I usually only send stories to large groups when I'm in foreign lands, like Romania, land of many churches.
But funny things are happening to me right here in the land of many Applebees, so here I go:
I am temporarily a New Yorker. Again. I find myself in the place where dreams are made or crushed. The
place where a Jennifer can become a J-Lo. The place where entire blocks are covered in a thin coating of
urine. Ahhh, New York. I haven't seen much of the Big Apple this time around, because I haven't left my
new office for more than 4 minutes. For those of you who don't know, I just started a 3 month internship
with a famous photographer (herein he will be referred to as "John"). John is a celebrity of sorts, and so I am
appropriately scared of him. This is my first week on the job, and I have some stories to share:
My first morning: I am gathering my things, placing them anxiously into my backpack. And then I realized
that already I look like a huge loser, as the backpack has a large yellow "National Geographic" patch on it,
indicating (falsely) that I work for National Geographic. Everyone I encountered in Romania assumed
as much. And then it occurred to me that John, photographer at National Geographic since I was a
toddler, would probably realize that I do not work with him, and wonder why I was posing as his co-worker.
So my nice new bag was promptly replaced by my roommates' worn out (no offense Andrea) high school track bag.
Much safer, albeit not the professional look I was going for.
Any relief I felt at avoiding this initial embarrassment quickly dissipated, as, per usual, I
found multiple other ways to promptly and efficiently embarrass myself anyway.
I'll start with my first two non-verbal interactions with John. John, while talking on the phone,
reaches to shake my hand, but with the wrong hand, putting us in an awkward, bent-arm, twisted grip. Then
he walks past me not 15 minutes later, still on the phone, and offers another shake. I don't know why I
got another shake. And he does this AGAIN WITH THE WRONG HAND. Why John, why? This echoes back to my
trouble with the double-cheeked kiss in Europe. Apparently greetings are not my forte, although the
blame in this scenario has to be placed firmly with John.
Moving on. I am making my first phone call to confirm that a FedEx package arrived (at the studio, an online
tracking confirmation that a package arrived is insufficient. A phone call and handwritten note
further confirming this are also required. Less paperwork is required to adopt a child than to receive
a print.) Anyway...I make my call and ask for Martin.
"I think you have the wrong number" says the man. "Oh," I say, "is this such and such gallery?" I am
sensing an awkward pause on the phone, and the next time the man speaks I recognize the voice. "Who is
this?" he asks me. And then it hits me. This is the voice of John. I have called John. I have
inadvertently called my new boss, who is standing not two feet from me, instead of the client. And this is
my first verbal interaction with the living legend that is John. Off to a good start. (also of
note: the second time I made a package tracking call, I successfully confirmed receipt, only to be informed
by the remarkably patient man on the line that I was calling Hawaii, and, "it is 4 am in Hawaii." Ah, so it
is. And the package apparently arrived at Christmas, thus not making my follow-up call timely or remotely
urgent. Come to find this man is a "very close personal friend of John's" and also a legendary travel writer.
So I'm really feeling good about myself at this point.
Also increasing my confidence was when I was sent to deliver a print to a nearby gallery, a task which
should have taken mere minutes, as it was a very close subway ride away. And what do I do, but board an
express train to Brooklyn, which takes me 30 minutes in the wrong direction -as soon as I saw the Statue of
Liberty in the distance it tipped me off that I had gone astray. This would be comparable to having your
boss send you from Davis Square to Harvard Square (for those of you from Boston), and then having to
call the office to tell your boss that you accidentally boarded a train to Worcester, and would be
missing several hours of work.
Anyway, at this point in the game I'm trying to figure out the way the office works - what's expected, the
tone of things, etc. Enter Sanja.
Sanja (a girl my age from India) is also an intern, but appears to believe she is my boss. She actually sent
me out to pick up her lunch yesterday, before it occurred to me that interns don't get to tell other
interns to pick up their lunch. Luckily it was a nice falafal that I was sent to retrieve, and I liked the
falafal vendor. But I digress. Sanja should not be sending me for falafal, delicious as it
might be.
I've had several strange interactions with Sanja, in fact. After bringing her falafal yesterday, she
corners me in the kitchen, and in a low, conspiratorial tone, says "You know how emotions
quickly shift" (her eyes are darting nervously around as she says this). Huh? What am I missing? I just
deliver falafal.
A few days ago Sanja and I were in the process of organizing thousands of receipts for John (I KNEW I
went to grad school for something!) and I'm trying to listen to the other employees explain some computer
applications that I'm hoping to learn. Strain as I might to hear them, I can't, because Sanja is right
next to me singing "That's Amore!" at full volume.
And today, out of nowhere, Sanja began massaging my back. "Don't worry, there'll be more where that came
from. I have good moves" she says. Huh? Is this appropriate on my 4th day of work? I take that back.
Is this ever appropriate? But I (completely lacking any shame) accept this inappropriate touching because,
hey, who doesn't like a back rub?
Another thing that confuses me about this office is the schedule. On my first day I began to pack up to
head home for the night at 5... as I was under the impression that I would be working from 9-5. Before I
left, I asked Sanja if there was anything she needed me to do (meaning any last thing I could do before
leaving)..."No" she says, "you can just hang out for now." So this confuses me, because why would I "hang
out" at 5? And then it becomes apparent to me that NOBODY is making any motion whatsoever to move. It is
clear that we are not dismissed. So I keep doing random little tasks, and it keeps getting later and
later. By 7 I am getting ancy, wondering when, if ever, the day ends. So finally Alec, a photo
retoucher, stands up and announces that he's heading home. Finally! And then, just as I breathe a sigh of
relief, everyone else in the office bursts out laughing. Clearly, Alec was making a joke. "Ha!
Leave at 7!? That's a good one!" was what the laughter said to me. Nobody actually moved a muscle
to leave until 9 that day, 10 the next. What I have gathered is that nobody leaves the office until John
leaves, and this could be any time of the night. Weekends are fair game also, so apparently I have to
be prepared to work for free around the clock for the next three months. Giddyup!
Liz
p.s.
I almost forgot: all over our studio there are prints, signed by John. His photos are considered to be some of the
most famous pictures in the entire world. And I'm thinking to myself, "I think before I leave I'll ask John for
a signed copy! Why not? They are right here! And it's easy for him to sign it!" And I'm happy about
this. Come to find that these are limited edition collector's items and sell for tens of thousands of dollars a piece. Yeah.
I don't think I'll be getting one of those bad boys (although asking would have been funny).
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