Popularity Anonymity

Ask anyone who has “made it” and you’d get a shrug.  It’s not so easily defined yet the phenomena-from sources we cannot disclose- are common.

In the dimness, indiscernible people bustled from the table to the crowded floors with drinks in hand, talking loudly. Rarely was there a person alone except for the few who kept their dispirited head low. In a dark corner, a silhouette flourished a menu above her head. I made my way over.

“Have you found-?” a raspy female voice asked behind the menu. Her very words sent chills to my spine and if I were a man, she’d be my femme fatale, devising a plan to ensnare me with her claws, but I know women too well. This time she wore a black instead of red, a blonde instead of a brown wig, and red coral lipstick.

I played it off. “Mind if I join you?” I tipped my glass to her, eager to take the unfamiliar stench from my vicinity. “No,” she smiled. As I sat across, she stood to yank the heavy green curtain and closed us from the smooth jazz trumpet solo.

“Tell me,” she said, eager to hear the result.

“You asked me to find it,” I began as I pulled a manila folder from my black satchel which had blended into the night. She reached for it, but I clasped my hand together on top of it-not one of the strongest way to keep a folder from being snatched, but she resisted temptation and sat back. “But you already have it,” I said.

That’s when things took an unexpected turn. She took off her sunglasses and her wig, but kept her eyes closed. Her hair was plain, dark, but braided in a Greek goddess updo, and on the right side of her forehead to her cheek was a wrinkled burn scar. “I got this when I was finally reaching toward it, but the other girl in the office-she wasn’t so keen-she invited me to talk and before it was over, she suddenly threw some hot tea on me. I shared my experience thinking that she wanted help. I thought wrong,” she said in her normal voice, “Now you know.” My heart pounded as she slowly opened her eyes. I expected to find a blue glassy white eye-if not two-staring at me. They were indeed blue, watery, but fortunately, not blind. “At least-” I caught myself, “you still dress well.”

“Thank you,” she said politely. Her voice was no longer raspy, but mellow and clear. She straightened up and from her purse placed the couple of hundreds she’d promised. “Thank you for infiltrating into the clique.” I pushed the money aside, “There’s no need. It really boil down to three things: how you present yourself with popular techniques and trends,  how others connect to you, and situational circumstances.” In dread, she asked me to elaborate and I handed the manila folder as she forced me to take my pay. She eagerly skimmed the solutions, “how can I thank you?” After a moment, she put on her wig and glasses and I told her to take care and bid her farewell, but not before I slipped a hundred and a card of my dermatologist friend into her bag. The jazz played on as I handed back the glass and slipped into the night, never looking back or doubting her revival.