from: It Hurts, by Matthew Collins
Once there was a young woman who lived in Manhattan and was offered a better job at a famous art gallery. She attended long, arduous interviews in person and on the phone. Her new boss had her astrology chart done, and every picky-uni detail about her personal life was delved into. The gallery owner would not tell her was the job was. Finally, he gave her the job, and told her what it was: she was now the receptionist for the art gallery. The front office girl.
The gallery owner made her memorize all his clients phone numbers. If the client had a phone in Switzerland, one in the back of his, a cell phone, a house on Long Island, she had to memorize them all by heart, and rattle them off to the client on the phone. The owner to make sure she knew everyone’s phone number gave her daily quizzes.
He’d sit all day behind a glass partition and communicate to the receptionists with a series of hand signals, like a baseball umpire. She had to get to work early, and stay late, and work through lunch. Once the gallery owner got mad at her for not knowing who was calling into the office. She had one perk: a limo picked her up and dropped her off at the beginning and end of the day.
One day, she suddenly couldn’t take it any more after two months, and she quit.
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