“Let me see it,” bossman raised his eyes to mine and held out his hand.
Reluctantly, I fished out my pocket notepad out from my purse and handed it over. He swiveled in his chair and dropped it into the trashcan. “Done,” he said, as my eyes opened wide with horror.
I’ve had the notepad since January. Since before I found my job. In fact, I wrote down in that notepad the exact date and time I sent off my application for it. It was one of my frustrated attempts to bring a sense of order into my life then after five frustrating months on the job hunt and no end in sight. After a mediocre interview near Times Square, I had stopped at the Office Max by the subway to select a notebook, where I would write ideas on how to survive, remind myself of my status. Count up the money left for rent. Write a few notes about companies in the margins.
Even the notes I wrote on the morning before I went in for my interview with bossman were in that little notepad. The notes that prepped me right to meet him for the first time and impress him with my knowledge of the company.
It had worked, and here I was, still in front of him more than nine months later, wondering how I should tactfully ask him back for my paper bundle of memories. How would he feel if he knew the importance?
“But my subway map is glued on the inside cover!” I cried. He laughed and pointed to the palm pilot he had generously offered me a few days ago. “It’s all in there.”
On my way home, I sat on the train half keeping an eye on the distance, half engrossed in the tiny buzzing noise of every tap of the plastic stylus. In 15 minutes, I entered my contacts, updated my to-do list and won a round of CrazyDaisy. I even made a post-modern sketch of the woman sitting across from me, in my electronic memo pad.
I couldn’t call myself an artist as I stepped off the train at 49th street, but I was pacified. Under my arm, I could feel my new technology pressing my paper notepad deeper into the zippered pocket of my purse, and in a few minutes, I’d be buying a guitar.