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I meant it too, even managing to raise the charm on my smile. Not to play with her emotions, of course. Generally, I did my best to be friendly to lesbians, without sending mixed messages.
She was nice enough, and pretty, but she and I both knew I didn’t swing that way. More to the point, I knew that she did. The last thing she needed was anyone else messing around with her.
There was already a menagerie of admirers, most of them smitten guys who couldn’t quite grasp that they had no chance— at least none that involved them ending up in bed with her. Hope could be a terrible thing when misapplied, though, and they all seemed to spend a long time doing favors for her before realizing they were never going to end up banging her or having her as a girlfriend.
After signing into the ‘Book of Arrivals,’ DreamTime’s answer to the punch-clock, I went to my drafting table. No cubical farms for us, no sir! The DreamTime way of doing things was row after row of drafting tables, set facing each other.
There was about four feet of space between one pair and the next at each level, with a corridor that was the size of a small car park between the junior and senior illustrators. It was a cozy arrangement, and one that was unseen most places in the corporate world, but you got to know your co-workers really well this way.
Of course, it helped that there were only twelve of us in total.
DreamTime wasn’t big, but what the company lacked in size, it made up for with heart. The dozen or so books we published per year always sold out their first printing within hours. At least a dozen copies showed up on eBay within the week, never priced for less than a hundred dollars. They sold, too, often after a bidding war.
I still couldn’t believe my absurd levels of luck to be working here.
I was tempted every so often to see if there really were horseshoes up my butt, as my friend Becca liked to say. It doesn’t sound all that lucky, if you think about it. More like uncomfortable.
“Ashe,” I heard someone say.
“Yeah?”
I turned to face the owner of the voice.
It was Sarah.
“Staff meeting,” she said.
The world went away when I was working, no sound penetrating my concentration. It was like I was in my own sensory-deprivation tank.
I was glad Sarah roused me out of my hyper-focused state. DreamTime staff meetings were usually a delight. And today was no exception.
Most of us were still in the last stages of projects, but it was an assignment day, nonetheless. Our usual attitude was a general “No rush.” We scoffed at what other companies would deem “deadlines.”
“There you go, kids,” Mitchell said, handing out new outlines.
I assumed he was just talking to the junior illustrators, most of us well under thirty, but it was possible he was talking to all of us. It was just his way. Thus ended the meeting, short and sweet as always. It was quarter to noon, so I decided to take lunch while I read it.
The outline almost too perfect. It described a sort of 21st Century Gorey story suited to my style. It was the sort of thing I most loved, and never dared to hope I might get paid to illustrate.
Professor Hernandez once regaled us with his experience in stop-motion animation working for corporate clients. One day he had the chance to get paid for what he wanted and never looked back. He would only take jobs doing what he loved.
Of course, that kind of avantgarde lifestyle always seemed to begin with a few years of doing really well until late October, and then living on ramen the rest of the year. I doubted I would go that far, but I respected the hell out of him for taking it all the way, sticking by his convictions.
I couldn’t do it, mostly because of my dad. Instead, I chose the advice given by Sci-Fi novelist/software designer Lewis Shiner: “Get yourself a day job you can do part-time, that you don’t hate.”
That was what DreamTime offered me— that and more. Of all the commercial entities I could have worked for, it was one of the best.
I checked my messages as I continued to eat, not expecting much. There was one new voicemail so I opened it.
As I listened, I slowly melted inside as the recoding played. My eyes were wide and the sound of his voice was touching me in places I’d never thought possible.
“Call me” were the last words he said in the message, before leaving his number. I had to play the message again to transcribe it to the back of a napkin, so I couldn’t possibly forget.
Fingers shaking, I dialed, needing to start over twice.
