Bink:
James Graham.
Good looking. Beautiful.
He had the brightest blue eyes, light brown blondish hair, his skin – flawless. He was tall and obviously worked out. When he smiled his teeth sparkled. In a word: stud. But to just call him a stud wouldn’t do him justice. His personality matched his beauty. Based on his looks, you might guess he’d be fake, but he wasn’t. Far from it. James, or “Bink” as his dear friends called him, for reasons I’m still unsure of today, was genuine. The real deal. Gorgeous and charming, but a sweet, sweet soul. Most women in the company wanted to date him – most guys, I think, wanted to be him.
The first time I met James, was during my interview for a job at a firm in the financial district in Boston, or as I called it back then, “Yuppie-ville”. Yuppies were what we called anyone who had money back in the day – it was short for Young Urban Professions. More specifically, white-collar youngen business types. In my neighborhood it meant anyone white with a car who wore a suit when they went to work and the work was “legit” of course. Something “officey” and important, not selling drugs and such. And the financial district was loaded with ‘em. Yuppies that is.
It was my first real job interview. It’d be my first professional job if I got it. The newspaper ad said they needed an “experienced” Administrative Assistant. Well, I wasn’t experienced, but I sure as hell knew enough about being someone’s servant and after manipulating a few lines here and there on my resume – enhancing or straight up lying about a few skills – I sent it in. Surely I wouldn’t get an interview.
To my surprise, a couple of weeks later, the yuppie-ville folks called and scheduled me for an interview the next day. I scrambled to borrow a next door neighbor’s make-shift suit and shoes. A dark outfit she used mostly for funerals – she thought an important aspect to mention. I wore her fancy high heels that were too big for me, a skirt riddled with safety pins to hold the hem up and I carried an old briefcase stuffed with magazines and a book I’d never even heard of, let alone read, to make it weigh something while I rode the train into uncharted territory. When I saw my reflection in the glass department store window as I walked on by, I couldn’t help but see how real professional looking I was. I was so proud of how I looked - in a suit and all. Look at me, a girl from the hood looking all important and stuff. And walking into this part of Boston for a real job! Who would have ever thunk it!
Certainly once they interviewed me, once they tested me, especially the typing test, I’d surely fail. But still. I had nothing better to do and it was exciting. For all of us. My friends thought it was cool. And bets were being made if I’d get the job or not. Most betting against, by the way. I didn’t take offense at all. Shoot, I bet against me too. This was out of my league. College folk. Smart people. Rich white folk. Yuppie-ville. There was no way a hood rat was getting a job here – but it’d sure be fun trying.
Of course, what happened next…what happened next would change my life forever.
I remember the morning like it was yesterday. After all the hoopla of just trying to find the right building, I finally found the right place. I walked up to the receptionist who showed me to the conference room and told me it’d be a little wait. Before I could fully catch my breath a woman walked into the room and the interview began. Her name was Sharon. And without even looking at me directly she started asking me all sorts of questions which I had pretty much prepared for with my friends the day before. I had an answer (or a lie actually), for most of her inquiries. Sharon was this lanky Liberian type with out-of-date glasses and pasty white blotchy skin. She wore a plain skirt and a printed blouse, nothing fancy. She seemed nice enough at first but there was something about her that rubbed me the wrong way. It could have been that she kept repeating that I’d be working for “her and only her”. That I was being hired to help “her” and that I’d be answering to “her and only her”. She’d be my direct boss. I remember thinking that the more she talked about how much I’d have to answer to “her and only her”, the less impressive she seemed. What she didn’t get was that I already assumed I’d be working for her. She was interviewing me for goodness sake. As far as I was concerned she was one of the Yuppie folk. She had the great job and probably lots of money, although clearly she wasn’t spending it on clothes, but she must’ve had some money and been real smart to be working here in the financial district in this fancy office. But the more power she tried to claim, the less I realized she had. She reminded me of peeps on the street – like Deon – always talking smack about how great he had it running shit for some gang members. Trying desperately to get you to believe he was so happy and doing fine. And yet, while he’s talking you, you know he ain’t nothing but a loser. A druggie working off whatever he smoked or getting’ credit for whatever he hoped to be injecting. I learned the line “thou dost protest too much” living in the hood. Johnny used to say it all the time. I used to say it under my breath about dumb-ass people like Deon. I wanted to say it to this Sharon chick as I sat there, but I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut. I stayed professional. That was the goal.
But I digress.
I was answering the questions pretty well when she asked one I was sure to fumble on. “So, it says here in your cover letter that you can type 65 WPM. That’s pretty good, amazing in fact. You also have computer skills. Excellent. I’ll be testing your skills after the interview. How are you with dictation?” My heart skipped a beat. I wasn’t completely sure what that was exactly and we hadn’t talked about what to answer if someone asked about dictation. But the first words out of my mouth were, “Absolutely. I mean, I mean, yes. Yes, I’m great with dictation.” But none of it was true at all. Dictation? The angst in my chest got tighter and my stomach starting churning. Good ‘ole fear. I could always rely on fear to show up every-time. Surely, I’d fail every test. I’d make a fool of myself. I could barely type – I was a two-finger-key kinda girl. And as far as using a computer was concerned we had one in high school for about 30 kids. I knew how to turn it on, maybe print something, but other than that, I was totally confused as to what a floppy disk was, and how it worked and such. My chest tightened. I was busted. Somehow, I’d have to excuse myself from the interview and explain that I had some emergency or something when the testing part came.
And then it happened:
Clearly, something big had already happened – I just had no idea.
It was Monday – October 19th, 1987 – of course, in hindsight I realize it was Black Monday. In the financial world, (for all you homies who don’t know), it was one of the worst day when the stock markets crashed around the world. Now, back then, I didn’t know this at all. I had no idea. To me, the office seemed like a hustling and bustling type of place. With an air of doom and gloom in it. I didn’t think anything of it. This was a whole new world to me. I just assumed this was corporate white folks normal. Maybe yuppies were happy after they worked because they had all that money to spend, I didn’t know. But I didn’t think anything different of what was possibly going on – that some major emergency had happened and that the world had stopped. Ironically, the stock market crash would be my saving grace…the stock market crash and James “Bink” Graham.
The conference room door opened and James walked in.
He looked briefly my way, “Hi. Sharon, Tad wants to see you.”
Again, without lifting her head she answered almost under her breath, “I’ll be out in a minute Jim. Tell Tad I’m almost done here please.”
There was an awkward moment and then Jim interjected again; “Uhm, with everything going on right now, I think he needs to see you sooner rather than later. I’ll take over here. No problem.” He came up close to where I was sitting at the table and leaned up against it. “Hi, I’m Jim…or James.”
I giggled, though I’m not sure why, but a hot tall white guy in a tie is still a hot guy and he was talking to me – giggling was inevitable. I kept my composure; “Which one should I call you? Jim or James?”
“Doesn’t matter. And what’s your name?”
“Carmen. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands. I couldn’t stop looking at his smile. It was addictive. Immediately I felt at ease.
Sharon’s pale face turned red. She seemed annoyed and was attempting to keep her frustration bottled up inside but that pale skin starting looking blotchier. White pale skin can be such a tell like that. Blushing or anger just doesn’t show up the same way on black folk skin as it can on white. I felt a little bad for her, but I can’t lie, I was kinda glad she was getting her due – she’d been more than condescending to me during the whole interview. I know it’s bad, but I kinda liked watching this James guy knock her down a peg. And he wasn’t even trying. Obviously, he was above her in the pecking order of this office. And I could tell he already liked me. Very cool.
And with that, Sharon excused herself and slowly got up from the conference room table. She grabbed her leather folder and made her way out the glass doors.
Jim made himself comfortable in the seat next to me. He didn’t sit at the top of the conference room table as Sharon had, but pulled up a chair right next to mine. He was relaxed and easy going – he grabbed my resume from the table and quickly scanned it. After a few seconds he put it down and asked me to tell him a bit about myself. Something about him had put me at ease. Surely he was good looking, but he wasn’t making a play or being cheesy at all – instead he was just easy to be around. It was as if all the tension and fear I’d been feeling about the interview had walked out the room with Sharon and I was just having a conversation with an old friend. What I didn’t know at the time, but would eventually realize is that Jim was one of the top Salesmen in the company. Being good with people, making them feel comfortable…what some might call “schmoozing” — that was his gift. He was so good at it. And it was never cheezy and it was always authentic. He was brilliant. He understood his gifts, his talent, and had found a way to making a great living at it.
Again, I digress.
About 30 minutes had passed and Jim and I were laughing when the door to the conference room opened up again. It was Sharon and the much talked about “Tad”. Tad was clearly the boss and on his way out the office somewhere. He looked boss-like wearing a suit jacket and tie, perfect blonde hair, glasses – definitely important looking. The only thing that might be off on the whole “boss” image was that Tad had kind eyes. If someone had asked me to draw a picture of a boss, a legit one that is, I’d draw him. I could tell instantly he was more like James than Sharon.
Clearly Sharon didn’t approve of the comfort level and laughter in the room – but Jim stood right up and said to Tad, “This is Carmen. I think she’d be great.” Tad offered to shake my hand, “Nice to meet you.” In a now sweeter tone Sharon joined in, “Well, I haven’t finished interviewing Carmen and we have a lot of testing so…” Tad cut her off. He looked directly at me and said, “Do you want the job Carmen? Are you willing to come early, stay late and do whatever it takes to get the work done?” I answered without hesitation, “Yeah. Of course. I mean yes.” Tad looked over at Sharon and said, “With everything going on today, let’s just get her set up as soon as possible over at HR before they change their mind.” Sharon was about to say something but she held back. Again her face began turning that blotchy red – she was not happy. Jim winked at me while Sharon scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Go to Human Resources in the morning and report back to me when you’re done.” I remember thinking I wanted to respond “Yessum master” but didn’t. Instead I said, “Okay, sure. Thank you so much Sharon. Nice to have met all of you. Thank you.” And I walked away from the conference room as professionally as possible, but when I got outside the building I almost skipped all the way home. Really. I was so happy. I had just gotten a job – a big time real job in a big time company – with a real salary and other benefits. I was gonna be somebody after-all. Maybe even a yuppie! And more importantly I’d be working outside the ‘hood. As long as they didn’t test me for those things I bet I could pull off the job and learn stuff real fast. How hard could it be after-all?
The following day, in yet another borrowed haphazard outfit – this time a green dress, I met the rest of the salesmen I’d be working for. It was nice to have already met one of them: James. And James seemed genuinely happy to see me – that was his style. He made you feel comfortable from the moment you met him. It was as if you’d been best friends for years. I think it was one of the reasons he was so good at his job. He could sell you anything and you wouldn’t even know you were buying it. That, and his good looks and charm, is what made the ladies love him. But for me, it would be entirely something else.
I’d been working for Technical Data as an Administrative Assistant for about two weeks at this point. Basically I did anything I was asked to do – mostly, anything Sharon didn’t have time to do or whatever the eight salesmen needed. I made copies, filed stuff, mailed out letters. I’d get them breakfast or lunch if they asked me too. Although I was getting more and more familiar with my surroundings and what I needed to do, there was no doubt I was still way out of my element. Let’s face it, a girl from the ‘hood who’d never even worn a suit or been in a real office environment would always feel awkward especially amongst a group of white-collar financial types. But I kept it all inside – I kept it to myself and I kept doing the best I could, using my “new-ness” to the company as an excuse for any mistakes I might have made. And Sharon, although putting up with me, clearly didn’t like me. If it had been up to her, she would have never hired me at all. On this I have no doubt.
My inbox was piling up with a lot of “computer-esque” work I needed to do. Fact is, I was avoiding it. I didn’t know how to use a computer very well and I think Sharon was beginning to catch on. I improvised and rolled with things as best I could. But I figured, at some point, something would happen and I’d get caught and lose the job. But I didn’t really care. Getting to this point alone was an accomplishment for a girl like me. I’d already gotten one official paycheck – more money than I’d ever seen legally in one lump sum – and it was all mine. I was sure I would get at least one more check. If they fired me, it would suck. But either way, I’d still be fine. I knew it was just a matter of time. I was sure of it. I didn’t belong in this yuppie white-collar world anyways, so I worked every day knowing that at any moment I’d be figured out and ultimately fired. It’s what made logical sense.
So one day Sharon walked over to me in the copy room and said smugly: “I’ve put work in your inbox and you still haven’t done it. Are you unable to handle the work? Because if you are, we can get someone else to do it Carmen.” She always threatened me like that. She didn’t offer to help, she just offered to replace me. “Uhm, no Sharon. I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what you wanted me to do first. Would you like me to be doing something else instead of copying these manuals you said needed to be done ASAP? I’m happy to do whatever you need or would like me to do.” And she looked at me stumped. My ultra-sweet syrupy kindness threw her. I think she was waiting for me to explode or go all “ghetto” on her or something so she could fire me for that, but instead I’d try and treat her like the God she needed to feel like so she’d have no recourse. Dumb bitch. If she had had any street smarts at all, she would have easily seen I was working her – idiot. Toni, the receptionist, who happened to be in the copy room at the time retrieving some documents for someone else, smiled if not laughed a bit pretending not to hear a thing. Toni understood easily. Sharon cleared her throat and grabbed something off a shelf. “No, no Carmen. You go right ahead and finish copying those manuals. But afterwards you need to do all 500 letters and mailings to the contact list I put on your desk today. Those have to be mailed out tomorrow. So make sure you get those done no matter what.” She paused and started to walk away and then stopped at the door and said snidely, “Good luck.” Toni looked at me and mouthed the words “what a bitch” and went back to her desk.
I hated Sharon. She knew. She knew I didn’t know how to use a computer. And this was her test. She knew I could never get those letters and labels done in time. She was setting me up to fail and I knew it. And as much as I didn’t care about losing this white world bullshit secretarial job, I did care about my pride. I wasn’t going to let some gangly dumb-ass librarian type make me look like a fool. So I had to come up with a plan. Somehow I had to get all the letters and mailings done before tomorrow morning. I could then, throw them on her desk and tell her to kiss my black ass and walk out of the office with my head held high. Fuck this dumb-ass job! It was only temporary anyways.
So that evening, when everyone had left the office I snuck back in. I got to my desk and pulled out the list. It was pages and pages of names and addresses. I turned on the computer. After trying earnestly to figure it out, I realized there was no way I was going to understand how to do a “mail merge”. She had mentioned that to me, after I would have “input all of the addresses” and then I could easily print them out but obviously when you don’t know how to do something, you don’t know how! Period. So, my next plan was to just type out each envelope one by one on the typewriter and then send a generic letter to each of the contacts. She’d never know. I could just copy them on the copier. I would seal each letter and bring them over to the mail room myself. I could then come back and quit – still telling her to kiss my black ass. Good plan.
But, I wasn’t a great typist. And by 10:30pm on a Thursday night, I had still only finished about 50 envelopes. At this rate, I’d never be done in time. I’d used up a lot of white-out. I sat there occasionally staring out the window noticing the bright moon glaring down through the skyscrapers that lined the city. What a pretty sight I thought. For a minute I pretended I belonged there. This was my office. My division. My department. I was a Yuppie. It’s rare when it happens, but I laughed and felt the tears well up in my eyes. No matter how I sliced it, she would win. Even if I got to tell Sharon to kiss my black ass – I knew it was lame. I was nothing but a kid from the other side of those skyscrapers and I certainly didn’t belong here. Damn. I did care. I did want the job. I liked getting a real paycheck. I liked putting on fancy clothes, even if they didn’t belong to me, to go to work. I liked being around these rich smart yuppie guys. And even if she hated me, everyone else liked me a lot. They thought I was funny and nice. And the best part: none of them knew anything about me at all. No one felt sorry for me because I had grown up the way I did. They didn’t know anything about my past. For all they knew, my family was just like the friggin’ Huxtables. And I was helping them with something important on Wall Street. At least I thought I was – I still hadn’t figure out what they did exactly, but it was important and legit. But the best part: I was “making” it. I wasn’t working at the grocery store, or the nursing home, or the boys club. I was working in the financial district in Boston. Mama would’ve been proud for sure…
I held back the tears and kept trying to type out the individual envelopes. I heard a noise and at first I stopped typing. Then realized it was probably just the cleaning crew who I had always felt much more comfortable around anyways and knew they’d understand why I was there. For a brief second, I wondered if one of them would have known how to use a computer… maybe I’d ask.
When I looked back, it wasn’t the cleaning crew. It was James. I turned back in my chair and stayed still. He was singing something or other and before I had a chance to think about hiding, he noticed me and walked on over, “Hey, what are you doing here so late, Carmelita?” It was the first time he called me that. His voice cheery. His Boston accent thick when he said Carmelita — as if the first part was the candy. I froze. I didn’t say a word — I sat there motionless with my fingers on the typewriter keyboard.
He came closer.
“Carmel-i-t-a, did you hear me — what are you doing here so late? I had a bad date. Eeeh, it was okay, I mean she was nice but it was bad if I’m here, right?” He laughed out loud.
My chest was pounding so hard. I didn’t think of this scenario. Nightmare. Imagine when Sharon finds out I can’t type? She’ll enjoy telling James that it was his fault. That hiring me was his mistake. And Sharon would tell him “I told you so.” This was so horrible.
James walked closer and touched the back of my shoulder. He turned me around and the tears, though not rolling down my cheeks yet, were certainly just about to flow.
“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” And he looked around the table. He turned his head and saw the trash barrel full of torn up envelopes and messed up letterhead copies. He looked at the list next to the type writer.
“Carmen. Why don’t you just print these out from the computer? That would be so much easier.”
I blinked and the tears streamed perfectly down my face. And he knew.
“You don’t know how to use a computer, do you?”
I didn’t have say a thing. I just looked at him quietly, humbly, my heart pounding, my hands shaking, tears hitting the corner of my mouth now.
“Why didn’t Sharon just show you this list on the computer? She could’ve just shown you in 5 minutes how to mail merge this with the letter and then to the labels. The hardest part would be putting them in the envelopes and licking them shut.” But as he asked the question, he knew the answer.
Jim walked over to my desk and turned the computer back on. He scrolled though a few things on the screen and found the same list I had been working on in a file. “Carm, come here. I’ll walk you through this okay?”
I gave him my chair and pulled another over. He moved the cursor around a few more times and then closed everything and started over. “Ready?”
“uh-ha” I said meekly.
He handed me a tissue. After a few minutes, “Carmelita. Do you want this job?
“Yes.”
“Then, when you need help, you’re going to have to ask for it. Do you understand me?” He wasn’t cheery now, but spoke like a stern big brother, his tone, just like Johnny’s.
I didn’t say a word. I shook my head yes.
He turned around in his seat and looked directly at me. “Look, I know it’s been hard. You got hired at a crazy time. And Sharon probably isn’t going to go out of her way to help you because she’s… real busy…okay? And maybe you’re not her favorite person. She’s just jealous of you. You get that right?”
I felt my eye brows cringe together – that made no sense. “She’s an Executive Secretary, I’m just a gofer. I work for her.”
“Is that what you think?
I shrugged my shoulders.
Jim took a deep breath and turned on the printer. Annoyed he went on, “Well, you’re right; you’re not an Executive Secretary. An Executive Secretary knows how to use a computer I suppose. But those are skills you can learn Carmelita.” His voice got softer and kinder. “But what you’ve got. You can’t learn that. You walk into a room and it lights up. It’s why we all like you. It’s also why some people may be jealous of you. And while we’re on the subject, we’re a team here. You don’t work for Sharon, you work for all of us. Okay? We all work together. Tad would tell you that. Anyone would tell you that.”
I was mulling it over, I knew what he was saying, but I didn’t know what to say back. He then added: “Look, from now on, if you don’t know how to do something, just ask me. Okay? It’ll be our secret.”
“But why?” I asked. Knowing that no one does anything for free.
“Because I want you to stick around.”
“Okay. But what do you want in return?”
“What?” he asked almost shocked.
I chimed in with attitude: “Well, where I grew up, nobody does anything for free. What do you want in return for helping me?” I asked with a newfound power. I could negotiate my way through anything – this was something I could handle.
He thought about it for half a second. He put the letterhead in the printer, clicked a few things on the computer and then turned around and said nonchalantly, “Well, where I grew up, sometimes you do things for people Carmelita just because you can.”
I didn’t say anything at all. I didn’t trust that answer. I was still waiting for what he wanted in return. I was uncomfortable. In true James form, he then grabbed my shoulder and said, “Come on, lighten up! You can pay me back by…I don’t know…get me the name of that new girl in accounting on the 4th floor. You know the one with the pony-tail. Did you see her here today? Hot damn. She was kinda cute. How’s that? Fair?” And as always, James had disarmed me. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, “Let me get this straight, you’ll help me with computer stuff and I just need to be your pimp? That works for me just fine. You’ve got a deal!”
We both laughed.
“You know Carmelita my friends call me Bink.”
“Yeah, I know. But I think I’m gonna stick with James. I don’t want Sharon or anyone else getting freaked about me calling you Bink. By the way; nobody, no one at all, calls me Carmelita…but…you can.”
That night James and I sat folding letters into envelopes till about 1:30 in the morning. And we laughed and talked and talked some more. It would be James who would teach me things I needed to know. Simple things like how to use email, certain software programs, all things computer-esque. But he’d also teach me about the markets and how it worked. He’d answer any question I had. Sometimes he’d leave me pamphlets or documents or newspaper articles if he thought it might help me understand things better. James made me feel safe in a place I really had no business being. He believed I was smart enough, good enough and worthy enough. It was the first time in all my life that anyone cared for me so much who didn’t know anything at all about my past. I don’t think James ever knew that.
I spent a lot more nights working in the office learning and re-learning anything James had taught me after that. Sometimes I’d run into him on his way to or back from a date and we’d catch up. Those were some of my favorite moments back then…
So, the stock market crash of 1987 was in a way, my saving grace, my shot at a different kind of life. And because of James, I didn’t fail, he didn’t let me.
A year or so later my life would change again in magnificent ways forever because of the boys at Technical Data. And when I look back on it all, I can trace the beginnings easily to this moment; the stock market crash of 1987…and yes, James “Bink” Graham.
But that’s a whole other story. . .
