Page 30 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
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 hisbrekkieoff 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 werenotmade 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—isnotwalkable. 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 cliqueytype, 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 isnotstrike 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.
