I was strolling down Park Avenue the other day when the revolving door at 857 caught my eye and drew me in. I found myself in the lobby of an office building, people hustling to and fro. Ding! The elevator doors were opening. A crowd rushed off and I got on. When we came to a halt at 14 I knew this was my destination.
The open glass door said “Sterling Cooper” and a group of well-dressed people sipping martinis and hi-balls were standing among the desks, laughing and gesturing with cigarettes. Just a small cocktail party. The air was blue with smoke, but I am petite (and quite trim, well-groomed and elegant, I might add) and wasn’t bothered by the cloud overhead. I don’t smoke and never will (filthy habit, but I’m not judgmental; to each his own, I always say).
Someone had just set down fresh drink so sidled over and took a sip and then another. Mmm, Glenlivet, my favorite. And canapés were out. Was that caviar? Well, not Russian and I should know, but not too bad. I hadn’t eaten in a while–a long while; I had another. Yes, this place would do very well. It had a style and flair to match my own. With my intelligence and good looks I was sure I could fit in beautifully.
I had been trying to remain inconspicuous but now I caught the eye of a very debonair and dashing young man. He approached suavely and put his hand on my svelte shoulder. “Hello, beautiful! New around here? My name is Don.”
I gave a quick sniff but he went on smoothly, “Now don’t be like that! I can see you are just my type! That blue fur you’re sporting is just the thing for the campaign I’m working on! Want to join the firm?”
Purring, I allowed him to stroke my hair. And that’s how I became the office cat.