Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Not really. More like didn’t do. We don’t feel you’re as passionate as some of your coworkers. We’re also making cuts, and when it came down to it, I believe you’re the weakest member of the team.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose and stares down at my file. “You can finish your shift and pick up your check on your way out.”
Wow. That’s it?
No “Have a good life, Sara.” Or “It was great working with you.”
No “Thanks for the tie you got me for my birthday.” Or, at the very least, “Sara, thanks for bringing us donuts out of the kindness of your heart all those times.”
Wow.
I’m surprised I manage to walk steadily to the door, because it feels as if my world is spinning like a carousel that is going faster and faster by the second. What am I going to do?
I stumble into the ladies’ room and quickly hide myself inside a stall. I exhale a very effusive “Fuck!” and put my hands on my temples and review my conversation with Walter. I’m an absolute wreck. My dad always said I’d turn out this way. My dad, who is divorcing my mom and seems to think we’re no good for him, was right; I’m apparently not good for anything.
Picking dancing as a career would lead me nowhere.
I’d end up with a dead-end job and no “decent” college degree to save me from it.
I groan and lean back against the stall door, blinking my eyes as I fight back tears. Maybe I deserved to be fired. Walter wasn’t wrong: I wasn’t in love with this job. I wanted to love it like I love dancing, but I don’t. It must have shown in my work.
I gather my shit and leave the restroom feeling drained and defeated, and like I’m the biggest loser on the planet. Don’t cry, I tell myself, as I head back to the concierge desk. You can cry all you want when you get back to your apartment. Focus on getting your shit and doing what’s left of your job until your time is up.
“What did Walter want?” Robert asks.
I swallow hard before squeaking out, “He fired me.”
“What? He fired you?” The flare in Robert’s eyes reveals his complete shock.
Carly doesn’t look nearly as surprised, though. “That’s sad… Oh, Sara, I’m so sorry,” she says.
“I know. Who’ll cover for you next time, right?” I snap, my self-defense mechanism bubbling out to hide my hurt.
Carly ignores my attitude. “You know who else got fired? Bert, one of the guys from the front door. Also a shit ton of the cleaning ladies…”
I tune Carly out as I let Robert hug me and tell me he’s there for me if I need anything. I nod, pry free, and scan the concierge desk for any items that might be mine that I’d need to take home with me.
There’s nothing for me to pack. That’s what happens when you’re a concierge. I don’t have drawers full of stuff or pictures on my desk. I go, I work, I leave.
And today it’s really hard to leave. I can’t believe this is my last day. God, I never thought I’d miss being a concierge. Say goodbye, Sara, I think, as I say farewell to my colleagues and return home, with no job, no dream, and without my mystery man’s name.
* * *
“What happened?”
Bryn finds me bawling into a tissue when she arrives at the apartment. I’m so relieved to see her, I begin to cry harder.
I guess it’s like they say. Man plans, and God laughs. Wow, he must be laughing pretty hard right now.
“I got fired. I had no idea they’d start making cuts and I’d be the first to go. What am I going to do?” I blow my nose and toss the tissue aside while Bryn grabs a waste basket, tosses in all the tissue balls and the empty box of tissues, and sets a fresh box before me.
“You’ll get a new job.” She sits down beside me.
God, I knew I shouldn’t have kept looking for dancing gigs. I got my hopes up and my dreams distracted me from my real job. I should’ve stayed focused. “It’s not that easy—”
“You can walk dogs with me,” Bryn interrupts.
“That’s your gig.”
“I’ll split it with you,” Bryn insists. “I won’t be able to dedicate as much time to it as I want to—I’ll be too busy working on the start-up.”
“Really?” I eye her. “How are you so confident you’ll get the money?” I hate being the party pooper, but we need to be realistic here. Honestly, I think it’s a pipe dream. She’s really smart and great at designing clothes, but no matter how much talent you have, I know that to be successful, luck has to somehow play a part as well.