Resignation

Perhaps it was the tickly feel of cool November air as she walked along the avenue or recalling the chocolate éclair and lovely Sauvignon Blanc in her fridge that suddenly caused Julie Stairs to have a lovely sense of well-being. More likely, it was the delicious fact that she had just resigned from her job at the publishing house. Precisely at 6:00 p.m., she placed her perfectly worded and extremely courteous letter of resignation on her department head’s desk. No doubt, Mr. Bardacke would see it first thing in the morning. Julie had given the customary two weeks’ notice and steeled herself for the forthcoming and inevitable cake and coffee farewell party. Her savings account was plump enough to allow her to coast for a while. Julie had been unemployed before and knew it meant watching thousands of episodes of Law & Order.

           For months, she had vacillated about resigning from her job editing tedious tax journals. Should she give notice immediately or wait until after the Christmas holidays or perhaps even delay until after a vacation. But this particular Thursday, she woke up with the Nike slogan “Just Do It” bouncing in her brain. At almost thirty, Julie was still undecided about what to do with her life. As a teenager, she wanted to become a doctor. Her inability to pass the chemistry exam ruled out that profession. In college, the idea of becoming an actress seemed appealing but her terror at the thought of speaking before an audience of more than three or four people precluded a theatrical career. Teaching English seemed a possibility, but again, her inability to speak before more than four listeners proved an encumbrance. Julie had difficulty making decisions. It seemed okay to take forty-five minutes each morning to decide which earrings to wear – the button, the hoop, or the teardrop. Indecisiveness about a career at her age was not okay. Julie marveled at toddlers lisping “I wanna be a nurth” or “Me gonna be thoopaman.” At two these children have clearly defined career goals.

           Friday morning, Julie perused the employment section in the paper. To her amazement, the only opening she found was an ad for a hat check girl in a west side bar. She liked the idea of not working in an office, at least for a while. And, she told herself, it might be fun. Julie had been so unhappy in her job at the publishing house that the somewhat ludicrous option of hanging coats for a living seemed plausible.

           From the outside, the bar looked like a charming little restaurant, an attractive awning and a welcoming door but the interior turned out to be a cave-like room with a bar, café tables, chairs, and a small stage. Five women in costumes, or more accurately, partial costumes – rehearsal skirts, and nipple tassels – were onstage, rehearsing a dance number to recorded music.

           A middle-aged man in need of a shave and a stronger deodorant came toward Julie.

           “You here for the hatcheck job?”

           “Yes.”

           “What’s your name?”

           “Lucille Parks,” Julie answered. She couldn’t possibly give her real name.

           “Wait here,” he indicated a café table directly in front of the stage and walked away.

           The dark little club made Miss Havisham’s dining room seem dust-free. It was not one of those high end “gentlemen’s clubs” that cater to celebrities but was what is known in the vernacular as “a strip joint.” Julie planned to go through with the interview in her new persona of Lucille Parks whenever the odoriferous man returned and then exit the premises as quickly as possible.

           She noticed that instead of tassels, two of the dancers were wearing band-aids over their nipples. Were the tassels being saved for the night’s performance? Or, did the tassels hurt? Suddenly, Julie felt sad. “The things women do to please men,” she thought, although in this instance it was more likely in order to pay the electric bill. It seemed ironic that film stars who prance around naked as a jaybird in film after film are paid millions of dollars and considered respected actresses while these women probably receive modest pay and almost certainly no respect. She was mulling this and other inequities of life over when she realized she had been waiting a long while. To her surprise, one of the tassel-wearing dancers (red tassels circled by tiny silver stars) came down from the stage, leaned against the table to the right side of Julie, lit a cigarette, and looking straight ahead, spoke out of the left corner of her mouth like a poorly trained ventriloquist.

           “Kid, you here for the hatcheck job?”

           “Yes,” Julie answered, looking straight ahead and directing her remark to her right side.

           The dancer spoke again. “There ain’t any hatcheck job. It’s a trick. They make you wait here a long time so you see what the act is like then ask you if you wanna be one of the dancers.”

           “Oh God!” Julie blurted as she turned to the redheaded young woman.

“Slip out quickly, before Al gets back,” the stripper said as she continued smoking her cigarette.

           “Thank you,” Julie whispered as she got up to leave.

           In the bakery, Julie tried to look like she wasn’t a single woman who lived alone when she ordered three Napoleons and one éclair. She felt the woman behind the counter suspected all the pastries were for her.

           Julie missed Bill. Until recently, she had a warm and intimate relationship with a young doctor named Bill Trent, a relationship ended prematurely when he accepted a residency in Albuquerque. They both hugged and cried their goodbyes at the airport. The two still kept in touch with emails and phone calls. It was Bill who encouraged her to quit her job.

           “I know more about tax law than any non-lawyer has a right to know,” Julie opined.

           “You’ve got to find other employment, sweetheart. You know, something that doesn’t fill you with dread five days a week. Ideally, find a new job before you resign.”

           “Ideally” proved to be elusive as the job interviews Julie sandwiched into her lunch hours ended in the prospective employer’s “not a good fit” cliché as if she were one of Cinderella’ s chubby-footed stepsisters.

           “Make that two chocolate éclairs,” Julie said in a cheery voice, the kind of voice she imagined a married woman with a hubby and baby might have.

           Julie realized she would accept whatever Providence sent her way. She refused to abandon hope. After all, she had only been unemployed one day. That very afternoon, she revised her resume, made it more attractive by changing the Times New Roman font to Garamond and sprinkling some italics here and there. She also googled “air fare to Albuquerque” and was surprised at how affordable it was, so much so, that accepting Bill’s invitation to spend the holidays with him seemed very doable. Yes, she would accept whatever Providence sent her way but, perhaps, nudge the direction of things a bit now and then.