I wake up to the scream of my alarm clock, a brand spanking new white piece with a pair of shiny silver bells that rouses me from a dead sleep every morning. I click the switch, and am given a moment of peace. I hate mornings. Mornings mean that I have to start my day and what, really, could be worse than that?

A lot of things, I suppose, given the state of the world. I could be unemployed, or out on the streets. I could be one of those sorry sobs who stands in line all morning for a cup of lukewarm soup and a slice of black bread that could break a tooth. I could have a family—alone, thankfully, though not without my flings—to care for, or kids that looked up at me and wondered why we didn't have anything to eat.

I should be thankful, and I am, most of the time. I have a job—really, I appreciate it. But sometimes I wish my job wasn't so complicated. Sure, it keeps me in this small but comfortable apartment. It puts food on my table every day, three square meals if I'm hungry enough. It buys me new dresses and hats and shoes, fresh lipstick, and an endless supply of stockings. My job keeps me safe, well, relatively. It keeps my healthy. And, dare I say it, it sometimes even keeps me happy.

But lord, I wish it wasn't so complicated.

Today will be like any day, I'm sure of it. It's starting the same as always. My alarm has rung, and I am so groggy that I would rather play here in bed, staring up at my blue ceiling, than do anything else. Thin cotton sheets and a lumpy mattress are preferable to the world, when you're still tired. But the world waits for no one, and I pull myself out of my bed and groggily make my way to the small bathroom in my apartment. Drawing a bath is an impossibility—running water costs too much, and not even I can afford it, so I settle for splashing cold water from a bowl I filled last evening on my face and arms. It's refreshing, but that's about it.

I slip out of my nightgown in a flash. It's a favorite of mine—a thin, knee length frilly sort of thin, a light shade of pink that makes me feel younger. Heaven knows it would scandalize my mother, if she had lived to see it. But heaven knows how she could function in tight corsets and thick dresses that reached the floor. I feel stifled in my business dresses and stockings. But then, I suppose women in those days didn't have as much to do as I do now. They might be able to have sat and fanned themselves while working for change, but me? I've got more pressing matters on my mind—like if the boss will approve of the new cherry red lipstick I bought. It was a splurge, I admit, but lipstick is my favorite little splash of color for an outfit.

I slide the stick across my lips, leaving behind a deep cherry red. A few swipes of mascara, and a dash of powder over my nose, and it's all the make-up I really need. Or, all the makeup I can really afford.

I work at a doctor's office in town, a small little place, professional and clean. I'm a secretary, so no white dresses and red crosses for me. I check in patients, keep records, sift through files, and smile pretty for everyone that comes in. It's tiring, and by the end of the day I'm restless to go home, but it's a job, and it's life.

I step into a tea-length navy blue dress with a folded sailor collar. I slide on a fresh pair of tan stockings, checking to make sure I didn't accidentally get a run through them—I'm cursed when it comes to stockings. After curling my hair and pinning on a small but tasteful matching navy hat, I put on simple black heels and take a look in the mirror. Professional, poised, but certainly not stuffy—just the way I like it.

I grab my purse, and fill it up. It's big, but I need lots of space to hold all the things I need every day. I throw in my powder compact, my lipstick, a few sweet candies, my small wallet, a little book to read, and a small jeweled box filled with cocaine bags.

Did I mention that my doctor has mob connections and runs a drug house from his office?

... Like I said, my work is complicated. Very complicated.

I'm not just a secretary at a little doctor's office in town. Yes, it is a nice place, a small, cozy little office... the kind a family goes to. The type of place a mother brings her son to when he can't stop coughing, and the doctor gives the kid a sweet lollipop at the end for being such a brave soldier. And, as it happens, the doctor slips a little vial of cocaine into the mother's purse as they leave. The cocaine comes from me, and I get the money from the doctor, and the stuff from the little mafia organization that meets up regularly in our unassuming town. A little different, a little strange, and completely illegal.

It's a genius idea, isn't it? Who would suspect an upstanding little town doctor of being in league with the mafia? Who would suspect a mother of a little coughing boy of carrying the drug? Who would accuse the sweet lipped, smiling secretary who clacks away at her typewriter and wishes everyone a healthy, happy day?

I'll tell you: No one. So far. We haven't been so much as questioned, so much as suspected of anything illegal. The doctor doesn't worry much about it, but he's a bigwig, you know? Nearer to the top than a girl like me. And he's not down there, doing the dirty work like I do every week.

But speaking of dirty work, I had better get going. I get an earful if I'm so much as five minutes late for my daily shift. I lock the door and step down three flights to the small courtyard of the apartment building. On the way, I pass a few of my neighbors—good guys, dads, moms, kids going off to school or work, who wave and smile at me—except Mrs. Rossi. She never does. She turns away when I pass her on the stairwell, or happen to meet her at the communal running water center. I suspect she knows, or at least suspects, about my... additional duties at work, and wants to avoid any connection with someone like me. Can I blame her? One misstep and her family could be in hot water.

I walk to work, like most people do. I may be well off enough to stay full and comfortable in my apartment, but I'm not a some sort of big shot she can afford a luxury like a car. I like walking, anyway. It lets me think before work, which is another type of luxury. I think about my life, my family back in New York, and the future.

As I see the office come into view as I round a corner, I think: "How much longer can I do this?" I would never say such a thing to the doctor, or the well dressed men with slick hair and shiny guns that I meet up with every Wednesday for a new shipment, but, I can say it in the privacy of my mind. Sometimes, I want to run away, quit the game. But I couldn't get away with it. If top men with body guards can get killed after pissing off a top guy, what chance do I have? None.
So, I do what I always do. I walk into the office, cringing at the shrill bells attached to the door, and plaster on my bright morning smile. The doctor, wearing a crisp coat, comes out of his back office and waves curly.

"Morning, Betty" he says, though he doesn't even look at me. "Sleep well?"

I nod, even if I know he wasn't pay attention to me. I also know it's not really my day or my sleep that he actually cares about. It's the stuff, always the stuff. How much, the quality, and if we've been making our quota.

"Three folders left," I say. Three bags, tucked neatly inside my gussied-up box, is enough for about nine medical vials full of the delicate white powder. Our quota is nine per day—I hear offices in big cities sell a hundred a day or more. I wonder how many secretaries it takes to fill those.

"Good" the doctor says, jerking his thumb towards his back office. "Why don't you fill up those vials—er, why don't you organize those files before our first patient arrives."

It's a delicate dance, the word play we have to use. You can't come right out and say you have cocaine. You can't even come right out and say the word vial, filling, or anything unusual or suspicious. We keep it up, for the most part, but the doctor sometimes misses his steps and slips up. Thankfully, so far, his slip ups have been in private. We could be in hot water—or, more bluntly, behind bars—if he slipped up in front of a cop.

The private back office is cool and clean. I click the pristine white wooden door shut, and lock it tightly behind me. You never know who might come walking in. When I first got wrapped up in all of this, with the promise of more money, it took me... lord, hours, just to get three bags sorted into the vials. I worked "overtime" to make up for my ineptitude.

But as the saying goes, practice makes perfect. Three bags is nothing to me now—easy peasy. I'm sure the good doctor would laugh if he knew how I perfected the technique of filling up the vials while hardly spilling a grain. I tighten the bags, cut a little hole in the corner, and let the grains fall down like sand. Where did I get the idea? A cookbook my mother gave me—housewives use it to frost cakes. Cake, cocaine, whatever works. I still fill the vials over a bowl, just in case. We used to fill them over the garbage, but the police and other nosy Nell's have been known to snoop through garbage bags, and now we just pour the bowl down the sink.

I work fast. Hardly a grain ends up being washed down the sink. I step out of the office and into the little pharmacy, taking care to place the vials in a locked cabinet, marked "prescription only."

The door chimes shriek, and I check the clock on the wall. Nine AM. Our first appointment—first customer—Jimmy "Slick" Campelli, who had his finger slammed on the door of a bus yesterday, and wants to make sure the digit isn't broken. He'll need a bit of prescribed morphine for the pain, of course, and oh, while he's here—why not pick up two vials of cocaine?

I walk into the waiting room with my trademark smile, and pretend like this is any other patient. I pretend like this isn't all a great big shame. Like Mr. Campelli isn't a gangster who could have me shot down in my bed. Like he didn't bang up his fingers in a fight, or on a brick wall. Like I don't spend my mornings sorting cocaine and keeping track of our drug supply. Like I don't hustle down to a little deli every Wednesday for more stock, and find myself ushered into a dim back room full of cigar smoke and men who would have me killed with a snap of their fingers. Like the doctor is just a doctor, and I'm just a secretary.

It's nice to dream of a normal life like that—but it's just a dream.