New York Nights
Page 78
To whomever this may fucking concern,
For the umpteenth time, I don’t appreciate your incompetent and defiant staff rearranging my things while I’m away. I also don’t appreciate you continuing to use my unit as a tour site and “test suite” for potential renters—letting people pretend like they live here whenever they please.
Stay the hell out of my space if you’re not cleaning it. (And stop using that strawberry spray shit. Go back to lemon.)
J. Weston
The manager’s response was immediate.
Subject: Re: My Goddamn Condo.
Mr. Weston,
With all due respect, and for the umpteenth time, we have only used your suite for a tour once, with your permission. We do not use your unit as a “test suite” and we would never let any potential renter pretend as if they lived there.
We’ve given in to every single demand you’ve requested for your privacy—extra cameras, ensuring that no one on the housekeeping staff outside of myself knows your name, and private parking. In fact, just for you, we’ve recently installed an additional set of cameras above your exterior entry door to ease your worries, and per our security team, there has been no access to your space (outside of cleaners) while you’ve been away.
However, we have noticed that over the past few weeks, YOU have come back more frequently than normal, and during odd hours of the night.
I am not insinuating that you don’t remember these times, but perhaps you’ve moved things around your apartment during those hours and are simply forgetting how you left them?
I apologize if anything I’ve said is offensive or out of line.
We truly enjoy having you as a resident here at The Madison, and if you need anything more, or anything else, let me know. (I will be sure to remind the staff, once again, to stop using the “strawberry spray shit” in your place. We no longer have lemon, though...Would you like fresh linen instead?)
Mr. Sullivan
Head of Housekeeping
The Madison at Park Avenue
I didn’t answer. I needed to think.
The last few times I slept here, I hadn’t really “slept” at all. I’d woken up in a cold sweat and stumbled out of bed and downstairs. Damn near sleepwalking, I’d staggered around a near desolate Times Square, staring at the bright and blinking billboards, listening to the late night conversations of straggling tourists.
Each time I found my way home, I did move things—but not in a rearranging type of way. In a shattering whatever I could get my hands on type of way. Whatever I broke, I quickly replaced the next day so no one on the staff could be blamed, but I couldn’t remember ever having the patience to mindlessly rearrange simple shit.
The few other times I returned at odd hours of the night were the result of me coming back after meeting a woman in a hotel. Those nights always ended in sleep, not senseless redecorating.
At least, I didn’t think so.
I took a seat on the sofa that faced the window and mentally rewound the past few months again and again, slowly recalling a few more wandering, sleepless nights. I started to send the manager a “My apologies for the miscommunication” email, but I spotted an open crossword puzzle tucked under my seat cushion. A completely filled out, not-in-my-goddamn-handwriting, crossword puzzle.
I flipped through the pages of the booklet, noticing that not only was the top page completed, but every single puzzle was marred and solved with someone else’s blue and black ink.
I knew he was full of shit...
I started to type a far more appropriate response for him, but another email popped onto my screen.
Subject: An FCE.
Dear Mr. Weston,
My name is Lance Owens, and I’m the Chief of Personnel Affairs at Elite Airways. I served as the witness last weekend at your final profile interview.
Although you told my colleague that you didn’t want to know what an ‘FCE’ was, and have yet to answer her follow-up email regarding its definition, I really think you should know.
An ‘FCE’ means that the executive board has unanimously deemed your previous record of service to be in such high regard, that you’re now an invaluable asset to Elite Airways. I’m attaching the specifics of what this means in a document, and perhaps when you’re up to talking, you can tell us how you, a transfer pilot, could possibly receive something like this when it normally takes our pilots ten years of consistent service with Elite to even be considered. Although, given your stellar record and your achievement awards, I’m sure it’s well-deserved.
I truly hope you’ll enjoy flying for us.
Dr. Owens
Chief of Personnel Affairs, Elite Airways
I opened the attached document and only managed to read through the first paragraph.
Son of a bitch...
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Six years ago...
Oh, New York!
New York, New York, New York!
Everyone in my family warned me about you, this city. They said you’d lure me here with your dazzling lights and glittering billboards, with the sweet scent of success that wafts through every open window on Wall Street, and with the high hopes and dreams that flow up and down the Hudson River.
Then they said you’d pull me deep into those waters and drown me...
“You won’t survive a month there,” my mother said. “It’s only for the people who actually have something going for themselves.”
“You don’t have what it takes and you never will,” my oldest sister said.
“Just don’t get mad when we say, ‘We told you so,’ when you beg us to come back.” My father sent me those words via text message the day I left. Then he added, “You’ll definitely be back, Gillian. After a month at most.”
Well, I’ve survived more than a month. It’s been SIX MONTHS, and I’ve proved the three of them (and everyone else in my discouraging family) wrong. Dead. Ass. Wrong.
At only twenty-three years old, I’m living my wildest dreams. I’m staying across the street from Central Park in a fully furnished Lexington Avenue apartment, having weekly coffeehouse dates with nice guys who actually believe in chivalry and romance, and working at one of the most revered places in all of Manhattan. (Yes, I’m mainly making very lengthy coffee runs and drowning in endless hours of grunt work, but this is the place I’ve wanted to work since I was thirteen years old, so I don’t care.)
And if that isn’t enough, just this morning, I received some amazing ‘this-can’t-be-my-life’ news that I can’t share just yet. Nonetheless, I have a feeling I’ll be writing about that soon.
Until then, I simply wanted to start anew with a fresh blog since my previous one died from neglect. What better way to begin than by saying life couldn’t be any better right now?
I hope this never changes.
Write later,
Gillian Taylor
Gillian
G.T.
T.G.
TayG
**Taylor G.**
No comments posted.
GATE A3
GILLIAN
New York (JFK) Present Day
I think I hate my life...
“Have a great day in New York City!” I smiled as the first class passengers walked past me and stepped off the plane. “Thank you so much for flying with Elite Airways! Enjoy the Big Apple!”
For the umpteenth time, I don’t appreciate your incompetent and defiant staff rearranging my things while I’m away. I also don’t appreciate you continuing to use my unit as a tour site and “test suite” for potential renters—letting people pretend like they live here whenever they please.
Stay the hell out of my space if you’re not cleaning it. (And stop using that strawberry spray shit. Go back to lemon.)
J. Weston
The manager’s response was immediate.
Subject: Re: My Goddamn Condo.
Mr. Weston,
With all due respect, and for the umpteenth time, we have only used your suite for a tour once, with your permission. We do not use your unit as a “test suite” and we would never let any potential renter pretend as if they lived there.
We’ve given in to every single demand you’ve requested for your privacy—extra cameras, ensuring that no one on the housekeeping staff outside of myself knows your name, and private parking. In fact, just for you, we’ve recently installed an additional set of cameras above your exterior entry door to ease your worries, and per our security team, there has been no access to your space (outside of cleaners) while you’ve been away.
However, we have noticed that over the past few weeks, YOU have come back more frequently than normal, and during odd hours of the night.
I am not insinuating that you don’t remember these times, but perhaps you’ve moved things around your apartment during those hours and are simply forgetting how you left them?
I apologize if anything I’ve said is offensive or out of line.
We truly enjoy having you as a resident here at The Madison, and if you need anything more, or anything else, let me know. (I will be sure to remind the staff, once again, to stop using the “strawberry spray shit” in your place. We no longer have lemon, though...Would you like fresh linen instead?)
Mr. Sullivan
Head of Housekeeping
The Madison at Park Avenue
I didn’t answer. I needed to think.
The last few times I slept here, I hadn’t really “slept” at all. I’d woken up in a cold sweat and stumbled out of bed and downstairs. Damn near sleepwalking, I’d staggered around a near desolate Times Square, staring at the bright and blinking billboards, listening to the late night conversations of straggling tourists.
Each time I found my way home, I did move things—but not in a rearranging type of way. In a shattering whatever I could get my hands on type of way. Whatever I broke, I quickly replaced the next day so no one on the staff could be blamed, but I couldn’t remember ever having the patience to mindlessly rearrange simple shit.
The few other times I returned at odd hours of the night were the result of me coming back after meeting a woman in a hotel. Those nights always ended in sleep, not senseless redecorating.
At least, I didn’t think so.
I took a seat on the sofa that faced the window and mentally rewound the past few months again and again, slowly recalling a few more wandering, sleepless nights. I started to send the manager a “My apologies for the miscommunication” email, but I spotted an open crossword puzzle tucked under my seat cushion. A completely filled out, not-in-my-goddamn-handwriting, crossword puzzle.
I flipped through the pages of the booklet, noticing that not only was the top page completed, but every single puzzle was marred and solved with someone else’s blue and black ink.
I knew he was full of shit...
I started to type a far more appropriate response for him, but another email popped onto my screen.
Subject: An FCE.
Dear Mr. Weston,
My name is Lance Owens, and I’m the Chief of Personnel Affairs at Elite Airways. I served as the witness last weekend at your final profile interview.
Although you told my colleague that you didn’t want to know what an ‘FCE’ was, and have yet to answer her follow-up email regarding its definition, I really think you should know.
An ‘FCE’ means that the executive board has unanimously deemed your previous record of service to be in such high regard, that you’re now an invaluable asset to Elite Airways. I’m attaching the specifics of what this means in a document, and perhaps when you’re up to talking, you can tell us how you, a transfer pilot, could possibly receive something like this when it normally takes our pilots ten years of consistent service with Elite to even be considered. Although, given your stellar record and your achievement awards, I’m sure it’s well-deserved.
I truly hope you’ll enjoy flying for us.
Dr. Owens
Chief of Personnel Affairs, Elite Airways
I opened the attached document and only managed to read through the first paragraph.
Son of a bitch...
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Six years ago...
Oh, New York!
New York, New York, New York!
Everyone in my family warned me about you, this city. They said you’d lure me here with your dazzling lights and glittering billboards, with the sweet scent of success that wafts through every open window on Wall Street, and with the high hopes and dreams that flow up and down the Hudson River.
Then they said you’d pull me deep into those waters and drown me...
“You won’t survive a month there,” my mother said. “It’s only for the people who actually have something going for themselves.”
“You don’t have what it takes and you never will,” my oldest sister said.
“Just don’t get mad when we say, ‘We told you so,’ when you beg us to come back.” My father sent me those words via text message the day I left. Then he added, “You’ll definitely be back, Gillian. After a month at most.”
Well, I’ve survived more than a month. It’s been SIX MONTHS, and I’ve proved the three of them (and everyone else in my discouraging family) wrong. Dead. Ass. Wrong.
At only twenty-three years old, I’m living my wildest dreams. I’m staying across the street from Central Park in a fully furnished Lexington Avenue apartment, having weekly coffeehouse dates with nice guys who actually believe in chivalry and romance, and working at one of the most revered places in all of Manhattan. (Yes, I’m mainly making very lengthy coffee runs and drowning in endless hours of grunt work, but this is the place I’ve wanted to work since I was thirteen years old, so I don’t care.)
And if that isn’t enough, just this morning, I received some amazing ‘this-can’t-be-my-life’ news that I can’t share just yet. Nonetheless, I have a feeling I’ll be writing about that soon.
Until then, I simply wanted to start anew with a fresh blog since my previous one died from neglect. What better way to begin than by saying life couldn’t be any better right now?
I hope this never changes.
Write later,
Gillian Taylor
Gillian
G.T.
T.G.
TayG
**Taylor G.**
No comments posted.
GATE A3
GILLIAN
New York (JFK) Present Day
I think I hate my life...
“Have a great day in New York City!” I smiled as the first class passengers walked past me and stepped off the plane. “Thank you so much for flying with Elite Airways! Enjoy the Big Apple!”
