Somehow I manage to get up before my last snooze alarm goes off, and I take a cold shower. Literally. Some days I feel it’s the only way to really wake up and knock some sense into myself, which means I’m subjected to freezing cold water at least a couple of times a week. It’s no secret that I’m, how does my mom put it, a “fanciful girl,” and that I need to regroup my thoughts from time to time. Also, it makes your hair extra shiny.
Afterward, I decide to take some extra care with my appearance to make up for looking like crap last night, and I drive to the office just before I can get reamed out for being late.
Not that my boss, Lucy, would ever yell at me, even though I’m late constantly. She doesn’t really say anything half the time, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. No criticism, but no praise, either.
When I first graduated university, I had all these grand ambitions. I mean, who didn’t? I thought I was going to waltz out of school and straight into an amazing new career. Bram hadn’t been too far off with his presumption that I could write. In school, my major was in journalism, with a minor in advertising. Both of those careers seemed to appeal to the two different sides of me—one visual, one internal. Both creative.
But the world was a cruel bitch, and the job market was flooded with thousands of naïve dreamers like myself. I was lucky as hell that, after interning on the production side of things at the Bay Area Weekly, a position opened up. I was an assistant to retail and classifieds advertising. I worked three long years, taking any shifts possible, under two different bosses, until finally I was able to move on up. I took over the classified’s account, then eventually the retail account.
It’s an okay job. Nothing exciting whatsoever, which I guess makes it less than okay. But from the point of view of someone who just wants a job for the sake of having a job, I’m doing all right. Since I’ve worked there so long I have full benefits, three weeks’ vacation a year, and a paycheck that allows me to pay rent in San Francisco, which is a miracle on its own.
But it’s not what I want to be doing with my life, even though I haven’t really allowed myself to dream about that. I mean, I’m thirty. I know I’m immature as anything, but even so, I should have that shit figured out already. Hell, I thought I would have a lot of things figured out by this point.
Steph and Nicola had it easy in a way. Both of them knew they wanted to work in fashion, and though they’ve had to jump through hoops to get where they are, they made it work. Stephanie owns her own successful clothing store and Nicola, even though she’s still working as a bartender, is branching out with her own designs.
Then there is me, who wants to help and create and express, but isn’t sure how. All I know is that working from nine to five in something I don’t care about is creating an even bigger void in my heart. When I’ve complained about this to my friends, they both tell me to take the leap and find out what I want to do. When I complain to my mother or brothers, they tell me I should be grateful to have the job I have, to be able to pay rent and put food on the table. The problem is, in this scenario, everyone is right.
I will say, ever since Bram brought up the whole interview feature piece thing that he propositioned me with, something inside of me has been waking up, like a dormant volcano. At first I thought it was because I was also thinking of erotic scenarios involving Lachlan, but now I realize that it’s because I’m imagining what it would be like to write something. See my name in print. Have my words seen. Make a difference in people’s lives in one way or another.
So while I’m sitting at my desk, twirling my ponytail around my pen, and pretending to read emails, I’m really wondering what it would be like to sit in the open offices across the hall, where all the writers are, pursuing something with passion.
I look at Candace, the ambitious assistant that I share with classifieds girl, and tell her I’ll be right back. I gather up my courage and head down the hall to my boss’s office. My courage isn’t for her, it’s for who I know I’ll have to talk to after.
Her glass door is open so I knock on it lightly. “Lucy?” I say, and open it to see her peering at me over the top of her computer through her large glasses.
“Hey Kayla,” she says. “What’s up? How was Margarita Monday?”
“Didn’t happen,” I say. “Just went to the usual bar for a bit.” I’ve become somewhat known for Margarita Mondays. I don’t even like the taste of tequila all that much, but I love fruity cocktails and Mexican food, so for the last few years, I’ve been going out every Monday to a Mexican restaurant. Sometimes Steph and Nicola go with me, sometimes people from work, sometimes a guy I’m screwing. But obviously since I made the decision to abstain from dick, I haven’t been out lately.
“Listen,” I continue. “I have a friend who has this apartment complex in SOMA and he’s renting the units out to people in need. You know, affordable housing. But he’s fronting the bill all himself because he can’t get any investors. I think he just needs a bit of extra help. I was wondering if maybe someone, one of the writers, would be able to write about it. Give it some publicity. It’s a worthy cause and I think it’s something the city really needs.”
Lucy shrugs. “I’d help if I could. Unless he wants to put in an ad. You’ll have to ask Joe. Maybe he can find someone.” She shoots me a quick smile. “That’s really nice of you to want to help the cause.”