Again, But Better

18. I Can Learn to Do It
January 24, 2011
Mom and Dad,
My internship starts tomorrow. My boss’s name is Wendy, and she’s already
the coolest. She said if things go well, I might get to write a piece about
studying abroad in London for the magazine! I spent the morning researching
the company to get a better feel for their posting style. This afternoon, I’m
going to put together a list of touristy things in London to try out these next
few months. This way, if I get the chance to write that article, I’m prepared.
Wish me luck!
XO,
Shane
P. S. I miss your cooking.
P. P. S. I like a boy. He has a girlfriend who isn’t me, and it’s the worst.
I’m outside the door of 
Packed!,
jittery with freshly consumed caffeine pumping through my
veins.
I glance at my phone again: 9:52 a.m. Eight minutes early. That should be fine. I push in the
doorbell and step back as the buzzing sound blasts from the speaker.
Tracey the receptionist welcomes me in. She brings me to a little table outside the office
kitchen and sets an old white MacBook on it. This is where I’m to sit. Then she speeds me around
the wide-open space, introducing me to the employees. I try to take note of everyone’s name, but
we only exchange quick hellos, so it’s difficult (Donna, Janet, Declan, George—and Jamie?).
They’re all trendy-looking, and they all have English accents.
Then I get a rundown of their kitchen–tea station. They have cool cubed sugar, a stainless steel
electric kettle, ten different types of tea, and a chart pasted to the wall with everyone’s specific tea
preferences. I’m to make tea for whomever requests it. It’s a quick tour, and she finishes by
leading me back to the little table with the white MacBook.
“So you can reach me on IM if you need me,” she adds before heading back to the front desk.
I carefully pull out the chair and sit. I open the MacBook and bring up iChat. Tracey’s name is
there as my sole contact online.
For the rest of the morning, I obediently man my station. Any time someone walks by my
table, I sit up straighter, ready to be asked to make tea. 
I can make you tea,
I think toward them,
ask me to make you tea!
But no one asks me for a cup of tea. They just walk on by and start
making it for themselves. Don’t they know I’m here to make their tea?
I catch pieces of conversation about different cities around the globe as people go by, but not
enough to feel like I know what anyone’s working on. I watch the office breathe for hours, utterly
clueless about how I should be spending my time. I instant message Tracey, asking her what she’d
like me to work on, and she messages back: 
I’ll let you know
. But what do I do in the meantime?

---

During high school and over breaks, I’ve always worked at my dad’s office (he’s a financial
advisor). Every morning, he has his assistant email me a list of things to do. It was mostly
numbing, mindless work, but from that extreme mindlessness came some of my best ideas. I’d
zone out and plot stories in my head while inputting financial stats for hours. The thing is, I don’t
want to zone out here. I want to zone in.
I love the cool, modern office environment. Indie, alternative music plays lightly from Spotify
on an unmanned computer at the editing station in the center of the room. The editing station is a
group of five big Mac desktops grouped together. The cute, young male employee I noticed during
the tour works over there. He’s pale and skinny, with square black-rimmed glasses and curly
brown hair. I remember his name: Declan. Then there’s the pretty brown-skinned lady with long,
flowing locks who works at a desk adjacent to the editing bay: Donna. And across from her desk is
I think the oldest man in here, George. He’s got pasty skin, round black-rimmed glasses, and a
receding hairline. Across the room are two other desks positioned back to back. One is Janet’s, a
petite black woman with cool red glasses and voluminous shoulder-length bronze curls, and the
other is Jamie’s: a posh, fake-tanned, might be in her forties, intimidating, tall woman with
bleached, straight hair and bangs.
The boss, Wendy, stops by at the music computer every once in a while to switch up the tunes
before returning to her office. This morning, she announced that she loved Neon Trees, and we’ve
been listening to their music all day. Now I like them too.
At 3:30 p.m., Tracey finally comes over to my table with a task. I straighten excitedly as she
hands me a Post-it. It’s a grocery list. She wants me to pick up some groceries down at the
supermarket near Covent Garden.
It’s not magazine-related in the slightest, but I happily get the groceries, eager to be helpful.
When I return, Tracy tells me to search the internet for a creative-looking coatrack for the office. I
spend the rest of the afternoon gathering links to weird coatracks and emailing them over to
Tracey. At 5:00 p.m., she gives me a bag full of packages and tells me I can go home after
dropping them off at the post office.
My shoulders slump as I thump down the stairs and out the door. That was not what I expected.
I felt more like a burden that no one knew what to do with today than any sort of assistant. On the
trek home, I try not to be disappointed. This was just the first day.
“I love my office!” Babe exclaims, as she drops a bag of food onto the kitchen table. “It’s covered
in Disney-themed things. Everyone has little Disney stuffed animals on their desk. Oh Mylanta,
it’s amazing!” The entire flat has congregated in the kitchen to discuss their first days at work. I
just finished up the shawarma I picked up on the way home; it’s not Shwednesday, but I was
craving it.
“I have to go back in to work in an hour,” Atticus calls from the couch. He’s typing away on
his laptop. Atticus is always moving, juggling, multitasking.
“I ran errands all day: food, dry cleaning, groceries.” Sahra sighs as she puts a pot of water on
the stove.
“Yeah, I did data input on a computer,” Pilot adds as he unwraps a Byron burger.
“I researched artistic coatracks for a good two hours,” I tell everyone. I glance over at Pilot
sitting two seats away at the end of the table. He doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Coatracks?” Babe asks in disbelief.
I twist to look at her. “Yep, I really got an inside look at how a magazine is made.” Babe
laughs.
“Sahra and I have decided we’re hitting a club in Soho this Friday. You guys want to join?”
Atticus asks.
“I’m staying in this weekend,” Babe answers.
“What about you?” Sahra points her wooden spoon at me.

---

I can’t help glancing at Pilot again. Why isn’t he saying anything? He always wants to do
things. Right now, he’s concentrating intently on eating his burger.