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I’ve only been dreaming about doing something with music since conception. How sad is it that one indie artist could squash all those dreams with a single song?
It’s not entirely my fault. There’s only so much one can do when the song literally sucks ass. It’s like the client sent me a giant pile of shit, and I was then expected to somehow salvage it and turn it into the next indie-pop hit.
The task was doomed from the very beginning.
I run my hand down my face, debating every decision I’ve made while mixing this track, and then decide to fuck it all and call it done.
Grabbing the plastic water bottle from beneath my stool, I take a swig that reminds me the thing has probably been sitting there too long. I wonder if the chemicals from the plastic will kill me before I have to listen to another horrendous song.
Not likely.
The downside to working as an AV tech for a college is that the job is hourly, and colleges take decent winter breaks. Campus is dead. I’m no longer needed, but I can usually make up for the lack of pay with freelance stuff–mixing audio for various artists. When it’s good, it’s very good. When it’s not, I ponder death. Like right now.
I sigh, stretching my legs out underneath the slim desk and pulling out my phone. Despite my distaste for the project I just finished, I decide I should probably look for another job. My apartment isn’t going to pay for itself, and sometimes I win the jackpot and get to work on something I love.
A yawn hits me as I glance at the time in the top right corner of the screen, deciding I should probably call it a night. Before I close the tab, a familiar face pops up.
I blink a few times, wondering if I’m seeing correctly as I stare at a picture of coffee-covered parking lot girl. At least, I think it’s her, and if my eyes are to be trusted, she posted a job on this freelance site, and it looks like she’s local, too.
Clicking on the picture to make it larger by zooming in, I study everything about her. Brown eyes, black hair, a soft smile–she’s definitely the girl from the parking lot. The only difference is she’s not scowling at me or asking if I was laughing at her–which, unfortunately, I was.
I definitely laughed at her.
“What could she possibly need done?” I mutter before clicking on the job description.
I blink again, my brow furrowing as I read the details. The girl is looking to hire someone to plan her birthday party? Does she have no friends?
“Impossible,” I whisper, skimming the last of the details. Aside from being a bit disheveled, somewhat disoriented, and incredibly flustered, there was nothing observably wrong with this woman.
Quite the opposite, actually.
Even so, I’m met with the truth. She wants someone to plan her birthday for two hundred dollars, and color me curious. I want to figure out why.
I tap the icon to send a message, rewriting it at least three times before settling on something.
Me:Are you looking for an event planner? Will we be required to keep a guest list and invite friends to this event?
The message still seems like I’m fishing for information about her current friend situation.
I stare at the screen for longer than I’d like to admit before deciding to exit the cave I use for audio and make my way through the apartment to the kitchen, grabbing a package ofOreos from the pantry. I settle on the couch and pull out my phone again, propping my feet on the wooden coffee table.
Still no answer.
Maybe I should have thought of something else to say. My message could have sounded judgmental. She wouldn’t have recognized me from my profile picture either because it consists of one singular logo.
Does that make it worse? Should I change the picture?
After spending a ridiculous amount of time overthinking and debating the pros and cons of utilizing a profile picture that features your face, I see a response pop up.
Ellis34:Friends are out of town, so I’m looking to have something planned for me. Could be literally anything. It just needs to be enjoyable. I saw on your profile that you’re local, so that should be easier.
I look at the package of Oreos and grab another. This isn’t my line of work. I have no business planning a birthday bash for this stranger. If she finds out I was the guy that laughed at her in a coffee shop parking lot, I’m sure she will jump to conclusions about me. For example, she will infer that I’m a stalker.
Which I’m not.
It would be an easy two hundred dollars, though.
Me:What kinds of activities do you enjoy then? Could you send me a bucket list or something?
