website.”
“But…”
“Cut it. With a five hundred dollar bonus for the web ad.”
“A bonus.” Brian’s mood threatened to swing back, but one warning look cowed him. “I…I thought she said she’d do the ad for free.”
“I don’t care.”
Evicted. She was being threatened with eviction. All I had these days were the few times I allowed himself to check on her from my bedroom window. Usually her drapes were pulled, but sometimes she’d leave them half open and I could see her moving around inside, carrying a mug of coffee from the kitchen to her desk in nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Mine, probably. Maybe. I hoped.
And if I couldn’t have those moments anymore, if she were gone entirely…
“Cut her the check. Make sure she gets it this week. And get us some goddamned rum.”
SIX
Within the first five minutes at Midtown Edge, the photog editor sent me to fetch coffee from a place four blogs away. Half an hour later he escorted me to my new desk, which was actually someone’s old dining room table painted cobalt blue. My territory measured the size of my laptop, with invading armies of newspapers and old coffee cups encroaching from all sides. There was one other unmanned laptop across from me and three young men at the other end of the table ignoring me to death.
My boss, an aging woman named Isabelle, had clearly once upon a time been totally punk rock but had sold out to her corporate master long ago and now sported terse disapproval as well as old tattoos peeking out around her pressed button down blouse. I didn’t even own a shirt with buttons, let alone an actual iron with which to press it.
Isabelle explained that I received two fifteen minute breaks and a thirty minute lunch, but the bosses appreciated employees who took them at their desk while they worked, which seemed pretty much the opposite of taking a break. And also a little bit illegal. Working for myself had always afforded me as many breaks and lunches as I wanted, in my pajamas, at any time of the day or night. This felt suffocating and weird and I had no idea how the majority of people on the planet did it every day.
Amongst my daily chores, I was expected to fetch coffee when asked, fix the copier when it jammed, and make all deadlines or die. Personal phone calls and email were strictly prohibited. While I may have been very talented in college, Isabelle explained, I should feel free to keep any creative ideas to myself because there were more important people paid a lot more money to think for the magazine. I was not, and never would be, one of those people.
My one and only serious job was to arrange the personals section and layout the ads for those pages only. That was it. All my experience, all my talent, all my schooling came down to putting little blocks of text in straight lines. A monkey could have done this job, but instead they had me, their very own blonde and pink haired monkey. Sometimes, if I was very lucky, they’d send me things to edit but I was by no means allowed to embellish or add my own spin to anything.
On the bright side, my desk faced a bank of windows that overlooked the swankier part of South River. I’d never seen my home from this high up and despite its rough edges, the old town was actually kind of beautiful from here. For the next hour I stared out those windows and wondered where I’d gone wrong with my dreams.
I wasn’t stupid. I understood that you had to work hard to get to where you wanted to be. And to buy food. I understood that most of my classmates had abandoned art almost immediately after graduation to work in insurance or wait tables or pretty much anything that paid. But I loved art. I had no dreams of showing up in galleries and hobnobbing with people willing to plunk down serious cash for something they’d hang in their hallway. What I really loved was building vector art and messing with old school printmaking tools. I loved looking at a
“But…”
“Cut it. With a five hundred dollar bonus for the web ad.”
“A bonus.” Brian’s mood threatened to swing back, but one warning look cowed him. “I…I thought she said she’d do the ad for free.”
“I don’t care.”
Evicted. She was being threatened with eviction. All I had these days were the few times I allowed himself to check on her from my bedroom window. Usually her drapes were pulled, but sometimes she’d leave them half open and I could see her moving around inside, carrying a mug of coffee from the kitchen to her desk in nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Mine, probably. Maybe. I hoped.
And if I couldn’t have those moments anymore, if she were gone entirely…
“Cut her the check. Make sure she gets it this week. And get us some goddamned rum.”
SIX
Within the first five minutes at Midtown Edge, the photog editor sent me to fetch coffee from a place four blogs away. Half an hour later he escorted me to my new desk, which was actually someone’s old dining room table painted cobalt blue. My territory measured the size of my laptop, with invading armies of newspapers and old coffee cups encroaching from all sides. There was one other unmanned laptop across from me and three young men at the other end of the table ignoring me to death.
My boss, an aging woman named Isabelle, had clearly once upon a time been totally punk rock but had sold out to her corporate master long ago and now sported terse disapproval as well as old tattoos peeking out around her pressed button down blouse. I didn’t even own a shirt with buttons, let alone an actual iron with which to press it.
Isabelle explained that I received two fifteen minute breaks and a thirty minute lunch, but the bosses appreciated employees who took them at their desk while they worked, which seemed pretty much the opposite of taking a break. And also a little bit illegal. Working for myself had always afforded me as many breaks and lunches as I wanted, in my pajamas, at any time of the day or night. This felt suffocating and weird and I had no idea how the majority of people on the planet did it every day.
Amongst my daily chores, I was expected to fetch coffee when asked, fix the copier when it jammed, and make all deadlines or die. Personal phone calls and email were strictly prohibited. While I may have been very talented in college, Isabelle explained, I should feel free to keep any creative ideas to myself because there were more important people paid a lot more money to think for the magazine. I was not, and never would be, one of those people.
My one and only serious job was to arrange the personals section and layout the ads for those pages only. That was it. All my experience, all my talent, all my schooling came down to putting little blocks of text in straight lines. A monkey could have done this job, but instead they had me, their very own blonde and pink haired monkey. Sometimes, if I was very lucky, they’d send me things to edit but I was by no means allowed to embellish or add my own spin to anything.
On the bright side, my desk faced a bank of windows that overlooked the swankier part of South River. I’d never seen my home from this high up and despite its rough edges, the old town was actually kind of beautiful from here. For the next hour I stared out those windows and wondered where I’d gone wrong with my dreams.
I wasn’t stupid. I understood that you had to work hard to get to where you wanted to be. And to buy food. I understood that most of my classmates had abandoned art almost immediately after graduation to work in insurance or wait tables or pretty much anything that paid. But I loved art. I had no dreams of showing up in galleries and hobnobbing with people willing to plunk down serious cash for something they’d hang in their hallway. What I really loved was building vector art and messing with old school printmaking tools. I loved looking at a
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