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office was divided on whether she was permanently on the Atkins diet
or just lucky enough to have a superhuman metabolism； the result of
some pretty fantastic genes。 Either way； she thought nothing of
devouring the fattiest； most sickeningly unhealthy foods—even though
the rest of us weren’t exactly afforded the same luxury。 Since
nothing stayed hot for more than ten minutes after it arrived； I’d
keep reordering and tossing until she showed up。 I could get away
with microwaving each meal one time； but that bought me only an
extra five minutes； and she could usually tell。 （“Ahn…dre…ah； this
is vile。 Get me a fresh breakfast at once。”） I would order and
reorder every twenty minutes or so until she called from her Cell
Phone and told me to order her breakfast （“Ahn…dre…ah； I’ll be at
the office shortly。 Order my breakfast”）。 Of course； this was
usually only a two… or three…minute warning； so the preordering was
necessary both because of the short warning and in the rather mon
event that she didn’t bother to call at all。 If I’d done my job； by
the time her actual call for breakfast had e； I’d already have
two or three on the way。
The phone rang。 It had to be her； too early to be anyone else。
“Miranda Priestly’s office；” I chirped； bracing myself for the
iciness。
“Emily； I’ll be there in ten minutes and I’d like my breakfast to be
ready。”
She had taken to calling both Emily and me “Emily；” suggesting；
quite rightly； that we were indistinguishable from each other and
pletely interchangeable。 Somewhere in the back of my mind I was
offended； but I’d grown accustomed to it at this point。 And besides；
I was too tired to really care about something as incidental as my
name。
“Yes； Miranda； right away。” But she had already hung up。 The real
Emily walked into the office。
“Hey； is she here？” she whispered； looking furtively toward
Miranda’s office as she always did； without a hello or a good
morning； just like her mentor。
“Nope； but she just called and she’ll be here in ten。 I’ll be back。”
I quickly transferred my cell phone and cigarettes to my coat pocket
and ran。 I had only a few minutes to get downstairs； cross Madison；
and jump the line at Starbucks—and suck down my first precious
cigarette of the day while in transit。 Stamping out the last embers；
I stumbled into the Starbucks at 57th and Lex and surveyed the line。
If it was fewer than eight or so people； I preferred to wait like a
normal person。 Like most days； however； the line today was twenty or
more poor professional souls； wearily waiting in line for their
expensive caffeine fix； and I had to jump in front of them。 It was
not something I relished； but Miranda didn’t seem to understand that
the latte I presented to her each morning could not onlynot be
delivered but could easily take a half hour at prime time to
purchase。 A couple weeks of shrill； angry phone calls on my Cell
Phone （“Ahn…dre…ah； I simply do not understand。 I called you a full
twenty…five minutes ago to tell you I’d be in； and my breakfast is
not ready。 This is unacceptable。”）； and I had spoken to the
franchise manager。
“Um； hi。 Thanks for taking a minute to talk with me；” I said to the
petite black woman who was in charge。 “I know this sounds absolutely
crazy； but I was wondering if we could work something out in terms
of me having to wait in line。” I went on to explain； as best I
could； that I work for a rather important； unreasonable person who
doesn’t like to wait for her morning Coffee； and was there any way I
could walk ahead of the line； subtly； of course； and have someone
prepare my order immediately？ By some stroke of dumb luck； Marion；
the manager； was going to FIT at night for a degree in fashion
merchandising。
“Ohmigod； are you kidding？ You work for Miranda Priestly？ And she
drinks our lattes？ A tall？ Every morning？ Unbelievable。 Oh； yes；
yes； of course！ I’ll tell everyone to help you right away。 Don’t
worry about a thing。 She is； like； the most powerful person in
fashion；” Marion gushed as I forced myself to nod enthusiastically。
And so it came that I could； at will； bypass a long line of tired；
aggressive； self…righteous New Yorkers and order before those who
had been waiting for many； many minutes。 It didn’t make me feel good
or important or even cool； and I always dreaded the days I had to do
it。 When the lines were hellishly long like the one today—snaking
around the entire counter and pushing its way outside—I felt even
worse and knew I’d be walking out with a full load。 My head was
pounding at this point； and my eyes already felt heavy and dry。 I
tried to forget that this was my life； the reason I’d spent four
long years memorizing poems and examining prose； the result of good
grades and lots of kissing up。 Instead； I ordered Miranda’s tall
latte from one of the new baristas and added a few drinks of my own。
A grande Amaretto Cappuccino； a Mocha Frappuccino； and a Caramel
Macchiato landed in my four…cup carrier； along with a half…dozen
muffins and croissants。 The grand total came to 28。83； and I made
sure to tuck my receipt into the already bulging； specially
designated receipt section of my wallet； all of which would be
reimbursed by the always reliable Elias…Clark。
I had to hurry now； as it was already twelve minutes since Miranda
had called and I knew she’d probably be sitting there； seething；
wondering exactly where I disappeared to every morning—the Starbucks
logo on the side of the cup didn’t ever clue her in。 But before I
could pick up all the stuff from the counter； my phone rang。 And as
usual； my heart lurched。 I knew it was her； absolutely； positively
knew it； but it scared me nonetheless。 The caller ID confirmed my
suspicion； and I was surprised to hear that it was Emily； calling
from Miranda’s line。
“She’s here and she’s pissed；” Emily whispered。 “You’ve got to get
back here。”
“I’m doing everything I can；” I growled； trying to balance the
carrying tray and the bag of baked goods on one arm and hold the
phone with the other。
And thus the basic root of the hatred that existed between Emily and
me。 Since she was in the “senior” assistant position； I was more of
Miranda’s personal assistant； there to fetch those Coffees and
meals； help her kids with their Homework； and run all over the city
to retrieve the perfect dishes for her dinner parties。 Emily did her
expenses； made her travel arrangements； and—the biggest job of
all—put through her personal clothing order every few months。 So
when I was out gathering the goodies each morning； Emily was left
alone to handle all of the ringing phone lines and an alert；
early…morning Miranda and all of her demands。 I hated her for being
able to wear sleeveless shirts to work； where she wouldn’t ever have
to leave the warm office six times a day to race around New York
fetching； searching； hunting； gathering。 She hated me for having
excuses to leave the office； where she knew I always took longer
than necessary to talk on my Cell Phone and smoke cigarettes。
The walk back to the building usually took longer than the walk to
Starbucks； since I had to distribute my Coffees and snacks。 I
preferred to hand them out to the Homeless； a small band of regulars
who hung out on stoops and slept in doorways on 57th Street；
thumbing the city’s attempts to “clean them up。” The police always
hustled them away before rush hour kicked into high gear； but they
were still hanging out when I was doing the day’s first coffee run。
There was something so fantastic—invigorating； really—in making sure
that these overpriced； Elias…sponsored Coffee faves made it into the
hands of the city’s most undesirable people。
The urine…soaked man who slept outside the Chase Bank got a daily
Mocha Frappuccino。 He never actually woke up to accept it； but I
left it （with a straw； of course） next to his left elbow each
morning； and it was often gone—along with him—when I returned for my
next Coffee run a few hours later。
The old lady who propped herself up on her cart and set out a
cardboard sign that readNO Home/CAN CLEAN/NEED FOOD got the Caramel
Macchiato。 I soon found her name was Theresa； and I used to buy her
a tall latte； like Miranda’s。 She always said thank you； but she
never made a move to taste it while it was still hot。 When I finally
asked her if she wanted me to stop bringing them； she vigorously
shook her head and mumbled that she hates to be picky； but she’d
actually like something sweeter； that the coffee was too strong。 The
next day I had her coffee flavored with vanilla and topped with
whipped cream。 Was this better？ Oh yes； it was much； much better；
but maybe now it was a touch too sweet。 One more day and I finally
got it right： it turns out Theresa liked her Coffee unflavored；
topped with whipped cream and some caramel syrup。 She flashed a
near…toothless smile and began guzzling it each and every day； the
moment I handed it to her。
The third Coffee went to Rio； the Nigerian who sold CDs off a
blanket。 He didn’t appear to be Homeless； but he walked over to me
one morning when I was handing Theresa her daily fix and said； or；
rather； sang； “Yo； yo； yo； you like the Starbucks fairy or what？
Where’s mine？” I handed him a grande Amaretto Cappuccino the next
day； and we’d been friends ever since。
I expensed twenty…four dollars more every day on Coffee than
necessary （Miranda’s single latte should’ve cost a mere four
dollars） to take yet another passive…aggressive swipe at the
pany； my personal reprimand to them for Miranda Priestly’s free
rein。 I handed them out to the filthy； the smelly； and the crazy
because that—and not the wasted money—was what wouldreally piss them
off。
By the time I made it to the lobby； Pedro； the heavily accented
Mexican delivery boy from Mangia； was chatting in Spanish with
Eduardo near the elevator bank。
“Hey； here’s our girlie；” said Pedro as a few Clackers peered over
at us。 “I’ve got the usual： bacon； sausage； and one nasty…looking
cheese thing。 You only ordered one today！ Don’t know how you eat
this shit and stay so thin； girl。” He grinned。 I suppressed the urge
to tell him he didn’t have a clue what thin looked like。 Pedro knew
full well that I was not the one eating his breakfasts； but like
every one of the dozen or so people I spoke to before eightA 。M。
each day； he didn’t really know the details。 I handed him a ten； as
usual； for the 3。99 breakfast； and headed upstairs。
She was on the phone when I entered the office； her snakeskin Gucci
trench draped across the top of my desk。 My blood pressure increased
tenfold。 Would it kill her to take the extra two steps over to the
closet； open it； and hang up her own coat？ Why did she have to take
it off and fling it over my desk？ I put down the latte； looked over
at Emily； who was too busy answering three phone lines to notice me；
and hung up the snakeskin。 I shook off my own coat and bent down to
toss it underneath my desk； since mine might infect hers if they
mingled in the closet。
I grabbed two raw sugars； a stirrer； and a napkin from a stock I
kept in my desk drawer and wrapped them all together。 I briefly
considered spitting in the drink but was able to restrain myself。
Next； I pulled a small china plate from the overhead bin and dumped
out the greasy meat and the oozing Danish； wiping my hands on her
dirty dry cleaning； which was hidden beneath my desk so she couldn’t
see it hadn’t been picked up yet。 I was theoretically supposed to
clean her plate each day in the sink in our mock…up kitchen； but I
just couldn’t bring myself to bother。 The humiliation of doing her
dishes in front of everyone prompted me to wipe it down with tissues
after each meal and scrape off any leftover cheese with my
fingernails。 If it was really dirty or had been sitting for a long
time； I’d open a bottle of the Pellegrino we kept by the case and
dump a little bit on。 I figured she should be thankful I wasn’t
using a spritz or two of desk cleaner。 I was reasonably sure that I
had reached a new moral low—what was worrisome was that I’d sunk to
it so naturally。
“Remember； I want my girls smiling；” she was saying into the phone。
I could tell from her tone she was