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I smile politely, but all I get back is a thin line and an annoyed glare. Today is just going to be one of those days. I can feel it. The air is thick like right before a rainstorm, full of static and bristling my skin.
As the doors open, I'm bumped and pushed from behind as a flood of people exit all at once. I follow the stream as we all walk in the same direction, like salmon traveling upriver. The sun hits me as I reach the top of the steps and head back out onto the street. I check the time on my phone, sighing softly to myself.
I'm going to be so much later than I thought. God damn it.
My heels pound against the pavement as I make the short walk to the office up on the corner of Eighth Avenue. I'm lucky it's nice out today. May in New York City can go either way. It can be chilly and rainy, or hot enough that you break a sweat. Today is one of the good days.
I can see the building standing out like a finished diamond in a pool of rough stones. The sleek gray bricks are contrasted with jet black windows. A bright red awning juts out into the street, shading the smooth granite steps in front. There's a long, red and gold sign attached to the side of the building. Big, bold letters spell out the words, Reeves and Company.
This building took my breath away the first time I laid eyes on it. It's quite the sight, to be honest. Reaching up into the sky like a rocket heading into space. I remember just standing outside on the sidewalk the day of my interview, my head tilted as far back as it could go, and I still couldn't see the top.
Buildings like this make you realize just how small you really are. I'm minuscule in comparison. It puts life into perspective. There's so much out in the world that's larger and grander than one single person.
And yet, one person can be the entire downfall to a whole system. That's all it takes. A small crack in the porcelain and everything shatters. But I'm still a small fish here. I can easily be replaced.
The doorman, James, gives me a nod and a smile as he pulls the door open for me. I give him a panicked smile back.
“Thanks, James.”
“Running late today,” he says teasingly. His suit is crisp, not a wrinkle in sight. James's white hair is blowing in the breeze and ruffling his jacket.
“So kind of you to point it out,” I say back jokingly. “Yes, I'm running late today.”
He chuckles to himself and tips his hat. “Have a nice day, Ms. Presley.”
“You should be wishing me good luck. Hopefully being this late doesn't get me fired.”
“I can't wish you luck,” he calls out to me as I cross the giant open lobby, making a mad dash for the elevator. “Luck's not something you just get, it's something you make on your own.”
His words sit with me for a moment. Can you make your own luck? It doesn't seem possible. You can't control the good or the bad things that happen to you. Life isn't a series of events you have full control over. Life happens. Shit happens. You have to make do with whatever comes your way.
Either you're a lucky person, or you're not. Some people try so damn hard but can never catch a break. Some people go out of their way and never get the same courtesy in return. If luck is something you can make, I wouldn't have had to move six hours from my friends and family.
I give James a slacked wave over my shoulder, then hold my arm out toward the elevator as the doors begin to close. “Hold the door! Wait! Hold the elevator!” I call out desperately, waving my arm frantically.
The doors close. I get a fleeting glimpse of the people inside, all of them staring at me, but not one person makes any attempt to hold the doors and let me on.
Hanging my head, I run my fingers through my hair in frustration. Assholes. No one could stop the elevator? Not one?
Living in the city has shown me how many selfish people there are in the world. I sometimes feel like all the self-centered jerks somehow ended up here. I see them on the subway. I meet them in the grocery store. I hear them on the streets. And apparently, there are more than a few in this building.
I stand in the lobby, teetering on my heels as I glance between the elevators and the stairs. I can take the stairs. . . My eyes drop to my heels. Maybe heels were a bad choice?
The other elevator to my left starts coming down. I watch the numbers above the door descend. “Yes, yes, yes,” I say to myself, jabbing the button repeatedly, hoping it will move faster. “Come on, let's go you son of a bitch.”
