The Flip of the Switch

“Ma’am, are you lost?”

I couldn’t help it. I flinched. I turned towards the sales clerk, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, and said: “No, sir, just having a look around.”

I did not deem it necessary to tell the man sweeping across the sales floor like a robotic vacuum that I had actually never been this close to a $1,000 purse before. If I reached my hand out I would be able to feel the smooth leather beneath my fingertips.

Instead of doing just that, I decided to shove my hands down the kangaroo pouch of my fleece hoodie. I absentmindedly fingered the raggedy corners of the journal I always kept with me; a little black book meant for busy schedules and fancy events. Instead, I filled each slot with my unfiltered morning thoughts as I sipped my generic-brand coffee.

I felt the burning glares of the salespeople as I slowly traveled further inside the store. I couldn’t quite figure out what was so special about today; why I had suddenly decided it was time to enter the haute couture boutique around the corner of my subway entrance. I would pass it every day, stealing a glance at the entrance made operable by two golden rods running vertically across both doors. For a brief moment I would imagine what it felt like to walk in, declare your desire for a new pair of shoes, and have the clerks wait on you as you contemplated whether to go with vegan suede or leather.

“Ah, Mrs. Westfield. I’m delighted to hear from you.”

One of the salespeople had answered a phone that was stationed behind a counter, which was a rectangular block of marble and another proud display of some of their higher end wallets.

As the conversation between Mrs. Westfield and the salesperson went on, I felt my hands reach out of my pockets, and towards one of the purses. It was a brushed leather shoulder bag that screamed ‘luxury item’ at the top of its lungs. I briefly let my imagination run wild, visualizing myself at a trendy cafe with the purse casually strewn on the table as I flipped through a sophisticated magazine, enjoying a chai latte.

For now, I was the latte maker and the successful, future me was someone I had yet to become. Three days from now, though, I was about to have the biggest interview of my life that would eventually make or break me. After applying to various fashion related positions at a world-leading magazine powerhouse almost weekly, I had finally gotten a call where they asked if I would like to come in for an interview. I had not even registered which of the hundreds of positions I was interviewing for; I just blurted out an overly excited “yes!” and scribbled down the time and date in my notebook.

As Mrs. Westfield's call went on, I gave the leather one last, careful stroke before I made my way towards the exit, very well aware of everyone's supposedly inconspicuous stares. I re-entered the hustle of the city, losing myself in thoughts of what it would have been like to leave without that burning sensation of unfulfilled desire.

“Miss!”

My eyes darted around until I was able to lock eyes with the person requiring my attention. In front of me stood the most handsome man I had seen in my life, completely stealing the attention away from the beauty that was Bryant Park. Instead of passing a judging gaze at my duct-taped umbrella or my unpolished nails, he looked me straight in the eye as he said, “I think you may have left this behind.”

He was pinching my Moleskin notebook between his chunky fingers, gracefully avoiding the double wrapped rubber bands I used to keep my various photographs inside and my bullet point pen secured. I gasped.

“Gosh, thank you so much! I can’t imagine what I would have done had I lost this.”

He smiled and deposited my journal into my outstretched hands. “You’re welcome, miss.”

For a brief moment I forgot how to conduct myself in a social setting, standing there watching him pave way for himself through the lunch hour crowds. The spell released its grips of me as soon as he disappeared in the sea of suits and patent leather pumps, and I managed to return back to my station inside the coffee shop.

As I unlocked my front door it had already gotten dark outside. The crickets were cheering me on as I fumbled with the security chain after announcing my arrival and making sure all of my roommates were safe inside the apartment before latching it. I shoved my umbrella into a placeholder bucket we used as an umbrella stand, peeled my shoes and socks off and laid them neatly on the shoe rack, knowing full well my only pair of shoes wouldn’t be dry by the time I’d need them the next morning.

Jenna, one of my roommates, was loading the dishwasher as I entered the kitchen. “Hey, Brooke,” she said and flashed me a smile. “Was work okay?”

I grunted, fished my tupperware out of my Fjallraven backpack and said, “Work was interesting. Did you know that if you do latte art in a takeaway mug, no one will notice?”

Jenna snickered and grabbed my outstretched tupperware and tried to tetris it into the dishwasher.

“How was your day?” I asked and heaved myself up on the countertop, my feet dangling above the linoleum floors.

“It was fine, I guess.” Jenna shrugged. “My professor gave me one last chance to submit a term paper that doesn’t reek of failure. So I guess I’ll be working on that all night.”

I cocked my head and gave her a smirk that was supposed to exude sympathy, and said: “I am confident you will make it.”

She smiled, started the dishwasher, and left the kitchen with a little wave. As I sat there nibbling on a banana I had grabbed from our pile of fruits on the countertop, also serving as cheerful decor, my mind wandered off and landed on my pending interview. What would I even wear? The nicest piece of clothing I owned was a little black dress that I had thrifted in a store that focused on higher-end labels, but that dress was hardly interview-appropriate. I couldn’t afford to go back there and scrape together the cash for a whole outfit, either. My wardrobe contained around two handfuls of garments, all very casual and would probably not be caught on a person working in the fashion industry.

I reached for the lightswitch in my room and waited for the lamp hanging off a hook in the ceiling to settle through its regular flickering. I placed my keys, wallet, and notebook on the nightstand and gathered my three blankets, creating a fortress of fuzz around me as I sank down onto the bed.

I started flipping through my journal, deciphering where my last entry was, when suddenly there was a thump on the bed. I looked down to see what had fallen out of my journal; a fairly thick envelope. How had I not noticed it earlier?

I scooped it up, examining both sides of it. It was a rather ordinary envelope, and looked like it may have contained a birthday card at one point. I peeked inside and nearly dropped it at the sight of what appeared to be a thick stack of dollar bills.

I flipped the envelope over again, more frantically this time, searching for a name or a signature; anything to indicate who this would belong to. But there was nothing.

My hands were trembling as I turned the envelope upside down and shook its content out on the bed. Hundreds of crisp bills sprinkled over my magenta bedspread, creating a sharp contrast. A small piece of paper was hidden amongst the masses.

“To the girl with the golden hair,” I read out loud. “I won this in a bet earlier today. This means so little to me, but could mean everything to you.”

I read the note again. And again. Double checked my hair color; still blonde. This note was obviously meant for me; it was in my notebook, referencing my hair color. But why, and when, and by whom?

My mind was racing, ticking off the places I had gone that day. Luxury fashion house, subway train to work, Bryant Park for lunch, work again, train ride home.

My heart nearly stopped in my chest as I remembered the gorgeous man handing me my notebook.

Who else could it have been?

After having spent nearly 45 minutes bundled up on the bed staring at the pile of money neatly stacked on my bed, I decided it was time to accept the facts: this was my money. This was the one thing that would iron out all question marks surrounding my future. The interview attire, next month's rent, a fruitful conversation with the collectors spending their days calling me inquiring about my missed credit card payment. If I played my cards right, this influx of wealth could shuttle me into my new life as a valued and respected member of society.

As I sat there, thoughts spinning furiously, I felt it. The involuntary, unmistakable, mind-numbingly blissful sensation of a smile so wide it could not be anything other than happiness.