The offices of the New York Month run in stark contrast to those at TrendBlend. There’s no constant buzz of laughter and light-hearted conversation here. No milling around in groups or leaning over people’s desks to hash things out. The desk spaces aren’t shared, or cramped. Here, everybody has their space, and their space may as well be their own world. The hum is hard and fast. Terse, important phone conversations to a beat of clacking computer keys, breaking through the almost oppressively quiet office. Spend too much time away from your desk and people notice, though you can get up and leave without anybody saying anything to you. People get their own coffee here.
I’ve had a steady stream of questions from Louise about what NYC’s like since I arrived, and each time I feel like I can give only a barely more insightful answer than I could have before I came. Pretty much all I’ve seen is the inside of various subway stations and a couple of bagel places. I’ve been here for ten days and even the weekend seemed to go by too fast to notice anything. I guess that’s why they call it a New York minute. It’s hard to really take in your surroundings when you’re working sixteen hour days.
I receive a message on my laptop from Cassandra, asking me to visit her in her office, and also notice that it’s nearly eight PM. I take a quick look around and—seeing how many other writers are still here—realize why I had no clue it was so late. After typing out the sentence I’m working on, I get up and rush to Cassandra’s tight, glass-walled corner office that looks out on a million dollar view of Central Park.
She gestures me inside impatiently, phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, and I drop into a seat across from the wide oak desk, numerous awards and heavy-looking books behind her, giving the appearance of some esteemed doctor or professor. If it’s a game of intimidation, Cassandra has a head start.
Cassandra herself looks eerily like Melissa. Tall, blonde, professional—though that’s where the similarities end. While Melissa talks with a hard authority that veils a deep compassion, Cassandra talks with a sense of kind sympathy that only thinly covers a hard-nosed insistency.
“Hi, Margo,” she says, as she finishes sending an email.
“Hi,” I say, smiling humbly.
“How are you settling in?” she asks, finally putting her phone to the side and looking at me expectantly.
“Good…all good.”
I’d like to add something about not having time to see much of the city, or about all the problems I’m having with my tiny apartment, or about struggling to get work done at home due to a lack of reliable internet signal—if only to have somebody to talk to about these things—but there’s a no-nonsense prickliness about Cassandra that only an idiot would try to test.
“Good,” Cassandra says, leaving plenty of empty space for awkwardness to brew. “What have you got ready for me?”
“I’m almost done with the summer ballet piece.”
Cassandra looks at me as if I’ve just made a comment about the Hubble telescope. “Well…Margo, we sort of wondered if you would hit the ground running, when you came.”
“Right. I guess it’s taking a little longer to get in the groove than I expected.”
“I can see that.” She clears her throat and leans forward. “Listen, Margo. You’re obviously very capable, and so we need you to really use those talents. You might have noticed that we hold ourselves to pretty high standards here.”
“Of course,” I say, growing more nervous. As if recognizing this, Cassandra pauses before speaking again, as if to let me squirm a little.
“I’ve just gone over some of your upcoming feature ideas, and well…”
“Yes?”
Cassandra frowns as she looks at her computer screen, then turns that frown toward me. “They’re a bit ‘Los Angeles,’ don’t you think?”
She says it in a tone that’s obviously expecting a response, but I don’t really have one other than, “Los Angeles?”
“Yes. You know.”
I try to kick my brain into a gear that would make sense of that, but it’s not clicking. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it,” I say, defeated.
“‘Fluffy,’” Cassandra deigns to explain. “A tad frivolous and trivial.”
I nod, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I see.”
“‘Populist,’ you know?” she adds, as if this will soften the blow of her last insult.
“Uh huh.”
“A bit too ‘fun.’”
“Right. I get it,” I say, trying to keep the fatigue out of my voice.
Cassandra smiles suddenly, warm and friendly—though the gesture is committed with the sincerity of somebody who’s taken a public relations course. “I’m assuming it’s just taking a little longer to shake the ‘L.A.’ out of you than we expected. You’re still on TrendBlend time,” she says, then laughs at her own joke.
I smile and chuckle as convincingly as I can and say, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Well then,” Cassandra says, picking up her phone again and starting to type on it. “Let’s check in tomorrow and see if we’ve made any progress, shall we? I’ve set a meeting for us at ten AM.”
“Ok, great,” I say, pushing down my panic and taking my cue to leave. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, Margo. Good talk,” Cassandra says sincerely, as if she’s actually done me the hugest of favors.
I march back to my desk stiffly—already walking like a New Yorker—and drop myself down in front of my computer screen. A wall of text I can barely understand anymore, its glare making my eyes hurt. I glance out the window, half-hoping to see the dusty L.A. light, the scattered twinkle of skyscrapers, as much empty space as it is palm trees and lush canyons and pale, sun beaten buildings—but all I see is the crumbling brick of the building across the narrow street. The sky too dark to see beyond the arched windows, their lights off, the space empty.
I make one final attempt to put my focus back into the piece, that ten AM deadline looming large in my mind, but then my stomach growls so loudly a person whose name I still don’t know glares at me from across the office. I raise a palm in apology and give up.
I turn off the computer, pack my bag, and start making my way home, through the hustle and bustle of the streets, through the crush of a subway rush hour, and pick up a burger and fries I’ve already finished by the time I’ve walked the three blocks to my apartment.