by Liza Palmer
“I believe in you,” he says. His eyes flick to his own elbow. I focus on his elbow and the plumes of feathers and black and white swirls tattooed down his inner forearm. I slap his hand. The crack of it reverberates throughout the main area.
“Feels good to have a win,” I say. Thornton smiles, looks down the stairs, then back at me. “You’d better get in there, but—” He steps closer. Conspiratorially. The closeness. The heat of him. He finally whispers, “Two hats.” A wry smile and he’s off, bounding back down the stairs.
I wander into the conference room, thinking Thornton has given me some kind of code word maybe? Nothing would surprise me at this point, and if this onboarding is actually some kind of summer camp scavenger hunt and that was the first clue—par for the course.
There are seven seats around one long conference table. A pale, swanlike man with dyed gray hair, his tight oxford-cloth shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck, sits at the far end of the table. He looks up, notes my presence in the room, has no reaction one way or the other, and sighs as he looks back down at his phone. An Asian woman who’s doodling in the bright blue journal that came in our swag bag sits closest to the door. She’s wearing chunky black glasses, and her black hair is cut in a blunt bob with short bangs. Her curvy body is hugged by a tea-length cotton dress that’s covered in bespectacled dinosaurs along with a fuchsia sweater that’s being held together by an enamel cardigan clasp that looks like stacks of books. As I sit down across from her, she greets me with a warm smile. I return her smile much too quickly and spend the next few quiet moments wondering if, maybe just one time today, I could be not quite so desperate.
Trying to think about anything else, I pull out my phone and Google “TBH” and learn that TBH means “to be honest.” TBH, it’s probably easier to just say “to be honest.”
I scroll through my group text. Congratulatory emojis and wishes of good luck. I text back that I am, at this very moment, sitting in a conference room named after Snoopy and sharing the table with someone who has dyed their perfectly good brown hair gray.
“It’s all the rage,” Hugo texts back, along with three old lady emojis.
“I don’t get it,” Lynn texts.
“Such a young person’s thing to do,” Reuben adds.
Just then, a blond guy with a mustache, a paisley waistcoat, thick gold hoop earrings, and two baseball caps (one forward, one backward) strides into the conference room. Without a word, the young man sets his laptop down and starts fidgeting with the remotes and the cords. My phone goes limp in my hand as I … just stare. A wide smile breaks across my face as I remember Thornton’s cryptic words: two hats.
“A word?” Two Hats turns toward the entrance. It’s Ria. He hurries over to her as she scans the table, sees me. I smile. She gives me a very efficient, unsmiling nod. She and Two Hats speak quietly at the door.
I want to text Thornton, but I don’t have his phone number or remotely the relationship that would warrant such a familiar communication. Instead, I look over at the other woman sitting across from me at the conference room table. Please see what I see. Dear god, it’s two hats.
The girl looks up from her doodle. She sees the blond guy, looks him up and down. Her brow furrows. She leans in, bends her body a little, and then … her eyebrows shoot up. She saw it. It’s not just me. I thought this was something kids today were doing, but from the look on this woman’s face, that is most definitely not the case. She looks over at me and stifles a laugh. I shake my head and smile over at her. Two Hats finishes with Ria and walks back into the room.
“Okay, let’s get this party started,” Two Hats says. With a flicker, his computer connects to the flat-screen TV on the far wall. “My name’s Kyle, but everyone here just calls me Fox.”
The girl whips her eyes over at me. Her face is a contortion of WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. I have to look away. I’m getting those “I’m not supposed to be laughing here” giggles. It feels wonderful.
“So, I should have Joan Dixon, our new junior copywriter.” I raise my hand. “Dylan Davies, starting over in Graphics and Animation.” Gray Hair flicks his head. “And Elise Nakamura is in Hardware Operations.” Unable to keep from laughing, the girl turns the uninvited eruption into a bursting hello. “Well, all right, that’s the kind of enthusiasm I like to see on a first day!” After a few pressed buttons, Fox begins his presentation.
I look up at the TV. The slide Fox is opening his first day orientation presentation with is a GIF of the Muppet Elmo, in front of a raging fire, his hands raised high in panic. Fox turns around, the look on his face downright smug. We all smile and nod.
When Fox turns back toward the TV to talk about how first days are hard and that there’s nothing to panic about, Elise continues to shake in hysterics. I am coming dangerously close to losing it myself. The combination of first day jitters, so many emotions tamped down, Fox Two Hats, and now—finally—the prospect of someone to share it all with. Unable to hold it down any longer, I bark out a laugh. Fox whips around.
“I just got it,” I say, pointing to the flaming Elmo GIF. “I just got it.”
“Oh. Oh, good,” Fox says. Elise’s entire body is convulsing as she covers her wide smile with her hand. “Man, this is a great group today.” Fox Two Hats looks over at Gray-Haired Dylan with disdain: these two get it, what’s your deal?
Elise and I manage to hold it together for the remaining hour as Fox walks us through our first day packets. We log into our computers, get email addresses and calendars, save passwords, sign into our 401(k)s, get links and information about our medical insurance and a schedule for our paychecks, find out where to park, go through commuter benefits, and review a list of classes Bloom offers its workforce that range from understanding your stock options all the way to how to communicate better via email.
I find myself waiting for the cult-like initiation portion of the programming. Like, maybe Fox Two Hats will cheerily tell us how the higher-ups monitor our joy through some chip we’ve already ingested or that HR would really appreciate if we sign this binding agreement to eat organic and if we’d follow him, they’ll be giving us Bloom tattoos just down the hall along with our company skateboard.
But it never happens.
At the end of the class, Fox Two Hats walks us down to a long hallway next to the canteen, stands us up against a bright blue wall, and takes the photos for our employee badges. Elise goes first, so our goodbyes aren’t as binding as I’d like. A shy wave and a knowing smile will have to do for now. Gray-Haired Dylan goes second. He makes a peace sign in his picture. Fox Two Hats is displeased. Makes him do it again. No hand gestures. Fox Two Hats takes the picture as Dylan mopes. Dylan objects, but Fox Two Hats shrugs.
Do I love Fox Two Hats?
Fox Two Hats hands me a lanyard with my bright blue employee badge dangling at the end. I don’t dare look at it. Having an appallingly shitty employee photo that I am forced to wear around my neck daily would really be quite the punctuation … quite the punctuation to … to what? I run back over what I’ve “endured” so far today. I stood in a lobby. I made coffee. I got a desk and a comfortable chair. I met my decent, kind manager and my open and friendly team member. I had the single best HR experience of my life. And I maybe made a new work friend.
What a trial.
“Thanks,” I say to Fox, lacing the lanyard around my neck.
“You’re welcome.” Fox stacks his stuff up and tucks it under his arm. “And if you need anything or want to sign up for classes, let me know.” Fox situates his waistcoat. “Just stop by my desk anytime.” He means it. He earnestly means it.
“I will,” I say.
“Have a good first day,” he says, hurrying to places unknown. I take a second to scan the main area to see if I can spot where Elise is sitting. There at the front desk, waving and waving, is Caspian. I shoot my arm into the air and without thinking begin waving back. He gives an exuberant thumbs up before helping someone sign in. I scan the rest of the barn-
like space, but can’t find Elise, so I continue back up to the loft.
As my smile fades, my shoulder muscles still warm from waving, I am forced to see how not bad this day has been. Of course, I know why I’m having a difficult time admitting it. There’s a particular kind of guilt that happens when you have a good job, but also have dreams of something beyond. Shame, ingratitude, and selfishness start to crawl around inside you like an insidious snail’s trail. I don’t have the right to dream. I should be thankful for this opportunity. A lot of people would kill for this job. Do I think I’m better than the other people who work here?
Who do I think I am?
The delusional dreams of Pulitzers and smart indie movies sting my eyes as I bite back feelings of ingratitude. I look down at my badge, take a deep breath, and finally look at my employee photo.
The picture is fine. Not good or bad. I’m kind of smiling in it. The bright blue of the background is cheerful. I let the badge drop and walk (carefully) back up the stairs to the loft.
When I get back, there is a tiny Batmobile toy car sitting on my desk. Hani starts giggling. I turn around and look over at Thornton. He looks up and, without missing a beat, winks at me.
7
Box Fries
“Joan?” A shake. “Joan?” I jerk awake.
The bus driver is standing over me, bending down, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. I take a quick inventory of my surroundings. I’m on a bus. Yes, that’s drool on my chin. He takes his hand off my shoulder. I wipe the drool off as quickly as I can. “You fell asleep.”
“Oh, god. I’m so sorry.” My voice is desperate and gravelly. But then … “How’d you know my name?” The bus driver points to the employee badge still hanging around my neck. I nod and then see his badge. “Why, thank you, Tom.” A look of confusion … then he looks down at his own name badge and smiles.
“You got me there,” he says, walking up the center aisle of the bus.
“Where am I?” I ask, straightening up.
“My final stop. Altadena, right at the top of Lincoln Boulevard,” he says, picking up a stray sweater. I look around, and pick up the goddamn Golden Notebook.
“Thanks … thank you for waking me up,” I say, pulling myself up to standing.
“Happens all the time,” he says, now walking down the aisle with a trash bag. He bends down to pick up an empty water bottle. I thank him again, stepping down out of the bus. He smiles as he pulls the door closed and I attempt a weary wave.
I stand on the sidewalk and pull my phone out my pocket. It’s 8:13 P.M. I walk over to the curb and sit down. Workbag, giant book, pigeon-toed feet and knees pulled up to my chest. Not half a mile from my old high school. And just like back then, I call Billy to come pick me up. And just like back then, Billy pulls up in the old nursery pickup truck, blasting some awful yacht rock music, making some joke about not picking up hitchhikers, but maybe just this once. I tug the passenger side door open and crawl inside the cab.
“So, fell asleep on a bus,” Billy says. His voice is playful, yet poking in that sibling kind of way where you know for sure you’re walking into a trap, but maybe not this once?
“Yeah,” I say.
“Exhausting work at the internet, is it?” I look over at Billy. His T-shirt is filthy with dirt and sweat. His work gloves are tucked into his jean belt loop. His hands are calloused. Billy has clearly been working the land all day. And yet he’s managed to not fall asleep on any forms of public transport.
“I know, I don’t understand it either,” I say. Billy just looks over. An arched eyebrow.
“The internet or why it seems to be so exhausting?”
“Both.” Billy laughs. “I had it in my head that I’d be so pathetic that you’d offer to drive through In-N-Out Burger. You know, as a treat.”
“As a treat.” He looks over at me. I hold my ground. In-N-Out’s on the line. “Well, we already had dinner … nice roast chicken.” Billy pauses. “But, if you’re starving.” I sit up tall in my seat and clap my hands together. Billy continues, “Maybe I could. For you.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say.
Billy and I drive down to In-N-Out and wait in the always insanely long line. I tell him about my day. Thornton and Hani. The Holicray email. Onboarding. Getting started on the tasks Thornton laid out. Plus, I was even looped into an email thread with Chris and Asher about the advisability of using the word “granular” in a bit of advertising. I argued that the word was too “inside baseball” and would come off as aloof, at best, and condescending, at worst. Instead, I suggested the word “personal,” because it conveyed a more human focus, rather than an antiseptic one. Everyone agreed and it even garnered a flurry of celebratory GIFs from all on the thread, culminating in Chris’s own GIF addition of the Tenth Doctor standing nobly in the pouring rain. It felt good to be acknowledged for a job well done.
“Sounds like a really good day,” Billy says, almost surprised.
“It does, doesn’t it?” I look out the truck’s window. The cool night air feels so good on my face. We are quiet, studying a menu we’ve both had memorized for decades.
“You getting your usual?” Billy asks. I nod. The yacht rock blasts, Billy’s hand lazily rests on the gear shift. He jostles it back and forth every time he thinks the line might move. I’m tired and raw in a completely new way. I begin talking before I even know what words will spill out.
“It’s not like any office I’ve ever been in before.” Billy turns down the music. “None of the usual sounds. None of the burning coffee smell and getting mad at the last person who drained the coffee pot but didn’t start a new one. No one has an actual office, so it’s this constant buzzing hive.” Thornton’s words bubble up, finally making sense. “And maybe they think that creates a collaborative environment, but without actual walls people have to make sure their body language tells passersby that they’re not to be disturbed. So, it’s a bunch of huddled-over, non-smiling people with giant headphones on just trying to get their work done. And, in a newsroom, that’s fine. No one’s trying to act like it’s anything else. But at this place? They’re trying to sell it as some big love-in. And—” All of it pours out. Every observation, every thought I’ve had. “And how would these kids even know what a love-in was? That’s another thing. I have none of the same pop culture markers to make any referential jokes and I certainly don’t get any of theirs. And? I don’t have anywhere near enough GIFs to accurately react to anything, apparently. I’m so completely out of the loop, I can’t even see the loop. And I feel dumb. So dumb. Even when journalism was … is … whatever—I never felt dumb.” Billy waits. I catch my breath and look over at him. “So, yeah. It was a good day, but none of it is the same. Not even the same as when I was temping at that law office however long ago that was.”
“You were still pitching stories when you were at that law office, though.” I ignore Billy and press on.
“There aren’t even phones on desks anymore. I finally realized that was why it felt so eerily quiet. No phones ringing. No copy machines. No clients. No outsiders even. Which is weird, now that I say it out loud.”
“Maybe it’s a tech thing,” Billy says, fast-forwarding the cassette tape in his truck. “Have you figured out what the company actually does?”
“It’s like a computer file cabinet, essentially … I think. I don’t actually know for sure.”
Billy rolls his eyes, just before he leans out of the car window to give the girl his order. He chooses his usual Double Double Animal Style, fries, and a LemonUp. I lean over Billy and tell the girl I’d like a grilled cheese, tomato and ketchup only (Billy groans), fries, and a root beer. The girl gives us a total and walks toward the next car in line. Billy’s old pickup rattles and idles, the smell of exhaust and manure now wafting all around us.
“How do you work somewhere and not know what the company does for sure?” The truck lurches forward like a bucking horse.
“I guess people are excited a
bout it.”
“Excited about what?”
“Whatever it is they’re excited about. It’s tech, right? The entire culture is shrouded in secrecy. No one’s exactly sure how any of it works, but … I don’t … Look, all I need to do for my job is to write some Instagram captions and make sure no one sends out an email with a lengthy explanation about that one time they totally raged in Ibiza.” Billy laughs. It’s not a good laugh.
“What? What’s that laugh for?” He shrugs and laughs again. “What?”
“I never thought I’d see the day where you didn’t—” Billy stops. He looks over at me. I brace myself. He looks me dead in the eye. “I never thought I’d see the day when you wouldn’t try to figure it out.” Another shoulder shrug. He clunks the old trunk into gear and pulls forward.
“Yeah, well.” Billy doesn’t know about The Dry Cleaning Story or lunch drinks with Tavia or, as it turns out, that I was probably a pretty shitty reporter anyway. “How was your day?” My voice is sharp and confrontational. Billy gives me a long look and I can actually see him decide to let me off the hook. A long sigh. When he speaks his voice is joking and light.
“Well, first off—I know what my job is. Put things into the ground. Water and tend those things. Harvest those things.”
“And what things did you tend today?”
“The roses are coming in beautifully,” he says.
“Out by the weed?”
“Weeds?”
“No—weed. Marijuana? Dad’s growing it in the greenhouse,” I say confidently. Billy and I pull up to the window, pay our money, and get our food. The smell of wafting deliciousness instantly takes over the entire cab. I pull a fry from the bottom of the box and pop it into my mouth.
“We haven’t discussed who gets the Box Fries yet,” Billy says. His voice dead serious.