The Build Up
Tati Richardson
Chapter One
Ari
“Dear Sweet Baby Jesus!”
The middle-aged receptionist, with her short natural graying near the temples, looked me up and down over her wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes eventually landing on the massive brown stain on my shirt. After a pit stop in the bathroom and an unsuccessful attempt at making myself appear decent, I had made it to the front desk.
She put down her pencil, refocusing her attention on my face. “Can I help you, miss?”
I get it, lady. I look like crap. Trust me, Crappy Chic wasn’t the look I was going for on my first day at a new job.
I cleared my throat and attempted to stand up straight, projecting what little confidence I had left. “Hello. I’m Ari James. Here to see Porter Harrison. I’m the new junior associate.”
The beginning of my epically disastrous morning began when the only thing I could find in my closet that fit was a basic ivory blouse and a black skirt that was so tight that it was riding up my ass. To make matters worse, the radiator in my nearly twenty-five-year-old Honda, affectionately named Honey, blew on the hottest day in August to which my neatly blown out hair responded by slowly reverting into a Lady of Rage level afro-puff. Honey’s infirmity forced me to run to the West End MARTA station at breakneck speed, the morning’s soundtrack provided by my Spanx mimicking a Girl Scout attempting to start a campfire. My heel got caught in a subway grate and broke. I squeezed into a seat on the nation’s worst public transportation system, while barely holding a cup of cappuccino (which wasn’t what I ordered at all) and an annoyingly large architectural portfolio that snagged on my last decent pair of pantyhose. I had a run as long as the Chattahoochee River that extended all the way to my big toe. But the cherry on top of an already shitty sundae was the teacup Pomeranian who poked its head out of its owner’s Birkin and licked the rim of my coffee cup, causing my hand to jerk wildly. Before I knew it, a massive, lukewarm, brown splash of sugary liquid landed on my ivory blouse. After hobbling two blocks down Peachtree Street to the office building and a last-ditch effort in the bathroom to blot the stain away on my blouse, I gave up.
Shitty Day: 3, Ari’s attempt to make a great first impression: 0.
After I introduced myself, the woman smiled, wide and warm, kindness reaching to her eyes. “Oh, Ms. James! Good to meet you, dear. We’ve been expecting you!” She came from behind the desk. Dressed in a lightweight knit twin set and slacks, the receptionist was shorter than me, with a behind wider than mine. I found that strangely comforting. At every job, I was always the biggest woman in the room. I mean, in all units of measurement, I was still bigger than this woman, but I appreciated another woman with ample hips like myself.
“I’m Gayle Jones, office manager. Everyone calls me Ms. Gayle.” She extended her hand, and we shook firmly. Immediately, the tension I didn’t realize I was holding in my shoulders released. Maybe that was a good sign.
“I’m sorry, Ms. James. It seems that Port... Mr. Harrison is still on a call. Why don’t I take you to your office instead of waiting in here in the lobby, getting gawked at like you’re on display in a museum!”
I widened my eyes. “Do I have an office? I just assumed I’d be out in a cubicle or something.”
Ms. Gayle smiled. “If Mr. Riddle wants to give you an office, take the office. Most junior associates don’t get one. And trust me, you don’t want to be out there in the cubes with that lot. Follow me.”
I stood up and hobbled on my broken heel after her with my portfolio in front of me, trying to hide the increasingly large run in my pantyhose. Ms. Gayle looked at me, hobbling at her side like a church usher at a second service. “Miss James, do you need some help with that shoe? I can try to locate some glue.”
I felt my ears grow hot with embarrassment and forced a smile. I didn’t enjoy asking for help. I was a “grin and bear it” type of girl. “I’ll be okay,” I assured her.
As we made our way down the hall, the people we walked past stopped talking and stared. I noticed everyone was Black. That differed vastly from my previous firm. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with bullshit microaggressions. My eyes roamed from the cubicles, down the hall, and into other offices. Everyone was male. Yet again, I’d be the only female architect here. That was utterly disappointing. As we rounded another corner, a guy walked toward us, holding a well-worn Harvard mug that clearly needed replacing and sporting a goatee that seemed a little too dark and perfect. I gave my warmest nonthreatening smile in his direction. He responded by staring curiously for a beat and frowning. Well, isn’t he delightful?
Ms. Gayle opened the door to my office, which was spacious, albeit basic with light gray walls and no windows. I sighed.
“Everything okay?” asked Ms. Gayle. I hadn’t realized I’d been standing as still as a statue in the doorway.
“It’s fine. I just need to put up some photos. You know?” I lied. The bareness of the office was another reminder that I was starting over. In Chicago, I had windows that overlooked downtown and the river. I had worked hard for that office, busting my ass quarter after quarter only for my life to be blown to smithereens.
Ms. Gayle raised a brow with concern. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you, Ms. James? I can send your blouse out for dry cleaning. Or get a courier to get you something brand-new. Whatever you need. We ladies need to have each other’s backs here and make the best impression.” She gave me a wink.
Embarrassed, I bit the corner of my lips. She was right: Ladies needed to look out for each other. I had to learn to let my guard down. She’s just being nice, Ari. Everyone isn’t out to get you or hurt you. I finally agreed. “Ms. Gayle, is there any way you can get a courier to get me a pair of size 8.5 black heels? Something sensible like Nine West or Cole Haan. Nothing over three inches if possible.”
“No Jimmy Choo?” chuckled Ms. Gayle.
“Ah no,” I laughed. “Just a simple pair of black heels. And a plain white blouse. A size 2X? No, a 3X, maybe. I want to be comfortable.”