Page 134 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
After getting off at our stop, we walk the block to Valente together, still talking. Inside, before we go our separate ways, I ask, “Will I see you on the bus after work?”
“I hope. My arthritis is acting up.” She holds up her hands and curls and uncurls her fingers. “I may be late tonight.”
My questioning look prompts her to add quietly, “I have to do two hundred seams before leaving.”
Before I can respond, Julia waves goodbye and hurries away.
I’m not bouncing anymore. It sounds as though Julia has a quota to meet, but I thought Valente paid by the hour, not by finished piece. Piece work usually results in longer hours and lower pay. Plus, workers do the same thing over and over for the entire day, “piecing” together the same parts of a garment before handing it to the next person, assembly-line style, to do their part.
It’s mind-numbing work—from what I’ve heard—and a lot of designers I’ve studied don’t like it. At least the ones who want to honor and respect the entire production of their work, not just the finished garment. Which is the kind of designer I want to be, and the kind of designer I thought Luca Valente was.
The thought troubles me all the way to the sixth floor where the designers work, and where I’m faced with other worries. As soon as I cross the threshold into the office I share with the other three interns, an air of competition hits me with the force of a hot, dry wind.
Unlike Julia, who was warm and friendly the second I sat next to her, my coworkers are only vaguely polite as I cross theroom to my workstation. If today is similar to yesterday, there won’t be any connecting conversations, only clipped small talk.
We’ll all be applying for the same position at the end of this internship, so I guess it makes sense we’re not insta-besties. That fact doesn’t change the reality that I could use a friend.
But I’m determined to maintain my excitement about this internship despite the cold greetings from my co-interns. When the junior designer, Anna, hands out assignments, for the second day in a row, I’m given the most boring job of checking fabric samples for defects. I have a moment of panic that the six months ahead may be more drudgery than designing, but I quickly push it away. All I can do is my best work, every day. Someone will notice, I’m sure of it.
The day is long, and I check a lot of fabric samples. I also do a few administrative tasks, such as contacting material suppliers and re-checking the senior designers’ calendars to make sure they aren’t double-booked. They’re important tasks, but also things that could be done by someone who doesn’t have a bachelor’s degree in fashion from the top school in the U.S. And, when I finish the to-do list and the sample checking, I’m not given anything else to do. I sit.
This is all part of the learning process—I’m sure—but something isn’t right. I feel like a racehorse whose jockey spurs him out of the gate at full speed, only to yank him to a stop. Why would the recruiting designer fight to get me here, then give me nothing to do?
As the clock ticks closer to six pm, I occupy myself by making a mental list of questions I want to ask Anna—including those about the employees, like Julia, who do piece work. Not all at once, obviously. Maybe after I get to know her.
IfI can get to know her.
Other than to give us our assignments, Anna hasn’t said much to any of us, and her face is completely unreadable. I can’ttell if she’s bored or mad. She never smiles. But earlier today, when she opened the latest file of instructions from the higher-ups, she let out a frustrated huff that’s made me wonder if her experience isn’t syncing with her expectations either.
A little before six, while the other interns pack up their stuff, I take my time watching Anna from the corner of my eye. She has to be the last one out to lock up, so I don’t finish zipping my bag until they’ve gone. Anna waits by the door, her hand on the light switch, an annoyed expression on her face.
“Sorry, I made you wait,” I say as I walk out the door. “I’ll hold the elevator while you lock up.”
“Thanks,” she says in a flat, tired voice.
After locking the door to our office, Anna follows me into the elevator. My gaze follows Anna’s to the numbers above the door as they light up at each floor. We’re at three when I finally open my mouth to ask her my question.
Anna, however, is the first to speak. “Your work is good,” she says. The corner of her lip curls upward in what could be a smile if she let it continue.
“Thank you. It’s not that hard to separate fabric or re-check calendars.” I force a laugh to hide my nervousness.
She huffs a laugh but doesn’t respond directly.
“How long have you worked at Valente?” I ask.
“Almost a year.” She grips her tote with both hands, her face as unreadable as ever.
“Do you enjoy it?” I wait behind her as the doors open, then follow her off.
Anna doesn’t answer immediately, and I debate whether I should keep following her and ask again or let us both pretend she didn’t hear me.
But then, she leans closer and whispers, “Sometimes,” before striding away in the direction opposite the way I need to go. “Be careful who you show your work to.”
I watch her walk to the parking lot—I don’t like her answer.
After my unusually long bus ride home that, fortunately, didn’t include any DJ’s or creepers, even though there was also no Julia to save me from them, I walk into the beach house fighting a smile just in case Archie is waiting for me, knowing I won’t be able to keep from grinning if he is.
Or, more likely, laughing.
