Psst! Yeah, you! The one reading this paper in the middle of your psych lecture! I’m trying to get in contact with the outside world. Why, you ask? Because I’m trapped right now. That’s right, I have been thrown into a world of Nokias, nicotine and Armani. Gucci, Burberry and Prada. I am in SMG.
“But, Lynley!” you cry. “You can’t be serious! How did you get stuck inside of the marble metropolis?” There’s only one explanation: I work there.
Now, I’m about as foreign as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but I managed to play the part of an SMG kid pretty well during my September interview for the job. I bought a pair of DKNY shades (ok, they were really knockoffs bought for eight bucks outside of South Station), got some black pants, bought a pack of cigarettes (for show only, I assure you), programmed European numbers into my cell phone and perfected my French accent. Finally, I was ready to play the part of an authentic SMGer.
The interview went well for the first two minutes:
Interviewer (Known simply as “Steve”): Where were you born?
Me (“Lisette,” if you will): I was born een a leetle Franch penthouse neer zee Seine where zee butlers and maids took perfeect care of me.
Steve: What did your family do?
Lisette: Um, we, um, we ran a Duck Tour company zat runs tours all over zee great city of Paree.
Steve: Miss Escargot?
Lisette: Yes?
Steve: There are no Duck Tours in Paris.
Me: Dammit.
So, my cover was blown. I thought about high tailing it out of there when suddenly, Steve pressed the bronzed statue of President Westling and led me into a secret room behind the Swarovski crystal water cooler.
Lights were flashing before my eyes quicker than a season of “The Michael Richards Show”.
“What is this place?” I asked Steve.
“Well, Miss Kozinski, although I am flattered you would blacken your lungs and show of your ass for the position, we can’t accept you as an SMG worker.”
Like David Arquette after seeing the reviews for “See Spot Run,” I hung my head in shame.
“However, how would you like to be a spy?”
A spy? This was better than the time my ex-boyfriend pulled out the Kama Sutra book. But what did the job entail?
“Well, Miss Kozinski, first of all, when you come in to ‘work’ you’re going to have to look like a civilian. I want to see jeans, New Balance sneakers, and a wardrobe consisting of J. Crew and the Gap.”
I assured him I already had the proper wardrobe. He scowled at my peacoat, but said as long as it was from Old Navy, I was going to be all right.
He also asked me about my cell phone. “No, no, this is a Nokia 5190, not an 8290,” I said. He looked perplexed. “It was $19.99, not $169.99.”
“Oh, well then, you’re fine. See, the reason we need you here is because we’ve been tracking these kids around for the past few years to find out why they’re so antisocial to the rest of the BU community.”
“But, wouldn’t you want someone to look like them to get into their social circles?” I asked.
“We tried that last year. They can smell fake Fendi from a mile away.”
So, after six months of quietly making my way up to the fifth floor to make “copies” (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) every single day, I have come to this conclusion: It’s got to be something in the Mochachinos.
Every turtleneck-clad student I see is drinking one of these Starbucks beverages. Is it the meticulous blend of cocoa and espresso that makes their eyes get so red they have to wear Jackie O sunglasses in the middle of lecture? Or is it the frothy layer of mad cow-produced milk that makes them clutch the Kate Spade date planners so close to their sides?
That guy in the Tootsie Pops commercial said it best: “The world may never know.”
So, last week, Steve and I sat down and talked about my job. Turns out the higher-ups at SMG liked the research I had done so far, and they especially liked the diorama I added in for extra zest and pizzazz.
But, next year there will be new fashion trends and PDAs and with that turnover comes new spies. So, next year I’ll be back on the fifth floor as a lowly office assistant, typing up spreadsheets, making copies and getting brie and red wine for all of the professors. I don’t really mind it though. I’d rather have some pizza and listen to the voicemails on PsychoExGirlfriend.com with my other spies than trail around a bunch of leather any day.
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