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You’ve got this, she texted me along with the emoji. Don’t worry.
I did my best to listen to my wise sister’s advice.
I got dressed as I’d planned the night before in an outfit that I hoped would scream “appreciative fan and grateful intern” rather than “desperate to impress.”
It had the name of Seth Black’s band on it: Autumn Corrosion.
He had risen to stardom as a musician before starting the record label for which I was about to intern.
And I loved listening to his music. Autumn Corrosion was still my favorite band. So, I thought the t-shirt was a good idea to wear, a nod in homage to him.
I had my bag ready and waiting by the door and my keys above it. A package of Pop-Tarts was standing ready beside the toaster.
I had even made sure to check the oil and gas level in my car, while also ensuring the gas can was full. Everything was ready. There was absolutely nothing that could go wrong.
After jumping up and down in a few jumping jacks to get my adrenaline flowing, I tied back my already-washed hair with an elastic band that had already been on my wrist. Plunking my breakfast into the toaster, I did the short round trip from the door for my bag and keys, back to the kitchen.
Just moments after I entered the room, the toaster popped cheerfully, and I carefully plucked the hot pastry from its coils. Breakfast in hand, I was in the dew-chilled car before the sun was fully visible.
All the other drivers on the road must have been fucking insomniacs. Or real go-getters who loved their jobs more than they loved sleep. That was the only way my mind could fathom getting stuck in a traffic jam at that early hour.
It was a time of the morning when most sane people were still in bed. Or so I’d been led to believe. I didn’t mind not being sane if it meant I got to work on time. Turned out I had company on the crazy train.
Despite the remarkable lack of movement, my motor was on, lest I miss the opportunity to move up another blessed foot. I dipped into the collection of CDs in my glovebox, which held as many pieces from my extensive collections as I felt safe carrying in the car.
I still couldn’t believe I was going to work for the guy who had started a revolution in music. I knew everything about my new boss, Seth Black, because he was my ages-old crush.
I had looked up anything I hadn’t known about him before applying for the internship, but I had already known a lot because I had devoured any news of him, anything he wrote or said, just plain everything I could get my hands on.
My music obsession had taken hold when I was 12 years old and had persisted up until the current day. I knew that Seth Black was as much of a purist as I was when it came to audio purity, and the majority of my collection was actually on vinyl. I just didn’t have space for the originals in my car, let alone my turntable.
Plus, he was fucking hot.
I knew I shouldn’t think of my new boss that way, but I couldn’t help it.
And yet here I was stuck in traffic on the first day I had the opportunity to work with him. I was impatient but told myself to calm down.
The player in my car made its familiar sound, the second of silence broken by time slowing crush of the backbeat as I cranked it up. A sound that made you stop and take notice, no matter where you were or what you were doing.
I got more than a few dirty looks from my fellow prisoners of consequence. They were more expressions of confusion that outright antagonism, which was more than I could say for the folk back home. They were tolerant of everything except difference.
I was barely through the first track on the album, jutting up out of the vinyl seat and practically vibrating with excitement and nerves, when finally, mercifully, the line of vehicles actually moved.
There were five entire minutes of time to elapse before I could officially be considered late.
I was, therefore, officially early.
Glass half full and all that.
But still I worried that I hadn’t gotten to the office before my new boss had arrived, which I felt to be some kind of cardinal sin. I was determined to come earlier and stay later than he did.
“Am I late?” I asked no one in particular, as soon as I walked into the office.
“Not yet, on the upside he is, so you’ve got time,” said the receptionist.
Clad in a black, Georgian-style dress, with spidery hair and just enough grease paint to look cool without over doing it, she wore her weirdness like a badge.
