree with his evaluation of her work. But while he yelled, there was no Patty inside her to step forward and argue back. She thought it the most peculiar thing about her, the sickest thing about her, the one trait she wished she could be free of forever: she accepted any role that people cast her in. The more Jerry Gelb claimed she was a ditsie blond, the more she became one. Only when alone could she be herself. But she loathed being alone.
However, these periodic fits by Gelb were always followed by weeks of pampering. He would take her out with clients, praise her to agents, buy her a trinket, behave, in a word, like a repentant lover.
Eventually the tantrums became less frequent. Gelb selected a new assistant to yell at. Patty was grateful for this neglect and thought it was a victory. At last Gelb had recognized her worth.
And then, one day, he summoned her to the office without there having been a fuck-up.
“How are you?” he asked. This time, he was the one who closed his door for privacy. It was five o’clock. The insects below were heading home.
“I don’t know,” she said, staring at him with a look of shock. This formal question about her health was unusual, and so she took it seriously.
“You don’t?” he looked distressed by her answer. “I thought things were going well. You have a boyfriend.”
“I do?”
“I thought so. The actor.”
“Oh, him. I haven’t seen him in months. He was never a boyfriend. I’ve been dating someone else.”
Gelb smiled encouragingly.
“I just broke up with him,” Patty added.
Gelb again looked as if this news were a great blow to him. “I’m sorry.”
Patty smiled at him languidly. “It’s all right,” she said, and then laughed. “Sweet of you to worry.”
“Are you busy tonight?”
“A friend at Rockers has tickets to a screening of Raging Bull.”
“Oh, good.” At last an answer he wanted. He smiled nervously, cleared his throat, and said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think a direct approach—”
Even at this moment, Patty had no suspicion that she was about to be fired. Gelb’s reputation was one of ferocity. He fired people on the spot. No leisurely hand-wringing chats in the office. Besides, he never let her feel that she was vulnerable to being fired. She was the ditsie blond, not a young turk who had to either produce or die.
“—but I’m going to have to let you go. We’ve had a ghastly year. One of the worst in publishing history. We overprinted on Gold Search and underprinted on Jumpers, we’ve suffered lower sales in every department because of the recession. Everything’s gone wrong that possibly could. We have to cut down on staff and you’re the choice.” He said all this very quietly, embarrassed. He said it all as if she knew it.
“I don’t understand.”
Gelb sighed and looked away. “You know that someone has to suffer when things go bad. It isn’t personal. Double-day let a third of its staff go yesterday. You aren’t the only one here who will lose a job.”
She went numb to sensation, as if being in his office were a dream. Colors blurred, his voice came from a distance. FAILURE — punched onto the page of her brain. The word dominated — FAILURE. She felt as if she had been sentenced to die. All her life, she had dreaded this sort of occurrence. Getting a failing grade in school, being caught with drugs, not being accepted into a good college, meeting boys you like who reject you, and getting fired from a job. At last, FAILURE had struck. She had managed to avoid all the other calamities, she had even begun to lower her defenses … FAILURE. Gelb considered her so pathetic that not only was he firing her, he was doing it nicely!
“Please don’t do that!” Gelb stood up. “There’s no reason to cry.”
She hadn’t realized she was weeping. She put a hand on her cheek and her fingers slid on the wet surface.
“You can stay here for a month while you look for another job. I’ll give you great references. There’s unemployment insurance. It’s a paid vacation.”
“You just said there are no jobs,” she whined.
“I did?”
“If things are so bad, then no one’s going to hire me.”
“Oh, there’ll be jobs in a little while. Besides, you’re what? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six.”
“You don’t have to stay in publishing. I think you might be happier in … advertising. Or maybe working in publicity at a publishing house.”
“You don’t think I’m any good at editing.” Through her tears, she had the bitter voice of a heartbroken child, a girl on Christmas morning discovering she has gotten no toys. She hated herself for this weakness. It wasn’t her real self.
“Of course you are,” Gelb insisted. He wrinkled his thick brows together. This made the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. “You need a jolt. A fresh start.”