FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #3

I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work.  A sample sale for my favorite handbag designer, Dovebags, was being held in the city!  This very rarely happened, and I assumed the current economic recession was hitting luxury brand designers hard enough for them to bend their otherwise high-brow rules.  The sale began at 10AM in one of those loft spaces in the Fashion District.  I glanced at my watch, 9:38.  I was already late to work, what would an extra few hours matter?  I decided to jump off at the next station and hike crosstown to the sample sale.  My heartbeat was already racing and my ears burned with adrenaline as I anticipated the glory of rifling through piles of supple leather handbags, the steep discounts and burst of ecstasy when I would find the perfect bag and obtain it… for 30-70% off retail price!

I pushed along with the morning commuter traffic over the platform and up the stairs, through the turnstile and up more stairs until the cool autumn air touched my cheeks and I was on 33^rd and Park Avenue.  Aiming myself westward I began my brisk pace towards the sample sale, mentally sorting through the fall collection to decide which handbag style I would spend my rent money on.

There was the Kaylee satchel, a utilitarian dream with multiple compartments for all the little things women stash in their purses and two sets of handles for carrying chicly on the forearm or slung over the shoulder.  Then there was the Janice, an of-the-moment bucket bag with a tasseled drawstring closure and beautiful stitchwork on the body.  My pace quickened as I thought of the Hannah, a slouchy bag with metal grommet detailing, flap pockets and adjustable handles.  It couldn’t even be categorized into the traditional boxes of tote, satchel, hobo or frame bag.  The Hannah was its own thing.

I came up on Seventh Avenue and turned my little suede ankle booties (slouchy, but not too bunchy, in a soft dove grey) northward.  Even from three blocks away I could see the line snaking around the corner.  Oh no!  Of course there would be a line – all the best sample sales congregate a crowd well before the opening time.  I morosely found the end of the line and joined up behind a stick-thin blonde in head to toe black.  I identified her skintight leather jacket as Yigal Azrouel and a pang of jealousy wheedled its way into my heart.

One and one half foot-tapping, watch-glancing, frustrating hours later, I was finally admitted through the doors into the loft space to spar my way through the high-heeled urban fashionista battleground.  I immediately did a quick scan of the space from left to right, planning my attack.  The square room had bare walls and cement floors.  Tables lined two sides, piled with bags with photocopied signs announcing, “Green sticker = 30% off, Blue sticker =  40%” etc.  The right side had a table with credit card machines, cash boxes and sales girls busily stuffing purchases into brown bags.  I decided my best approach would be to jump in.

I went to the closest table and began to feel up the handbags.  My fingers lingered on the soft buttery leather, stroking each bag in turn.  There were several Janice bags, in black, brown, tan and white.  Red stickers indicated they were 60% off retail, yet still about one-third my rent.  Also on the table were Stan bags, a canvas and leather tote with handy outer pockets and an inner, zippered pocket.  Blue sticker, 40% off.  I moved on.  Although my heart was pounding at an elevated rate – a rate I liked to refer to as “beating to the shopping” – I had not yet found that knock-my-breath away feeling of finding just the right thing.

Then it happened.  I imagine that falling in love with your mate at first sight is much like what I felt.  The Hannah.  In a sumptuous stone grey (oh! How that bag would look with my suede booties!).  I no longer heard the raucous chatter of the bag crazed women around me.  It all dimmed to a buzzing noise in the back of my skull.  I approached the Hannah slowly, shyly, seductively.  I carefully reached out my hand and wrapped my fingers around its braided leather handles.  I pulled it close, held it under my chin and inhaled the rich leather scent deeply into my lungs.  My eyes closed and I smiled.  Oh, this was it. 

I gently pulled away from the bag and looked at the tag.  Green sticker.  30% off.  A crashing thud down to reality.  I quickly did the mental math.  Could I really spend that much on this bag?  But look at that craftsmanship!  And the oh-so-useful flap pockets with their magnetic closures and grommets.  Not to mention the brushed brass hardware and long leather tassels.  Before I could give myself another minute of hesitation that I would live to regret the rest of my life, I took my Hannah to the table of skinny salesgirls and plopped it down with my credit card.  A redhead briskly reviewed the sale policy, all sales final, no returns or exchanges of any kind, as is, etc.  I nodded along hardly hearing her.  She punched at a calculator and then, oh my how could I forget, added up the tax.  Oof.  My ears were hot, my breaths shallow and quick.  I could feel a film of sweat build on my forehead.  I signed the receipt with a flourish and the brown bag was in my hand, heavy with its load of sumptuous leather bag goodness.

Elated, I fled the scene like a bandit.  I was impatient to begin piling my belongings into the latest member of my handbag army, the platoon I use to support me through the battles I waged every day in the city, replete with weaponry to meet any skirmish along the way – blotting papers for midday oily skin, band-aids for sudden cuts or blisters, a comb for wind-tangled hair…

I arrived at my cubicle breathless and still high from my purchase.  My heartbeat was still elevated and the thought of how many calories I must have burned during the sale sallied briefly through my mind.  I threw my coat over the back of my chair and opened the brown bag.  I pulled out my Hannah and set it on my desk.  Oh the glory!  I dumped the contents of my less-glorious-looking handbag, a style known as the Elephant, from another designer, onto my desk and sorted through the pile.  I tossed out crumpled papers, used tissues, an empty gum package… I began slowly loading my Hannah with my wallet, sunglasses case, building passes, pens, lip glosses, pouches and riffraff of my life.  My heart felt fuller than my handbag, almost bursting through my blouse. 

“Carol!”  I spun around to face my coworker, Patty. 

“Where were you?” she demanded.  I gave her a blank look.  She heaved a sigh.

“The staff meeting?  This morning?  10:30?  Ring a bell?”  She was using that tone of voice she takes me with when I find myself in one of my ditzier moments.  Staff meeting?  Was that today?

“Oh,” I finally managed, “Uhm.”  Patty gave me an eyeroll then a warning.

“You better watch out for Rose.”  With that she left.  I was momentarily stunned, unsure of where I was or what I was doing there.  Then I saw my Hannah and returned to loading her up.   As if on cue, my intercom beeped.

“Carol!”  Rose.  My boss.  I pushed the blinking button.

“Hi, Rose! What’s going on?”  I tried to sound nonchalant and not like I was three hours late to work. 

“My office, now!” 

“OK!”  I quickly swept the remaining debris of my life into my new handbag and gave it a parting stroke against the soft leather.  At the end of the row of cubicles, I entered Rose’s windowed office and plopped into one of the chairs facing her desk.

“So,” she began without looking up from the papers she was shuffling around on her desk, “Alarm clock not working these days?” 

“What? Oh, no, it’s …” I was cut off abruptly.

“And the reports I asked for last week? How’re they? On my desk by 3 o’clock.  Ask Jason for the graphs and studies he’s been researching.  I need a synopsis by day end.  Tell me why we want to advertise in Indiana…” Rose continued as I furiously scratched illegible notes onto a Post-It pad I grabbed off her desk.  Ten minutes later I finally emerged from her office, my hands full of small yellow squares.  And not for the first time that week I wondered what I was doing at this degrading job.  I took my time returning to my desk, washing off the humiliation of spending ten minutes with my boss by chatting with my coworkers in their cubes along the way.

Back at my desk I was reunited with my Hannah, who had sat and patiently waited for me to return, not budging one inch.  The gleaming grommets seemed to gaze at me understandingly, a fold in the soft Italian leather formed a smile that seemed to say, “Hey, happy hour isn’t too far away.”  I slumped back into my desk chair and gazed lovingly at this handbag, admiring its useful pockets and handmade details.  I took a deep breath and pulled my chair up to my desk, laid my hands on my keyboard and logged into my computer.  My Hannah was at my elbow on my desk, a substantial and reassuring presence as I scrolled through e-mails and continued my daily existence.

back to Contest #3