“Oh, anything really. I'm just trying to pay the bills.” I shrugged.
“I mean using your talent and skills,” she corrected me.
“Right, that.” I straightened my shoulders, knowing I was going to need to stop selling myself short. “I’d love to work at a design firm, or an advertising agency like the one you’re with.”
“I have a contact I might be able to use for you.”
“Really?” I tried to play it cool and not let my eyes pop out of my head, but I felt a little bit like she might be a fairy godmother in disguise.
“I don’t do it often,” she warned me. “I don’t want to over-use this connection, but I might be willing to make an exception for you.” She scrutinized me, still biting at the tip of her glasses. “You’re talented. You’re a quick learner. You come to every class. I can see how hard-working and motivated you are, sitting there in the front row. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
Nearly speechless, I managed a, “Thank you.”
“Would you be interested in an internship?”
“Yes!” I held myself back from throwing my arms around her and giving her a hug.
“Hold on, now.” She must have read my excitement level even without the hug. “I’m not sure it will be paid.”
“That’s OK, I have to start somewhere. I need to get my foot in the door, start making contacts and learning about the field.”
She nodded in agreement. “I’ll talk to my person.”
“Can I ask where the internship would be?”
“I’ll tell you as long as you don’t mention it to anyone. I don’t want to be deluged with people asking for referrals.”
“I promise.”
“Callahan and Spence.”
“WOW!” I brought my hands to my cheeks, a huge smile breaking across my face. Callahan and Spence was the premiere advertising agency in the city. I’d give anything to work there. They were so far up the food chain, I hadn’t even let myself dream about getting a job with them. I figured I’d have to start much smaller, with the minnows and guppies before getting to swim with the big tunas.
“Yes, well.” She gave me a rare smile. “That’s all for now.” She put her glasses back on and returned her attention to her laptop screen. “I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do.”
Two weeks later, she put me in touch with her contact. The week after that, I went for an interview. Thankfully, one of my many flatmates was around the same size as me and had a smart silk blouse and trim black pants I could borrow. I couldn't afford to go out and buy a new outfit just for an unpaid conversation. But Callahan and Spence was the real deal, so I splurged on a pair of heels that made me feel full of confidence.
This time, I didn’t have to walk up a slippery stone path in the drizzle to a crumbling castle. This time, I strode down the pavement to a modern, high-rise building. My knees knocked as I pivoted in through the revolving glass door. In the elevator all the way up to the top floor I nearly threw up with nerves. When the doors parted, I almost felt as if I were stepping into a drawing from my 10-year-old imagination of the ideal workplace. All glass and metal with high ceilings, the office was spacious and chic. Simply standing in it made me instantly feel cooler.
I couldn't remember much about the interview. My blood rushed in my ears, my palms sweated, but apparently I managed to string together enough credible words. Or perhaps it was my teacher's words that really convinced them to give me a try. She'd shared some of my work and given me a glowing recommendation.
“Can you start on Monday?” They'd made the offer via phone, which was fortunate because then they couldn't see me leap around in joy like a maniac.
“Monday is perfect!” I agreed, breathlessly.
It almost felt surreal, heading to work at a real design firm, with some of the most talented people in the business. I soon discovered that my internship had much more to do with fetching coffee and picking up the dry cleaning of the real graphic designer I worked for, but I didn't mind. I figured if I hung in there and made a good impression, plus learned as much as I could, it would pay off in the end.
Everyone was for the most part friendly, and I could tell one of the executives in the firm took a bit of a fancy to me. Mr. MacArthur, or Greg as he told me to call him, was in his early 30s and not unattractive in a sort of business-casual way. He made a habit of stopping by my cubicle to say hello. On Fridays, when everyone went out for happy hour, he always swung by to make sure I was planning to join. When I would leave that evening after a few hours and only a couple of drinks, he'd always try to stop me and say I should stay.
I knew that by ignoring his advances I was also turning down a possible opportunity. A man like Greg could open a lot of doors for me. I might even grow to like him if I gave him a chance, but instinct told me no. He struck me as pretentious, with his bow ties and wire-rimmed glasses. It seemed like he was trying too hard for a retro-hipster look, and most of the conversations we’d had had been entirely about himself.
But those were all proxy reasons for not giving him a chance. The real reason was Ian. I couldn't forget him. I knew it might help me move on if I actually went on a couple of dates, or even just hooked up with someone else. But in my heart I knew that might backfire. Trying to fall for someone else would probably just end up reminding me how no one could compare. Besides, I couldn't force myself. I just had to give it time and hope that one day my heart would move on.
Until then, I threw everything I had into learning everything I could, doing each task I was given in half the time allotted, making myself as useful as I could on any big project. I put in as many hours as they would let me, all without a paycheck.
Finally, in April, a real job opened up on the lowest rung of the paid-position ladder, an assistant to an assistant. The firm was so renown that they received over 500 applications. They hired me. I got to quit my café job, buy a few outfits of my own, and start feeling like a real professional. Everything was coming together. Now if only I could invite my heart to the party as well, I'd be all set.
16
Ian
I took my coffee in the kitchen. It was modern, with all the bells and whistles a corporate executive would demand. Already showered and dressed in a crisp dress shirt and pants at six a.m., I scrolled through headline
news.
More countries wanting to leave the EU. Concern over the value of the Euro. A small, high-growth company acquired by a large conglomerate. Nothing I hadn’t expected.
Time to head into the office. I made my way over to the elevator, relying on my cane. Some might find my gait halting and unsteady. To me, I felt like an Olympic sprinter. After a decade and a half of not being able to walk, the fact that I could make it across a room relying on my own power with simply the assistance of a cane? It was nothing short of a miracle.
Ten months ago I’d had major reconstructive surgery on my left foot. I’d spent the next six months in New York City receiving stem cell therapy, laser therapy, physical therapy, anything specialists could offer me. The difference this time around was I was steering the ship.
During the last round of medical treatments, my parents had been at the wheel. They’d dragged me around, a reluctant adolescent, scared but pretending not to be, overwhelmed yet too proud to admit it. I’d been a kid and I hadn’t asked enough questions, hadn’t known how to prepare myself for the grueling aftermath. The thing surgeons didn’t always tell you about surgeries was you had to be an active participant in your recovery. They focused on the technical work, the precision craft necessary to make miraculous internal changes in our bodies. But even the best-executed surgery could be fouled up without follow-up care.
This time around, I asked questions. I interviewed relentlessly, got second, third, even fourth opinions. I showed up with a stack of articles about cutting-edge therapies, then went straight to the people who’d authored studies and asked which doctors they’d most highly recommend. I treated my physical health like a research project instead of a point of pride, admitting I needed all the help I could get.
My parents hadn’t been involved. I didn’t even let them know about the surgery until after it was over. This time I was doing it for myself, not to fulfill my father’s goals for his son, or to assuage my mother’s sadness. I did it because I wanted to gain more mobility and experience less pain.