Unfortunately, there weren’t many balls to grab at this event. Oh, there were plenty of men there—in fact, it was a veritable sausagefest. But any time I struck up a conversation with a guy who seemed halfway decent, he’d invariably prove me wrong.
More than once, a guy gaped at me in astonishment and said, “You don’t look like a software developer.” Some guys hit on me; others avoided me like the plague. I didn’t have any worthwhile discussions and left feeling completely discouraged.
I did give out two business cards, though. Which was a huge mistake, because for weeks on end, I kept getting anonymous text messages containing—what else?—dick pics. After that, I threw the rest of my cards in the trash and swore off tech meetups for good.
“They haven’t been very constructive,” I said.
“That’s a shame,” Alex said. “So much of this business is about making contacts and networking and putting yourself out there.”
“Well, I’m sort of hoping that the right opportunity will come along when I least expect it.”
“The right opportunities are the ones you create yourself.”
He beamed at me, and my insides melted to warm goo. God, he was gorgeous. But his beauty went beyond good looks. It went far deeper, into his brain and his heart. He was a rare breed of man, one who didn’t see a woman as an objective or a threat. Sure, he might’ve been a little clueless, but he seemed like he was open to listening and learning. Most important, he was kind and supportive, and damn if I didn’t need some positivity in my world right then.
“I like that idea,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. “Creating my own opportunities.”
“Absolutely. You’re in charge of your own life. You’ve got the power.”
“I’ve got the power.”
Just saying it made me feel powerful. It seemed so obvious, but I’d never considered it before: I didn’t need to play nice with the guys to get ahead. Playing nice was for chumps. All those obnoxious brogrammers and disparaging douchebags and sexual deviants? Screw them.
If I wanted to launch a start-up, I didn’t need to lean in and claim a seat at the table. I could stand up and do it by myself. Because I was in charge of my own life.
And that included my love life.
“What are you up to this weekend?” I asked.
“No plans as of yet. How about you?”
“My roommate is throwing a party on the roof of our building. She said I could invite whoever I wanted. Some of my girlfriends will be there. I’d love it if you came.”
His eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun. “Thanks. I’d love to go.”
“Great.”
With a satisfied grin, I sunk my teeth into a fat slice of salami.
I was going to get what I wanted out of life, I was sure of it. And nothing would stand in my way.
6
It’s amazing how a small shift in perspective can make a monumental difference in your quality of life.
After that lunchtime chat with Alex, I returned to the office with a spring in my step. And though I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was eager to resume my afternoon shift at the help desk, I certainly wasn’t dreading it the way I normally did. The mind-numbing tasks were the same as always—installing software updates, clearing paper jams, resetting passwords for people who accidentally left their caps lock on—but completing them no longer drained me of my will to live.
Because now I knew: this job at Hatch was a means to an end, not the end in and of itself.
Of course, I didn’t have a clue what the actual end was, but it had to be out there waiting for me somewhere. I’d find it eventually.
Probably.
In the meantime, I had a steady salary and eight paid holidays a year.
And I had Alex.
My secret office crush was now my plus-one to Saturday night’s shindig, and I was counting the minutes until it arrived. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked forward to a date like this, or the last time a guy had made me feel this hopeful and happy. To think we might never have been brought together if it weren’t for a couple of shitty Fluttr dates. Brandon from Brooklyn sure did me a solid.
With visions of Alex’s broad chest and dazzling smile swirling through my head, the hours in my cubicle sailed by. The next thing I knew, it was way past five—almost six o’clock. Time to head home, where I could unwind with my favorite pastime: snarfing junk food and binge-watching Netflix. If my commute went smoothly, I could be snuggled up in bed with a bag of Doritos in under twenty-five minutes.
But, naturally, my commute did not go smoothly.
Commuting on the A train was never a pleasant experience. Every day, there was some sort of signal problem or system failure, and it was always so crowded, snagging a seat was out of the question. So it didn’t strike me as odd when the train pulled into the station packed from window to wall. The doors opened, and I dropped a shoulder to shove my way on, wedging myself beneath the arm of a man who was holding the overhead handrail.
It was a precarious position—my face jammed into one guy’s armpit, my hips skillfully twisted to avoid the crotch of another guy behind me, my arm stretched skyward to grasp the remaining three inches of available subway pole, my whole body trying desperately not to lurch into the lap of the woman seated directly below.
But the trip was supposed to be only twenty-five minutes. I could deal.
Then, somewhere between Jay Street and Hoyt-Schermerhorn, things went south. The conductor’s voice, muffled and apathetic, came over the loudspeaker.
“We’re experiencing congestion up ahead. We should be moving shortly.”
Congestion was their code word for everything. A chorus of teeth-sucking and sighs echoed throughout the car, but I took solace in knowing the next stop was mine. When the doors opened at Hoyt-Schermerhorn, I’d be free.
Ten minutes later, we still hadn’t budged an inch, and the comforting whir of the AC ground to a halt. Shortly thereafter, the lights went out. Neither event seemed to warrant an update from the conductor, though. As we waited in the dim, sweltering train car, the murmurs among my fellow straphangers grew increasingly agitated and profanity-laced. Without proper ventilation, the air grew thick and funky. People took off their jackets and fanned themselves with their New Yorkers.
Soon, fury set in. Men and women alike started cursing and screaming.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I need to get out of here.”
“Why aren’t they telling us what’s wrong?”
“This fucking subway!”