I suppose I’ll explain how I got this job. I had been in New York for like three months and still couldn’t find a job. I started going for everything listed on craig’s list I felt could pay enough. I was randomly dropping my resume at every restaurant or bar I passed. It became my ritual to hit up Mars Bar for a beer or two usually more on after the days when the job hunt was extra humiliating. The rejections seemed to get increasingly harsher. So yeah, I was at Mars Bar a lot. So much that the cute bartender Jane knew not to ask me about the job hunt anymore.
That Monday I walked in and before I even adjusted my vision to the lack of light she blurts out “You got a job yet?”. I shook my head in tight lipped shame.
“I have something for you.” She walked over to the register and pulled a folded cocktail napkin out of one of the money slots. She stood in front of me in moved her face real close up to mine. Then she did this really stagey whisper. “These two girls came in today and one was all freaked out. She was drinking shot after shot. Turns out she had been a personal assistant to some famous computer guy and she saw something weird that made her quit. But the friend was like, trying to comfort her and at the same time tell her it was no big deal and she should really keep the job because it pays so well. Then the friend started telling me how great it is to be a personal assistant. How if you can find someone who isn’t a recognizable celebrity it’s the best because it cuts out most of what makes the job annoying. The freaked out one is being way too dramatic and crying really loud into her cell phone. So I took away her drink and cut her off. Finally the friend tells me I should try to get this job and writes down the dudes name and number off the freaked out girls phone. Anyways you can have it. That girl was really freaked out.”
Then she pressed the napkin into my palm and looked into my eyes real serious. Written in sharpie was a phone number and the name Mr. Hansen. It was real odd the way she did that. I felt I had been warned. I was still sober but it was as if low piano chords were playing in the background. I also felt desperate for some employment. I woke up pretty early the next morning to call that number.
“You’ve reached the office of Mr. Hansen how can I help you. A mousey girls voice answered.
“Hello. My name is Jinny Terry. I am calling because I am interested in the personal assistants position.” I decided to chance that if this was the current assistant, she was actually planning on quiting and hoping she didn’t ask how I heard of the job.
“Umm, oh oh oh kay, ummmmm. Can you hold please.”
“Yes”
Thirty seconds later she was back on “can you come in at 3 pm to interview?”
“Sure just give me the address.”
I went to an address on Roosevelt Island which turned out to be an apartment/ office that had been made out of the top three floors of a suprisingly new upscale high rise. That first interview happened standing right inside the front door. Mr. Hansen was a classic successful nerd in his fifties. His lack of words seemed to be a combination of shy and aloof. He asked me where I grew up and who I been working for. I told the the truth about being new to New York and having been a bartender before.
“I want to take you on a trial basis.” he said.
The pay offered was good. No it was great. I would be making five times more than I needed to cover my expenses. I was told to come back at o-dark thirty the next day and he would show me around and explain my duties. I asked about my hours and he gave a wishy washy answer. I asked about my duties and all I could really gather was I would be like a maid who didn’t ever have to clean. Frankly at the time I was so jazzed to have finally gotten any job, especially one that paid so well, I was able to overlook all the oddities in the whole situation.
Let me just say it was odd. The next morning I got the tour of his place. His apartment was like being in a maze. Each room led to the next without a normal hallway. The rooms were so perfectly put together it appeared an interior designer was given an unlimited budget. I saw the main living quarters; foyer, kitchen, breakfast room formal dining area. Then his work area; a messy office and a completely empty cavernous room he called a lab. The area he focused on was my offices. I had were two rooms and a gigantic bathroom. One room had a nice sitting area with a couch and two arm chairs, a working fireplace on one wall and a small library of what appeared to be literary classics and scientific and literary reference guides. It was attached to an office. The office had floor to ceiling windows with a perfect view of the upper west side, a big desk made of polished dark wood with a desk top computer, a laptop and an Iphone sitting right next to each other. And a row of several knee high file cabinets which perfectly matched the desk. The bathroom was like being in barbie’s dream house. Pink on pink featuring a sort of dressing room area.
I stood in that bathroom and said “I’m sorry. I’m just not clear on what my job is.”
He gave me a blank stare for about two solid minutes then he finally revealed the story. “I was married for over 20 years to a woman who did everything for me. She was my secretary, my agent, manager, promoter, maid, chef. I had no idea what she did for me. She just always did it. One morning she gave me my agenda for that day. There was a lunch meeting scheduled at Jean George’s. During that lunch meeting she explained to me she was leaving . By the next day she had moved to Paris. Of course I could not really go on without her. I needed her for everything. I called day and night to ask her back until she blocked my phone calls. I had one person on staff, a driver named Danny. I had Danny find me a live in cleaning lady and a chef who brings groceries and prepares meals with heating instructions on them. Still there are other things to be done. I can’t waste my days answering e-mails and making appointments. I found an agency that specialized in personal assistants. They sent the last girl and now you.”
“What happened with the last girl” I asked hoping to gloss over the fact that I didn’t come from the agency and hoping to find out the real catch in this job.
“She was dull and closed her mind off to new possibilities in the world. She was easy to fire.”
“Oh” was my response completely confused by his cryptic and stoic response.
“Familiarize yourself with the workspace. Go into the computer and the files and find out anything you can about what the wife did with her days. I believe the passwords to everything are in the rolodex in the top left drawer of the desk. The phone on the desk is yours now. I am listed under Henry. Do not call me. Always answer when I call. Always. You can let yourself out when you feel done. Your keys to the apartment are in the top drawer.” Then he walked out and shut the door behind him.
The computer and laptop told a sad story. She kept a detailed calendar for herself. She scheduled breakfast with Henry each morning. She had a time blocked out for exercise four times a week. She spent most afternoons shopping and at beauty appointments and spas. There was an alarming amount of cosmetic surgery appointments on her schedule. She had each minute of her day organized including an hour each day titled administration, which I think was her planned time to plan. The schedule for Henry was just an occasional dentist appointment or hair cut and a rare business lunch. On some evenings he was scheduled for what was written as dinner with your wife. I found photos of them. She was stunning. Tall and slender with glowing white skin and a salon fresh blonde bob. They appeared to be a logical couple in the photos when they where young but very awkward in the more recent photos. She certainly had gotten a lot of work done. Enough to have that borderline creepy look. In each photo she was always perfectly dressed and put together.
My phone rang and the name Henry lit across the screen.
“I need the mail”
“oh”
“Ask the doorman for it.”
“o.k.”
“Take out the pieces I don’t need.”
“o.k.”
Click, he hung up. I was already used to his rudeness. I went downstairs. The doorman had more mail than I could handle on my own. He carried a box up with me.
“So did you know his wife well?” I pried.
“Yes, Emma was an angel. I was surprised she didn’t leave sooner. I really miss having her around” he responded.
It took a good hour to sort thru the mail amongst the items was a package for Henry from Kiki De Montparnasse, a high end lingerie store. Of course I looked inside. It was a small black silk nighty and black cashmere thigh high stockings with a white seam. I sealed it back up wondering who these were for. I sort of included it with everything else and decided I didn’t really want to know. And put it in with all the other things I thought he would want.
When I was finished I called his number.
“Do not call me” he answered.
“Your mail” I said.
“We will meet for breakfast each morning at 8 am. After breakfast you can give me my mail and my agenda. At that time I will tell you anything else I need. Be in the kitchen tomorrow at 8.”
After breakfast the next morning I handed him the mail with a blank sheet of paper with the date on the top. I used the same font and size as Emma had. He actually laughed. He told me to keep the phone on me and spend the day however I wanted. Then he handed me a bank card with a sticky note attached. It said, appropriate outfits Jinny! - the PIN is 4545.
I knew my limited wardrobe was not exactly perfect but I didn’t think it was that bad. I had to return to the photos on the computer to inspect his wife’s clothing choices for a guideline on what he might consider appropriate. She was dressed like a doll. Always fashionable but so matchy matchy. She always wore very feminine dresses with matching shoes, hand bag and accessories. I headed over to Bloomingdales. I started in the shoe department. I bought some black ballet flats when the phone rang.
“I need your help” he was panicky.
“OK??”
“I need you to come in to the lab”
I made it back in about fifteen minutes. I rushed in so quickly that when I got inside the lab my body could have made that cartoonish brakes sound. This was it? He stood in front of a wheelchair with the mail order lingerie in his hands. In the wheelchair was a custom made Real Doll. The custom build was that it looked just like his wife, Emma.
“I can’t even dress her” he whined.
“What’s going on here?” I asked. Trying to remain calm.
“Don’t be angry. The last girl was angry.”
“I’m not the last girl.”
“This is the new project.” he said.
“Ok. What exactly is the project? What is the goal?” I asked. Hoping he wouldn’t hear the condescension in my tone.
“I plan to animate her and add artificial intelligence. Beginning with facial expressions. Adding select speech. I’m hoping someday to add physicality.”
“You’re building a robot version of your wife?”
“Well...yes”
“What would she think of this?”
He shook his head. “It’s not really about her. I could never replace her. I won’t come back. I thought. Even if it partially works it’s marketable, Is this so wrong?”
I had to think about his question. I expected the big reveal to be something much worse. This was mostly sad.
“It seems a little wrong” I said. “But it’s the victimless crime. I’ll help you get her into that outfit.” That’s when I became his accomplice.
