She pulled into parking space number 45, third tier, far right hand corner of the parking garage. She snapped the radio off in mid-sentence of the client's brand new jingle, but she didn't care. She was too tired, and it would not have mattered anyway. She rest her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes, wishing she hadn't forced them to suffer her contacts again after only a three hour reprieve. She had worked far too many fourteen hour days in recent memory; twelve, to be exact. And it was going to be the same today, weekend or not.
She walked the four city blocks to the Peterman Building, and took the elevator up to the eighth floor cube farm she called the office. She was in the farthest corner of the office, in the tiniest cube near the fire exit door. The only consolation she could find was that if there was ever a raging conflagration, she would be the first to escape - that is after she had been forced to let the other people out who were too lazy to save themselves. People were always asking her to let them in or out through this alternate exit after sneaking out for a quick smoke or secret trips to the vending machines or other mid-workday rendezvous. Someone else would have complained or asked for alternate arrangements, but 38 year old Junior copywriters could not complain. Not ones with bills to pay and financial obligations to meet. And so she kept silent. It was, for the moment, all that she could do.
Angelica made her way through the dim office and over to her desk. The first thing she saw as she switched on the florescent desk lamp was the small photo of her cat, Hyperbole. She stared at it for a moment, then gently reached out to touch the photo as if she could comfort him. She had to get out today as soon as possible, at least for a little while so that she could get to the Vet's office. If she had been an hourly employee, she would not have minded the extra hours. At least they would help pay the mounting vet bills. She sat down at her desk, and reached down to turn on the CPU tower.
He was all snake oil, sharp-suited, Madison Avenue smooth-talking Ad man from the perfectly coiffed hair to hand-made, Italian leather shoes. And as Senior Copywriter, was ten years her junior as well as her boss. Angelica sensed she wasn't alone, and when she turned to face her visitor. she knew he had not been home. He must had had another hot date, because he was not the type to stay late at the office. He had risen to a position of power and wealth with the Ad agency not through hard work and skill, but by selling off enough of his conscience and small reserve of scruples he had left.
He perched himself on the corner of her desk. "Here on a weekend, Fittabaldee?" he inquired. "It's Fittipaldi," she said under her breath. "What?" he asked, pretending not to hear her the first time. "I wanted to get a jump on the Image Jeans campaign," she replied. "I thought maybe if I came in when it was quiet, I could come up with some ideas. You know; no distractions...."
"You knew when you took this job that we were one big happy family, here," he replied. "lots of energy here. Some people are distracted by that..."
"Oh, I know," she replied quickly, "And I'm getting used to it. Just need to get into the groove; that's all." Her boss got up to leave. "I heard the new radio spot for Banker's Blend Coffee," she continued. "it sounded great." She paused. "I was hoping maybe you could put in a good word for me to one of the partners. I think it would sound better coming from you..." "Hey, Fitzie," he interrupted, "I won't say the whole, 'there's no I in team' bullshit- somebody else did that and it was still corny. But we are a team. So I very well can't call attention or single you out now, can I?"
Advertising's supposed wunderkind turned to walk out of the office, but turned around and walked over to the fire exit door. "Let me out, will ya? Closer to the car, you know." Angelica got up, and opened the door. "Don't forget; presentation's first thing Monday morning, so make sure something's on my desk first thing."
Angelica watched as the door closed behind him. "Monday morning," she thought, "great. And I suppose I'm supposed to sleep here tonight." She sat back down at her desk, and opened her top drawer to look for her notes. The first thing she saw was the bag from Your Heart's Desire. She had gone to the small SoHo shop on a rare lunch break, and the blank book and quill pen caught her eye. The shopkeeper said that it would be the key to everything she had ever wanted....
She pulled the book and pen out of the bag. She remembered a time when the only way she could write, could create was to put actual pen to paper and let the ideas flow. Back when she was younger. Back when she believed she could write the great American novel. "Maybe I've been going about this all wrong," she thought. She sat down, opened the book to the first page, and began.