11. Piper #2
I avert my gaze from the mess and go to the cabinet where I found coffee beans yesterday. But they're not there.
I search all the cabinets, with no luck, until I see ground beans spilled around the espresso maker tucked in the corner. Archie’s left a mess there too, and, apparently, taken the last of the coffee. Even though I remember the bag being pretty full yesterday.
I slam the cabinets shut, not even trying to be quiet, give up on coffee, and go upstairs to take a shower.
An hour later, I come back downstairs, wearing my favorite outfit and find Archie at the kitchen table, sipping from a steaming mug.
The scent of the coffee wafts across the kitchen—as only a good roast can—almost masking the stink of burned popcorn.
The aroma is strong enough to make me crave my own cup even more, but not quite strong enough to wake me up.
Archie sips loudly, and I glance around the kitchen to see if, by chance, there’s another cup for me. I don't see anything.
Holding back a sigh, I ask, "Is there any coffee left, or should I pick some up today?"
He peels his eyes away from his phone long enough to look down at his cup, as though it suddenly appeared there on its own, then looks at me.
"Sorry. I didn't think you'd want any. But if you want to pick up a bag, that'd be gnarly.
Frothed is only a few kilometers away and has the best brews.
You tell them you know me, and they'll give it to you at a discount. "
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I stare at the coffee cup Archie sips from. “But unless it’s on the bus route to and from Valente, I probably won’t make it. Where's the closest grocery store? I'll stop there on my way home tonight.”
An expression of surprise—or maybe remembering—skitters across his face before he pushes himself up from the table. “Forgot you don’t have a car. There’s a Seven-Eleven a couple blocks south, on the main road.”
He avoids my eyes as he opens the pantry next to me and takes out a box of cereal, which he shakes up and down. “You want some?”
“Lucky Charms?” I say slowly, just to make sure Archie—a grown man—is seriously offering me a leprechaun’s cereal.
“Yeah. They’re magically delicious,” he says in an Irish brogue before shaking the box again.
I swallow the laugh attempting to escape and check my watch. I’m already running late. I don’t have time for an adult breakfast, or much desire for one that doesn’t include coffee. A kid’s breakfast is better than no breakfast, especially when I don’t know what my lunch break will be like.
“Sure…thanks.”
“You want me to make it for you?”
“Please.” I brush aside the suspicion that arises with his offer. I’m too tired to say no.
While Archie pours his own cereal and milk, I pack my satchel with my laptop and the salad I made last night for today’s lunch.
In the one minute it takes me to organize everything neatly in my bag, Archie spills both cereal and milk on the counter.
He hands me a bowl that’s filled to the brim with milk that’s already turning rainbow colored from the marshmallows.
My eyes dart from the bowl to the counter and the mess Archie is walking away from.
“Were the bowls moving targets?” I follow him carefully to the table, resisting the urge—again—to play maid before starting my first day of work.
“Huh?” His eyebrows pull together in confusion, and I point to the aftermath of his “cooking” adventures. “Oh. Yeah. I’ll take care of it in a bit.”
I stuff a spoonful of too many marshmallows and not enough whole-grain goodness in my mouth to keep from asking how long “a bit” will be or if I can expect any alarms to go off while I’m eating.
Archie looks at his phone, and I stare out the back door toward the waves lapping the sand. Except for Archie’s slurping and loud chewing, we eat in uncomfortable silence until I might crawl out of my skin if he sucks his brekkie off his spoon one more time.
I carry my bowl to the sink where I pour the unfinished half of my cereal down the drain.
I spray the remnants of milk and marshmallows into the disposal before turning it on long enough for it to grind up not only my breakfast, but also anything that may be hiding in there.
Archie likely doesn’t realize the garbage disposal is a thing.
It falls into the water heater category of things that simply exist to make his life more comfortable, even if he’s oblivious to them.
After making a big show of putting my bowl into the dishwasher, so maybe Archie will catch on that he has both an appliance to make water hot and another one that will wash his dishes, I sling my bag over my shoulder.
“I’m off to my internship,” I say, suddenly needing some encouragement. This internship is a big deal. If Mom were here, she’d have taken me out for coffee and breakfast. I guess I’m a little lonely for her.
I move slowly, on the off-chance Archie might want to say something. Good luck… Go get ‘em… You’ve got this . Anything to settle my nerves.
His gaze stays fixed on his phone.
I’m almost to the front door when he yells, “Have fun!”
Not quite what I was looking for, but I’ll take it.
Except, the next ten hours are definitely not fun.
Unless someone’s idea of fun includes riding on a too-crowded bus that breaks down three miles before her destination.
In which case, she gets to debate whether it will be faster to walk those three miles in heels that were not made for walking more than three feet at a time, let alone three miles; wait for the replacement bus to show up; or fork out money she doesn’t have for an Uber during surge pricing.
The answer is, it would have been faster to take off the stupid shoes and walk.
More dangerous, yes, since those miles include the El Segundo freeway, which—like most of LA—is not walkable.
But I should have done it anyway instead of showing up at exactly seven-fifty-nine on the replacement bus that took forever.
Some people might believe that’s on time. Some might even think of it as early. But, the thing is…those people are slackers.
Just ask my Valente’s HR manager, Tanesha, who was quick to point out that, as an intern, if I don’t show up fifteen minutes early, I’m late.
I open my mouth to tell her how right she is and that we’re probably soul sisters, but her withering look not only shuts my mouth but erases any illusions about the two of us having anything beyond a commitment to punctuality in common.
Does that sound fun?
Compared to the rest of my day, it was a trip to Disneyland.
There are two types of designers, and I’ve learned from and worked with both. The first is the kind who wants to collaborate, trading ideas and tips, while also not trying to step on people’s creative toes. They respect ownership and encourage one another’s successes.
Then there’s the second kind. Cliquey, protective, suspicious, and mean.
Guess which type I find at Valente?
I don’t believe either type is actually born that way.
They’re created in whatever work environment they’re part of.
But the fashion world isn’t especially big at Valente’s level of both luxury and ready-to-wear.
That means designers are tight-lipped about what it’s like to work at the big fashion houses.
Not only because some of the biggest brands are owned by one conglomerate, but also because no one wants to be blacklisted from working at other houses if things go sideways where they’re at right now.
So, even though I did plenty of research about Valente before applying for the internship, I couldn’t dig up much about the company culture.
Honestly, even if I’d known it was the cliquey type, I wouldn’t have turned down this opportunity.
If I do well here, I can work anywhere. I just have to keep my head down and do my best for the next six months.
Once the senior designers realize that I can be trusted and that I’m really good at what I do, I’ll find opportunities to show them my designs.
It's just after seven p.m. when I get on the bus toward the beach house. I keep my head down the entire ride home, mostly because I’m too tired to keep it up, but also because, apparently, more men than women ride the bus after the sun goes down. And not the sweet, romantic kind of men.
Nope, these guys are big and sweaty. Some of them reek of beer or weed, and I don’t want to sit next to any of them.
I put my bag on the seat next to me, but that doesn’t stop a guy with too many gold chains and even more Axe body spray from asking to sit.
There are empty seats at the back of the bus, but he’s holding up the line of people behind him, so I nod and pull my purse into my lap.
New Yorkers are friendlier than they’re given credit for, and the friendliest thing they do is not strike up conversations with strangers on public transportation.
LA is a different story. For the next thirty minutes, I listen to DJ Risky tell me how he got started in the music industry (he found an old turntable at a garage sale), how many gigs he’s played (five—not including his cousin’s bar mitzvah), and where he’ll be playing this weekend.
He doesn’t give off creeper vibes—despite the overabundance of body spray that makes my eyes water—but I’m tired, hungry, and have no cares left to give when it comes to pretending to enjoy this conversation.
I stand as we approach my stop, and he hurries to invite me to his upcoming gig. I politely decline, then literally jump off the bus as the doors open.
I walk quickly to the house, which is a few blocks from the stop, stopping at the 7-11 on the way for a cheap can of coffee.
My feet are killing me after the day I’ve had, and all I want to do is eat something yummy and process the day with someone.
I’ll talk to anyone, even Archie, as long as there’s no talk of turntables.
But the house is dark and empty when I let myself in the front door via the code Sybil sent last week when I thought I’d have the house all to myself. I call Archie’s name, just in case he’s there in a towel or something equally awkward—although I have no idea what that might be.
When there’s no answer, I flip on the lights in the kitchen.
If I thought things would be more “fun” when I got home, Archie’s mess from last night, in addition to the spilled milk and cereal from this morning, erases that idea. As do the milk-crusted bowl and spoon still on the table.
I don’t want to clean up Archie’s mess, but I have to use every bit of willpower not to do it. If he’d made even a little effort—put his bowl in the dishwasher, or even his spoon—I’d take the time to make this kitchen look as spotless as it should. But his messes feel purposeful.
Add the alarm and the missing coffee this morning, and he’s definitely messing with me.
Any guilt I felt at my pranks yesterday disappears, now that I can focus on what he’s done.
..and not done. I didn’t mess with his first day of work.
I didn’t do anything that could affect his career, such as it is, and I’ve cleaned up after him every day since I got here.
Instead of playing his game and cleaning the kitchen, I grab a yogurt and an apple, then head to my bedroom to eat dinner alone and plan my next move.
Game on, Archibald Forsythe. Game. On .