Page 16 of No Place Like You

Once Horace closes the door behind him, I’m left all alone in ninety-five square feet of living space.

I close my eyes and take in a long, cleansing breath. “This is only temporary,” I whisper to myself. At least the place is furnished. Although, I don’t know if a single hot plate and a mini fridge the size of a plastic crate would count as “furnished.”

I unzip my suitcase, searching for the set of sheets I packed while inwardly thanking my past self for thinking long enough to pack essential linens. I spend the next hour settling in as best as I can. Tucking away my clothes in the closet, finding a safe spot for my electronics such as my MacBook and camera bag, and ending the hour realizing how badly I need to leave my apartment to stock up on household items.

After a quick Google search for the nearest Duane Reade, I gather my purse and sling it over my shoulder before grabbing my keys and walking out the door. I lock up with a tough jiggle, the door feeling a little loose even with the dead bolt in place, and hurry down the stairs.

“Lucia.” I whip my head around right as I open the door to the building. I turn to see Gary stalking toward me with a small smirk. “You’re still in one piece.”

“It’s Lucy,” I correct, my hand still on the door, holding it open as I lean toward the outside air.

“My apologies,” he drawls. “Lucy.”

I smile politely, though awkwardly forced, before walking away.

“I’m Gary,” he calls after me. “I’m in apartment nineteen if you ever need company.”

I don’t look back or offer my apartment number in exchange, merely waving a hand in the air while I continue down the small flight of steps. Taylor Swift’s “Welcome to New York” starts playing in a loop in my head, causing me to hum lightly while I resist the urge to skip through the crowded sidewalks of Brooklyn.

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 tightyoga 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 Ihave 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 flitacross 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?”

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