Chapter Twenty-Seven
Josephine
I’ll be honest, I’d assumed the job Beth had secured for me would involve being a high class call girl…or at the very least a low class call girl, based on the stinginess she displayed with my dresses.
Luckily for me, the job ended up being much, much cooler than expected, and bonus: I got to wear normal non-stripper clothes. Albeit, a pair of black pants and a t-shirt wasn’t high couture, but for two weeks, I’d get to be behind the scenes of New York Fashion Week. I’d get to be up close and personal with all the top models, designers, and bloggers.
The only problem? I’d be holding a broom or a mop at all times.
Yup. That’s right. Josie Keller would henceforth be known as Night Janitor. Jealous yet?
For ten days, I’d have to bolt from Julian’s hotel at 5:00 PM on the dot and book it to Lincoln Center. I’d have to sneak in the back doors with the rest of the event staff and change into my alter ego, Clark Kent style. There was a small locker room for staff where I’d kick off my heels and slip into converse, slide on a black hat with “NYFW STAFF” embroidered across the front, and grab the broom least likely to break on me.
The pay was terrible, but I didn’t care. I could use the extra money while I continued to hunt for a more permanent night job. I saved every penny I earned except for the $5 I used to splurge on a fresh green smoothie every afternoon on the way from Julian’s hotel to Lincoln Center. (And by green juice, I of course mean chocolate cupcake.)
“Ladies! Ladies, line up, the show is starting in ten minutes!” a stagehand clapped her hands, trying to get everyone’s attention—a nearly impossible feat.
I paused my sweeping and stepped to the back of the room to give the models space to run around me. It was only my fourth day on the job and I’d already learned a lot. No matter how organized the event coordinators thought they were, there was always a mad rush ten minutes before the fashion shows started. Fake eyelashes, sticky boob tape, hairspray bottles, high heels—all flying in the air, trying to find their final destination. I’d been hit in the head by enough bras on my first day to realize that I needed to stay as far away from the madness as possible.
And yet, I still loved every second of it.
I watched a designer waltz through the room with her nostrils flaring. She paused in the center, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled at the top of her lungs.
“Models. Get in line now, or I’m going to rip your hair extensions out. So help me god!”
Some of the designers were a tad more pleasant than others…
“You!” a stagehand pointed at me and then waved her hand at the row of salon chairs near the back wall. There was a mess of hair scattered across the floor beneath the chairs. Minutes earlier, a team of stylists had chopped away at extensions to give all the models a similar hairstyle. “Can you pah-lease sweep all that up already? I nearly broke my neck a second ago.”
I nodded and jumped into action, pushing my broom out in front of me. I worked quickly to push the multicolored hair into a neat pile, working my magic on the mess. Unfortunately, just as I was about to sweep the first pile up into my dustpan, a model shoved past me on her way to the runway and scattered the hair in every direction. She’d been a force of nature on my small hair mountain.
“Dammit,” I hissed as the model waltzed off without a care in the world.
She hadn’t even noticed.
I had the least glamorous job in the most glamorous setting and I was still having trouble wrapping my head around that fact. At times, I got swept up in the excitement of the shows, as if I was somehow a part of them.
After I’d collected all of the hair once again, I swept it into the nearest trashcan and then tried to finish off the rest of my duties as quickly as possible. The sooner I finished, the sooner I could peer out and catch a glimpse at the finale of the show—when all the models paraded down the runway one after another with their dazzling gowns and gorgeous faces. Every time I snuck a glimpse at a fashion show from behind the scenes, I wanted to pinch myself.
Next season’s trends were right at the tips of my fingers. Granted, my fingers were sticky and gripping an old broom, but still, it was the closest I’d ever been to my dream world.
I wanted to share my experience on What Jo Wore, but I couldn’t figure out how to share details without admitting to my readers how I was actually getting my behind-the-scenes look. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Just a few months ago, I’d attended a major fashion gala. The glamorous people from that night were out in the front rows of all the NYFW fashion shows, and where was I? Sweeping up hair.
I found a tiny gap in the curtain off the side of the room and pulled it to the side just a centimeter. I peeked through and held my breath, completely in awe of the show. Strobe lights danced overhead, illuminating each model as they strutted down the runway.
I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and snapped a quick picture so I could send it to Lily.
Josephine: This is my current view.
I clutched my broom and peeked back through the slit in the curtain. The show was in full swing and the photographers at the end of the runway were firing away, snapping hundreds of photos per minute.
I glanced back to my phone after it buzzed.
Lily: What is that? It looks like a cat wearing a top hat.
I smiled.
Josephine: Put your glasses on. It’s a fashion show. You can’t really see it because the lights are dimmed.
Lily: Hmm, I still see a cat.
Josephine: It’s not. You’re blind. Go see a doctor.
Lily: How’d you get invited to a fashion show?
Josephine: Turns out that janitors get backstage passes.
Lily: Oh yeah, I forgot about that job.
Josephine: It’s still pretty cool though, I must admit.
Lily: Any hot dudes?
Josephine: Just skinny bitches.
Lily: And yet you want me to move there.
Josephine: YES. Gotta go. They’re all coming back.
I pocketed my phone and rushed back to work. The shows weren’t very long—fifteen, twenty minutes at most. I could usually manage to watch at least five minutes of them before someone noticed.
Once the mess of hair was swept up near the back wall, I went back to my list of duties I had to get done every night. If the models didn’t come back and trash the place after the show, I could usually get my work done in about an hour after the show was finished.
That night, I wasn’t quite so lucky. The makeup artists had used some kind of glitter eye shadow on each of the twenty-four models. That meant there were twenty-four sets of eyes that left the entire floor of the backstage a glittery mess.
C’est la vie.
…
The next morning, I found myself fighting with my eyes to stay awake. I sipped on my third cup of coffee and stared at the email I’d opened ten minutes earlier. It still sat completely blank as the blinking cursor taunted me. I was supposed to draft an email to a general contractor to set up an initial meeting between him and Julian. What had I done? Tried really, really hard not to fall asleep with my eyes open.
“How’s it going, champ?” Julian asked.
I blinked and glanced up to see him watching me with a private smile. Clearly, my lack of typing had alerted him that something was off.
“Do you think they’ve come up with an IV hookup for caffeine yet?” I asked, tapping the inside of my elbow like a junky.
He laughed. “Why are you so tired? Have you been going out without me?”
I yawned and then blinked my eyes a few times, willing away the tiny barbells pulling them down.
“I wish,” I said with only a slight layer of bitterness.
I hadn’t left Lincoln Center until 1:00 AM the night before. The janitor who was supposed to clean the front of the house had bailed and I’d offered to stay and help with the cleanup. The extra hours of minimum wage pay were hardly worth the ache in my back this morning, and best of all, I had to go back that night. Yippee.
“You look pitiful,” Julian said, drawing my attention back to his lazy smile. He’d dressed down for work that day, foregoing shoes for bare feet. He had on dark jeans and a white button-up. His hair was still styled impeccably, split to the side and combed away from his face. Just a little bit of pomade held the dark locks in place all day. Not that I paid attention or anything. I mean, the man looked edible even on an off day, but right now? All I wanted was my bed and an extra day in the week called LetJosephineSleepday. It’d come between Wednesday and FreeDonutday. (These days would be added if I were President. Just saying.)
“All right, get up. This is unacceptable,” he said, setting his laptop down on the couch beside him and standing up.
“No! Don’t fire me. Look, I’m typing right now.” I started kneading my keyboard with balled up fists, creating gibberish sentences that read something like: ERhwerjkhwejkrhkejryy.
Julian shook his head and held his hand out for me to take.
“I’m not firing you. Why would I fire you?”
“Because I won’t let you sleep with me,” I answered, shrugging.
He pinched his eyes closed, clearly trying to keep from laughing.
“Yeah, well. I can’t exactly fire you for that.”
“Look Julian, I like you a lot. I think that's pretty obvious to both of us. I just have a lot riding on this one opportunity, whereas if things don't work out between us, you just have to post another ad on the Internet to replace me.”
"Josephine, it's not l—"
"Jul—”
He waved his hands in front of his body so that we’d stop cutting each other off. “Okay. Yes. I get it. I’m not firing you because you’ve spurned my advances. We’re going to see my sister.”
“Your sister?” I asked.
“Yes. She wants to meet you and you clearly can’t focus on work at the moment. Consider it a little paid field trip.”