9
Trevor is working. Hard.
The atmosphere in the office is so different, I hardly recognize it from last week. Even the non-interns are acting stiff and wary, like they’re anticipating a great, scary thing to happen. The front receptionist’s smile looks pasted on, a mask. Even the sound of the wizards typing at the cubicles is reluctant, like they’re afraid to disturb someone’s nap. The break room is spotless, free of any stray Tupperware containers or crumpled-up napkins.
I spend my first few hours organizing folders, as per my cold, rigid supervisor Rebekah’s orders. She seems utterly unchanged, assigning each of us our tasks and then disappearing to her office to “take a call” every five minutes.
When it’s noon and I’m taking a quick fifteen in the break room, there’s still been no sign of Mr. Gage. Three employees are gathered at the counter by the fridge whispering to each other. I pick up a few of their words as I eat one half of the peanut butter and honey sandwich I’d made myself at Elijah’s.
“He is totally here,” the dimply redhead tells the two guys whose names I confuse—Brady or Brandon or whoever. “He’s just in his office dealing with that one client from New Jersey we keep having to redo paperwork for. The punk singer.”
“No, no. His office has been dark all morning,” insists the handsome one with the beard. “He’s not even here. If he comes in, he might just—”
“I’m the one Rebekah keeps handing the Lynette Torrington files to,” asserts the third, the annoyingly hot one who replaced the toner into the copier for me on my first day. “She whispered to me that one summer, Mr. Gage actually used a couple interns as personal assistants during a tough time with a client whose image was going to shit. It was his worst client ever.”
“You mean that young homophobic politician and his ‘tryst’ in a public bathroom with an underage boy a couple years back?”
“Anyway,” the third one goes on, not answering, “I’m certain that Lynette—from what I’ve read and researched—might be his big problem this year. I can just feel it.”
“Oh, I see. You think you’re gonna become Mr. Gage’s little pet protégé and reap all the glittery benefits,” sasses the redhead, turning his nose up. “Well, why don’t you tell us what wonderful successes those quote ‘personal assistants’ unquote are up to today after their time with Mr. Gage years ago? You think they’re making six figures with their own firms? Or maybe I should go check the local fast food joints to see which of them has been promoted to manager yet, or if they’re still nuking french fries and frozen fish patties.”
“No shame in working in fast food,” quietly mutters the other blond, the bearded one. “That was my job all through high school. Learned a lot. Manager was a dick, though.”
The other two give him one look, then roll their eyes. “You can flash your Lynette files in his face all you want, Brady,” the redhead tells the cocky one, “but in the end, we’re all just peons in a big office soup. You’d be lucky if you’re just standing in the back of a conference room filled with sixty-six other wannabes, all their heads blocking the dry erase board on which Mr. Gage writes.”
The one named Brady, king of toner, leans toward him. “I’ll be in the front of that room, Jimmy, guaranteed. I’ll be the one whose name he actually remembers after this shit summer. I’ll be the one he calls up when there’s a client in need of someone reliable and smart. I’ll be the one who brings the bacon, boys.”
Satisfied with himself, Brady smooths out his tie, deposits the trash from his lunch into a waste bin, then saunters out of the room. He pays me as much mind as a breadcrumb when he passes.
The redhead Jimmy and the bearded hottie Brandon look at one another. “More like he’ll bring the Starbucks order,” mumbles Jimmy, and the two of them share a laugh.
As for my face, it’s straight and unsmiling as steel. I’m focused on finishing my sandwich so I can get back on the floor, because when Mr. Gage comes in, I want him to see me busy. I want him to see me dirty with my efforts. I want him to see me hard at work.
“I need six copies of this program for Mr. Gage’s conference meeting,” Rebekah instructs me ten minutes later.
I accept the sheet of paper from her and head for the copier. Once I insert it in, tap the “6”, then push the red button, I wait as the machine gently hums. One copy, two copies, three, four, five …
Then it stops. No sixth copy.
Shit.
And right then: “Mr. Gage is here,” hisses a lady nearby to a dude buried in the files, who perks up at the words like a deer in the filing cabinet forest. “He’s just come in. He’s here.”
Crap. And I’m stuck waiting on the sixth copy to spit out of this machine instead of preparing myself to meet the boss. I set my jaw and examine the copier, only to find the screen blinking at me: a dildo-shaped icon. Toner.
I won’t let this thwart me.
I move to the shelf right by the copier and produce a new box of toner, then set it down on the long table by the copier with the cutting board. With the finesse of a skilled technician, I pop open the front of the machine—per Brady’s example a week ago—and then pull on the old toner.
And it’s stuck.
I don’t scowl. I don’t grunt. I don’t let out an under-the-breath expletive. Instead, I calmly pull harder in an attempt to free the old toner. Still stuck. I pull harder yet. Still stuck.
“Dude,” comes the voice of Elijah off to my side. “Boss man’s here. Interns are gathering at the table to meet him. Like, legit! Rebekah is even going to introduce us all.”
I answer him in a calm, not-freaked-out, totally-got-my-shit-together voice. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Drop all of this and come, dude. He’ll be there in seconds, and if you’re not—”
I give the toner another tug. Nothing. “Just go, Elijah.” My tone is sweet and patient. “I’m making these copies for him.”
“Alright, bro!” And he’s gone.
I peer into the machine to see if there’s some kind of latch or something. Nothing. I clench my teeth one last time and pull hard, then harder, then even harder.
And it finally comes free—along with a thick cloud of inky, black toner all over me.
With the burden of a clock counting down, I ignore the mess and shove the new toner in its place, then slap the machine closed and let it finish its job. Swiping the six copies and the original from the machine, I hurry off in the direction of the long table toward the backs of all my fellow interns. Rebekah’s nasally voice is introducing us one by one to Mr. Gage, whose squared shoulders in a tight black blazer are all I see through the crowd.
“And where is he?” comes Rebekah’s voice. “He has the copies of the programs.”
“Here, ma’am!” I call out, slipping through the crowd. “I have them right—!”
My foot catches the edge of the table leg just as I come out from between two blonds. My tripped-up footing turns into something of a sad, awkward tap dance as I, for one glorious second, truly believe I can save myself from falling.
The maneuver swiftly becomes an Olympic dive into the swimming pool of grey-white tile right in front of everyone.
The six copies fly into the air like unfolded paper pigeons.
When I open my eyes, I’m staring at the shiny dress shoes of Mr. Gage, who looms over me.
“S-Sorry. I’m sorry.” I climb to my feet and brush myself off, only to discover that the little “cloud of toner” at the copier was more like a detonation of darkness all down the front of my shirt and slate pants. I look like I wrestled with an octopus and lost.
“That was quite an entrance,” states Mr. Gage. “And you are?”
I look up, prepared to introduce myself.
Then I freeze.
His beautiful eyes meet mine, then turn to stone as recognition dawns in them.