First Day on the Job
Eve Marx
Word Count 1668
I was hired because I wrote a dirty story I submitted to a post office box in Grand Central Terminal responding to an advertisement in the Village Voice calling for freelance writers. The ad specified the story be erotic and that spoke to me because I liked erotica. I submitted a fairly ridiculous but well-written story about a couple who orchestrated a threesome with a stranger, detailing every conceivable position and body part a person could lick, suck or screw, written at my kitchen while sitting on a stool at a bar-height butcher block counter built for me by an on again, off again boyfriend. I was just starting to think of myself as a writer and writing erotica came easily having spent my formative years digesting soft-core porn from my mother’s collection of novels by Harold Robbins, Jackie Susanne and William Goldman.
About a week after I mailed in my story, I got a phone call from a woman named Pat. She mentioned the name of the magazine she edited but I’d never heard of it. She loved my story and asked where I’d learned to write; she wanted to know if I’d written for any of her magazine’s competitors. I said I hadn’t. She invited me to come up to her office that afternoon to discuss a permanent writing position.
The offices were located on Third Avenue, near the UN. It was a low-rise building and the elevator was cramped and claustrophobic. I can’t say the name of the publication which as far as I know still exists because the man who actually owned the magazine company and its many titles was accused of being “Individual No. 1” in numerous court documents for his participation in a Ponzi scheme investigated by the SEC. I do check and so far, he’s evaded indictment.
But I digress.
The lobby was dimly lit and oddly furnished. Instead of the usual set up of chairs and small tables, there was a single, very low-slung, chocolate brown velvet couch. The walls were papered with a silver foil that put me in mind of the inside of a toaster oven.
I’m here to see Pat R., I said to the receptionist, who sat behind bullet-proof glass. Instead of using an intercom, she shouted down a hallway.
Another writer here to see Pat, she bellowed, her range impressive. A few minutes later I was buzzed through a locked door and ushered down a short hallway to a corner office shared by two women in their forties. One was very beautiful, her dark hair in a stylish Italian cut; the other was a dyed blond with a rough complexion, her hair done up in a messy beehive. She wore a tight-fitting leopard blouse unbuttoned nearly to the waist. Her bra was black and her breasts were large. Her nails, painted red, curved like talons. She was talking loudly on the phone, her voice by turns wheedling and threatening.
Fuck you, she said, I’ll find somebody else to do the job. She slammed the receiver back in its cradle and turned a dazzling smile on me, giving me her full attention. The other woman never looked up from her desk.
Hi, leopard-print said. I’m the magazine’s editor. That’s Gloria, she’s the publisher. She won’t be participating in this interview. I don’t have a lot of time so I’m going to get straight to the point. I like the way you write. I’d like to offer you a position, full-time, with benefits. Is that something that would interest you?
I said it was.
Good, she said. I really love your fiction. Have you ever been in a threesome? I should let you know a full-time job here wouldn’t just entail writing fiction, although we would love it if you could provide us with one piece of fiction, something along the lines of, say, 3000 words, every month for no extra pay. Your job requirements are to write two non-fiction articles you’ll be reporting on every month as well as a celebrity Q&A. You’ll also have to handle all the letters to the editor. Some of them can barely speak in complete sentences but you’ll figure it out. But first you’ll have to show me you can handle the reporting work, which happens outside of the office and usually after business hours. So, what are you doing tonight?
Nothing, I said.
Good. Be at this club tonight at 10 p.m. sharp. You’ll be meeting a photographer there who I use all the time. He’ll show you the ropes. His name is Rocco. You’ll recognize him because he’ll be carrying five cameras. Talk to as many people as you can. Write it up and bring it to me no later than 5 o’clock tomorrow. The piece doesn’t have to be very long, maybe 650 words. I’ll get lots of pictures from Rocco and that’s what will take up most of the space allotted for the layout. Why are you still standing here? Go to work.
I met Rocco at the club. As promised, he was easily identified by the number of cameras hanging from his neck. He looked me up and down but not lasciviously, more like he was sizing me up.
Is something wrong, I asked.
You don’t look like anyone Pat usually hires, he said. C’mon. Let’s get to work. I’d rather not be here all night.
No one had briefed me on who I was supposed to be talking to or what about. It appeared on our arrival we were ¾ of the way through a beauty contest. They were down to the final six contestants. It took my eyes a while to adjust to the red glare of the stage lights as the contestants paraded in evening gowns across a stage dusted by a haze of cigarette smoke rising up from the audience.
Did you get enough material, Rocco asked half an hour later. I snapped a few pictures of the evening gown competition but I’ve got to stick around for swimsuits. Did you find someone willing to be photographed fully nude? I’ve got to get nipple and pussy or Pat’ll be pissed off.
What are you talking about? I asked.
Oh for crissake, Rocco said. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you? Well, here’s the deal. Find some girls to talk to. Hang out for a while in the ladies' room. They’ve all got to go in there to pile on more makeup. That’s when you move in. Try to not talk so much like a college girl. Identify yourself as a reporter for (blank) magazine. Ask them questions about themselves. Ask ‘em if they think they’re gonna win. Ask where they’re from and their plans for the future, like do they want to model or be in the movies. Shit like that.
Ok, I said.
Now the next part, the most important part, this is where you’re going to have to use your intuition, he continued. Figure out which one is the most ambitious, who’s a natural exhibitionist, someone who wants to be famous. Tell her if she’ll show her tits and her pussy, she might get a whole page in the magazine. Then hook me up. I’ll be the one to tell her we’re not going to pay her and get a release so we can run her pictures.
I went to wait in the ladies’ room. Girls immediately began flowing in and out. Some went directly to the stalls and closed the door, either to urinate or do drugs, or both. Others lounged against the row of sinks, smoking cigs, fussing with their hair, applying another coat of makeup. Close up and under the harsh fluorescent lights, the makeup was thick and garish.
They were friendly when I introduced myself and answered all my questions as I dutifully jotted their responses down in a reporter’s notebook. One particularly outgoing and vivacious contestant who called herself Lani struck me as a likely prospect for Rocco to individually photograph. I broached the idea and she immediately said yes.
Where are we taking these pictures, she said. What about right here?
Hang on a sec while I find the photographer, I said. I located Rocco nursing a vodka tonic at the bar.
I got one, I said.
He paid for his drink and followed me to the ladies' room where Lani was waiting. Within moments she stripped off her evening gown and I saw she had a penis. I must have gaped because she shot me a tired look.
Didn’t you know this is a trans beauty contest?
I left Rocco to it and went straight home to write my piece. I stayed up all night typing furiously, my fingers pounding the keys. In the morning I made myself a pot of Bustelo and read my story one more time before shoving the typewritten pages into a brown envelope and traveling uptown on the subway. I scrawled Pat’s name across the front of the envelope and left it with the receptionist. Two hours later Pat called, told me I was hired and I began working at the magazine the next day. I only lasted seven months and then Penthouse called and asked if I’d like to talk to them about a job. The rest, as they say, is history.
Eve is a journalist and author currently scraping out a tiny living crafting police reports for newspapers in New York and Oregon. She is the author of What’s Your Sexual IQ?, The Goddess Orgasm, 101 Things You Didn’t Know About Sex
