And so, wearing her lucky pantsuit from the Angel Street Thrift Shop that rode the fine line between respectable and trendy (and which was her first adult purchase upon moving here), Catelyn played hooky from her normal part-time job on a Thursday and instead arrived at the city hall, waiting patiently in one of their lobbies decked in its fashionably retro (i.e., outdated) design of lightly-colored wood panels and brass fixtures. (One advantage of classic designs is that the money usually spent in updating them can best be put elsewhere…like in one’s pockets.) In those few minutes before her appointment (and instead of playing Candy Crush), she made the best use of it by quickly creating her first iteration of a LinkedIn page and by practicing her answers with online questionnaires. But after a quick, brusque interview with the secretary of the mayor, she hadn’t expected a response of any kind, and she honestly didn’t expect any sort of notification, having been on the receiving end of silence many times before. So, it was much to her surprise when the offer of employment finally came: her first day would be the Monday of next week, if she chose to accept it.
Nervously excited, she arrived at city hall, clad in a new ensemble that she had put together over the weekend using her modest wardrobe. With a modesty that was in no way insincere, she took her apprenticeship earnestly, and she took all of the secretary’s lessons (and all of their inherent, boring minutiae) to heart. The secretary, though far from inconsiderate, definitely fell short of amiable or helpful, doling out only small snippets for time to teach anything. Catelyn would have been in dire straits as a nascent civil servant, but as it turned out, several of the aides for Mayor Massaco were especially sympathetic men. That, or they were horny for a young girl…in the end, she didn’t care as long as she could get the paperwork done right. They would spend the time to teach her the proper protocol of handling civil issues and the various ways how one can steer clear of legal transgressions, much like a veteran captain knows how to navigate the dangerously shallow neck of a river. In time, they became her colleagues and friends. And so, when they invited her to attend a holiday party thrown by Mayor Massaco, she obliged their invitation, spent all of her meager savings on an acceptable outfit, and came without any preconceived notions to the doorstep of Rumba Cubana, nearby in old Guttenberg.
Scenic with its eagle’s eye view of the Hudson River below, the restaurant with its rushing valets and its bustling crowd created an atmosphere that was still foreign to Catelyn’s small town sensibilities, even after her years of residence. Though it wasn’t immensely fancy, it was nonetheless impressive to her when the staff escorted her through the restaurant’s main dining area and into the back room for private parties. Her colleagues welcomed her into the fold, and with a Cuba Libre in one hand and a crispy empanada in the other, she quickly abandoned all pretenses while regaling her comrades with her best jokes, becoming more comfortable as the minutes sped by. And when she spotted Mayor Massaco across the room, she decided to take advantage of her liquid courage by crossing the room and formally introducing herself to her boss at large.
Like any inebriated young woman possessed with the benevolent spirits stored in bottles and invoked by music, Catelyn paid no attention to nuance or subtext, for a good mood abolishes the awareness of all negative potential. Even though His Honor was exchanging words with an encircled group of somber, older men, she was confident that they would welcome the company of a perky girl with a figure and a nice smile. And, strangely enough, she happened to be right. After a few pleasantries and polite anecdotes, the confidential circle dispersed extemporaneously, and much to her own surprise, she found herself in the exclusive company of her municipal superior. It was only then that her newfound confidence absconded away, and she realized how she might have just overstepped her bounds. She began profusely apologizing…but Mayor Massaco would have none of it. Instead, he complimented her candor, and after learning of her hometown, he relayed his earlier adventures as an enlisted man in central Pennsylvania and asked if the old Air Force office was still located around Mechanicsburg. “My first name is Ciro,” he explained, “But my friends call me C. And since I now count you among them, I expect the same.” And after nearly an hour of conversation, Catelyn felt that she had a new confidant in life.
In the weeks that followed, His Honor would usually talk with his secretary, but he always made sure to drop by Catelyn’s desk as well, just to spend the time for a small chat. It became custom for either he or an aide to extend her an invitation for various after-work activities. One week it would be karaoke at the local Irish pub, another week it would be to bravely descend the cliff’s steep staircase (since the Palisades spit on the cowardly proposal of a funicular) and dance in a supper club along the river. Each consecutive week, though, the numbers of their small band began to dwindle, with various members giving reasons for absence. And eventually, there came a time where it was just three of them: Catelyn, the mayor, and an aide. After several drinks and playing the part of a raconteuse, where she recalled the ribald stories of young women like herself and her hometown pals, it was when the tertiary member of their crew excused himself for the bathroom when Ciro finally made his confession: he had developed an affection for Cateyln and would like to see her exclusively.
Catelyn didn’t have much in the way of wisdom, but she knew the various cliches associated with this kind of situation and how people would react to it if she did indeed accept his offer. How they would say that she had daddy issues, how they would say that she’s probably a fan of Fifty Shades of Grey, how she was trying to sleep her way to the top, how Ciro might have done something like this before…she was aware of all the likely scenarios and consequences. She was young…but she wasn’t stupid. Despite all of that, though, she knew one thing with even more intimacy: she was lonely and without a great deal of options. Without knowing it, the exodus of her friends, her relocation to this strange neighborhood, and the quiet of her spacious apartment had finally made a dent in the armor that fit tightly around her. After the past year of solitude, she had finally started to reconsider her decision, thinking that maybe she was on the same fuse of her friends but with a delay. Confused, she found herself unable to grab a hold of any conviction born of introspection…but she came to a decision anyway. No young woman wants to admit a mistake, and she’ll run miles in shoes lined with broken glass before even entertaining the thought. And though he was the oldest man that she had dated (but not by much), he was still attractive to her, with his peppered hair that favored white and his large frame that only carried a little more weight than needed. And it didn’t hurt that he was an intelligent man with power at his fingertips. “This was fate,” she told herself, “And I was meant to be here, at this moment.” And with the forethought of expediting a response before the aide’s return, she whispered ‘Yes’ and gave him a quick, tender kiss.
Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.