Chapter 9
9
Lucy
Monday morning rolls around, and I’ve slept a total of three hours and forty-six minutes. In those few hours I actually slept, I kept having those dreams that reminded me of ones where I’m standing in the middle of the school cafeteria in nothing but my bra and underwear. Only, in the dreams I had last night, I was left holding my DSLR camera in my hand while feeling completely lost. I didn’t know what buttons to push or what the dials even meant. In one specific dream that occurred just after midnight, I looked down at the black camera in my hands and found that it was a plastic one. The kind parents buy for their toddlers for sensory play. I fumbled with the red, yellow, and blue dials while everyone looked at me in shock.
What if after flying thousands of miles from the comforts of my comfortable two-bedroom apartment, I’m back where I was a year ago, jobless and jilted by the first big girl job I’ve ever had? What if after everything, I end up back at Mr. Bean’s, standing behind a counter telling dedicated members of corporate America and moms with high-end strollers and tight yoga pants the daily pastry specials? Or worse, out of a job altogether? It’s not like Mr. Bean left my position unfilled. He hired someone a week after I gave my notice. I really gave up the most stable thing in my life, Mr. Bean and his large, fancy espresso machine, to be an artist. Maybe my mom was right.
I attempt to push aside the flash memory of those dreams and trudge out of my apartment to use the bathroom. I found that during the early hours before six a.m., the bathrooms are more likely to be unoccupied. I also found that they’re kept surprisingly clean. Apparently, there’s a cardinal rule in place, one that’s tacked onto the walls of every communal bathroom in the building, to clean up after yourself and to use as many cleaning supplies while bordering on gas chamber-like hazardous.
I further shove away those constantly intruding thoughts of failure as I get ready and walk out of my apartment to the nearest subway station. I try everything to keep my spirits up rather than down on my twenty-minute commute, following my phone’s map app to the shoot location. I quietly mutter pep talk after pep talk, reminding myself I wasn’t picked randomly for this. I earned my spot here. I’m doing this for a reason. It isn’t about simply finding a job or making ends meet or even submitting an application to yet another job that fits my experience and credentials. It’s about choosing my future. One I get to live to the fullest instead of merely surviving.
Still, that self-instilled confidence wavers the second I arrive at the eerie, abandoned-looking warehouse-style building that houses my new place of work for the next three months. I carefully walk into the building, aware of my surroundings while attempting to maintain my composure. I press the button to the elevator and wait as the lights above it flash in sequence, indicating its descent onto the ground floor.
I hear the same doors I walked through open and shut behind me, followed by the small taps of footsteps. When I turn to my side, a woman looking around my age and dressed in the similar business casual attire I have on stands next to me. We make quick eye contact and press our lips together in a polite smile before facing the elevator in front of us. Our movements move in synchrony, and I would probably let out a small giggle at the coincidence of it if I weren’t so nervous.
“Are you here for the ad campaign with Elevate Media?” She tucks a lock of her jet-black hair behind her ear.
A soft and slightly relieved smile spreads across my face. “I am.”
Her smile mirrors mine, and she juts out a hand in my direction. “I’m Elaine.”
“Nice to meet you,” I answer, slipping my hand into hers with a firm yet friendly handshake. “Lucy. I’m actually an intern.”
“Oh! Me too!” she exclaims giddily. Her whole body slackens with a sigh of relief. “So are you from the area or…?” Her voice trails at the end as if treading cautiously with her question, unsure if it’s okay to prod deeper.
“I’m from Seattle,” I answer with an assuring smile. “I moved out here for the internship.”
She presses a hand into her chest. “San Diego.”
I nod, and she does too.
“Are you having trouble adjusting to the time difference? I didn’t get to sleep until after two. My body is definitely still on West Coast time.”
“It’s been a bit of an adjustment,” I answer, not necessarily a lie, but my lack of sleep had more to do with nerves rather than any form of jet lag.
The elevator arrives as our small talk dwindles down to comfortable smiles. We both enter, me following behind her as she presses the button to the fourth floor. We linger in silence, both fidgeting with our almost identical black camera bags slung over our shoulders and preparing ourselves for what’s behind the elevator doors. When the loud ding announces our arrival, we’re welcomed by the entire span of the fourth floor. And it’s huge. The shiny concrete glistens off the strategically placed panel lights hanging from the ceiling as people scurry through the space. Racks of clothing flit across the room, and urgent chatter fills the silence sitting between me and Elaine. I tug the strap of my camera bag up my shoulder, and we take another step into the room.
“Names?”
Our steps come to halt as a man with dark curly hair and wire-framed glasses, looking highly stressed and frazzled, approaches us. He holds a metal clipboard in front of him, and his eyes urge us to answer his question.
“Uh…Lucy Marquez,” I answer, a little thrown off with his abrasiveness.
“Elaine Cho,” Elaine answers, following me. We exchange a quick look of disquiet and unease.
The man runs his finger down the paper tucked into the clipboard and hums quietly as he scans over the list. “Ah! Interns. Okay,” he says, swiveling on his feet and looking at us over his shoulder. “We aren’t shooting anything today,” he calls, speed walking into the thick of the room. Elaine and I follow, trying to match his quick pace. “We’re actually spending the next week or two prepping, meeting with models, and reviewing set and prop designs.”
We finally stop at multiple racks of clothes lined up against an aesthetically pleasing brick wall sandwiched between two large pane windows. “We’re randomly assigning tasks to most of the interns. You two are going to go through these racks. Sort by pants, skirts, shirts, jackets, etcetera. And then line them up by color.”
Elaine and I shuffle closer to the racks.
“I’m assuming all of your paperwork was completed with HR via email?”
We both nod.
“You’ll fill out a time card at the end of the day.” He turns to leave before turning back to face us again. “And I’m Ryan, by the way. I’m the lead set manager. You’ll meet Ivy later. She’s the lead project manager for the whole ad campaign. You’ll mainly report to me or Ivy. If you need anything, just look for me for now. I’ll be around…there.” He points to the far end, where a desk sits with a scattering of papers and a lone laptop. “Or there,” he adds, gesturing vaguely in another direction. A small eye roll slips through his tense yet professional demeanor. “Hopefully you won’t need me.”
Elaine and I smile. “I think we’ve gotten enough work to fill the next few hours,” I say, attempting to assure him.
He nods quickly and scurries off.
Elaine and I eye each other, carefully setting our tote bags and camera bags on an armchair closest to the clothing racks.
“I guess this beats getting coffee,” I comment, squashing the assumption that that’s what I would spend the next three months doing. Doing grunt work like picking up dry cleaning for a high administrative person or making coffee runs throughout the day.
Elaine lets out a small laugh. “You think we’ll meet Kyle today?”
“Who?”
Elaine pops her head up from behind the rack she’s sifting through. “Kyle Viotto? He’s the artistic director handling the entire campaign. He’s the reason I signed up for this whole internship. Left my shitty retail job at H&M to do this.”
I smirk and jab my index finger to my chest. “Mr. Bean’s Coffee and Tea.”
Elaine laughs. “I guess we really had nothing to lose, huh?”
If only that were true. “So is this Kyle guy good?”
Her brows shoot up. “In the art world? He’s like Beyoncé. He knows his shit and makes no room for modesty. He pushes boundaries left and right. It’s probably why the ad agency contracted with Elevate just for this campaign.”
“Has he been with the agency long?” I ask, my voice hushed .
She shakes her head. “No way they could afford to keep him on their payroll. He only takes on freelance work through Elevate. Usually for big campaigns like this one.”
“Sounds pretty intimidating,” I respond, my gaze lingering on the racks in front of me with worry.
Elaine nods in silent agreement. “He has a lot of connections, and I’ve talked to a few people who have worked with him on other designer campaigns. He has a lot to show for his work. We’re going to get a lot out of this internship.”
That impending failure feeling returns, and I feel like the walls are closing in on me. The pressure starts to build, and the importance of this internship thickens right in front of me. I have to do well. I just have to. I can’t go back to job searches that skim the outer edges of my marketing experience and push more toward sales or dog walking or even another barista job.
“If we do well,” I counter.
“Yep,” Elaine shoots back. “Otherwise, it’s back to coffee and tea for you and ringing up hipsters looking for ripped jeans and neon-colored blazers for me.”
I brush off the reality of her statement with a loose chuckle. All while the fear of failure continues to brew and linger in my gut.