by Liza Palmer
I find my father huddled over a rose bush known as the Pilgrim. That same green, broken-in Dixon Gardens baseball cap pulled low over his forever-squinting eyes. Clean-shaven, wire-rimmed glasses, green Dixon Gardens polo shirt with “William” embroidered in yellow, khaki pants, work boots, and a Japanese hori hori knife tucked into a leather sheath connected to his belt.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, setting my tea down on a low wall. I pull my phone out of my pocket and take a quick picture of one of the roses, tight yellow petals unfolding like a supernova, impossibly beautiful. And while I’ve got my phone, couldn’t hurt to check some email. Nothing. Anyone call? No. I click off my phone without looking at the picture of the rose.
“You can never capture their beauty. I keep trying to tell you that, Bumble,” Dad says, in his gravelly drawl. Bumble. A nickname I earned due to my penchant for getting stung by bees. Mom always said it was because I was so sweet, but then Dad would correct her by saying no, it was more likely because I was loud, clumsy and the mere vibrations of my existence were terrifying to them. So … you know. Either or.
“It’s what I do, Dad. I document.”
“Well, today you’re deadheading,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “Start over in Tranquility.”
“So, that’s where you’ve been hiding,” I say to the Tranquility roses.
I spend the rest of the morning seeking out dead flowers and plucking them from their stems before they undermine the health of the plant, so they’ll bloom again. A practice that feels a bit on the nose, considering.
“Before we head back in, your mom wants us to grab a handful of rosemary,” Dad says.
“Oh, right. For the bread,” I say, absently. I reach back to nab a particularly out-of-reach deadhead.
“Now there’s that reporter brain hard at work,” Dad says.
“Can one have a reporter’s brain even if they’re no longer a reporter?” Before I can blurt out some deeply raw yet sarcastic follow-up that’s “just a joke,” my phone rings in my pocket.
“Well, thank god for that,” Dad says, gesturing to the ringing phone. I give him a pointed look, brush my hands on my pants, and swipe the phone on.
“Hello?”
“Joan, this is Ria Jones from Bloom.”
“Oh, hey. Hi.” I sit back on my haunches, surrounded by dead roses. “Wow, thank you for calling. I didn’t—”
Ria cuts in. “I apologize for making you wait almost a month, so I hope you’re still available, but we’d like to officially offer you the job of junior copywriter.”
“Really?”
“It’s a three-month probation. If you’re a good fit, we’ll make you full time.” I am quiet, not quite able to believe the reality of finally receiving The Call.
“Ms. Dixon?”
“Yes?”
“Do you want the job?”
“Yes. I would like the job. A lot.” Dad takes off his baseball cap, pushes the swoop of salt-and-pepper hair off his forehead, and replaces the hat. I’ve come to identify this gesture as “William Dixon is having feelings.”
“I think you’re a good fit for Bloom.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Then we will see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Onboarding starts at 9 A.M.”
“Thank you. I really mean it. This is—”
Ria cuts in again. “Welcome to Bloom, Joan.”
“Sounds—” Ria hangs up. “Good,” I say to no one. I hang up the phone and look over at Dad. “I got it,” I say, unable to keep my voice from cracking. “I got a job.”
“And you said you weren’t a reporter anymore,” Dad says, crawling back under a rosebush. As I text Lynn, Hugo, and Reuben the news I don’t have the heart to tell Dad that as of tomorrow, I am officially not a journalist anymore. I am a junior copywriter for Bloom.
5
Doris Lessing Is My Nemesis
I slept like shit last night. And it wasn’t about nerves, although they’re definitely in play now as I try not to vomit on this bus hurtling toward Melrose Avenue. No, at some point in the early morning hours, I decided if I was finally going back to work I also needed to read more classics, organize my finances, catalog my writings, start eating healthier, and probably come up with a new exercise regimen.
So, at four o’clock this morning, after doing a combination of exercises I’d found online to “strengthen my core,” I Googled “who won the Nobel for Literature.” Scouring my and my parents’ bookshelves, I finally settled on Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. At close to seven hundred pages, I decided this book was exactly what I needed. It exuded greatness. It was impressive. It was intimidating. It was everything I was a bit low on at the moment.
Four hours later, as I sit on the third and final bus on my commute to work, that doorstop of a book, that harbinger of greatness, bucks and jerks on my jiggling knee with cruel hilarity. But instead of cracking the damn book open and starting the process of bettering myself, I’ve bitten my nails off to the quick. By the time the bus nears my final stop, I’m now chewing on the inside of my cheek so violently that the poor woman next to me must think I’m trying to suck my own face in on itself. When I finally arrive at Bloom, red faced and sweaty, the fifty-pound book has become my nemesis.
I pull open the door to Bloom and find myself, once again, in the lobby that isn’t a lobby with seating options that aren’t actually seating options starting a job that’s not actually a job.
(neutral face emoji)
I look over to the reception desk. No Caspian. No sign of Ria, either. No one to tell me where to go or what to do.
I shift the book to my other arm and choose to stand rather than to sit on one of the expensive, chic blue couches that I’m afraid will make me instantaneously start my period on them. I’ve also suddenly become more and more aware that the kale, turmeric, and goat’s milk yogurt smoothie I made this morning—as my family looked on in horror—was probably not the best choice. I look forward to panicking about a workplace bathroom situation later on today.
As the Bloom workforce begins to arrive, I’m again surprised by the absence of thumping indecipherable music and people with man buns riding around on skateboards and giving one another complicated fist-bumping handshakes. Turns out, in the hustle and bustle of the early morning, Bloom feels more like a public library than a hip start-up. The only sound echoing through the cavernous open-concept barn is the coffee machine clicking and whirring to life as one by one Bloom workers fuel up. Head flicks, quiet “good mornings,” and tired smiles. I scan the rows of computers and see a few people already hard at work, headphones on, tapping away in reverent silence. Two coworkers quietly catch up in the back corner, and their hushed conversation wafts freely throughout the space.
The quiet professionalism unnerves me. I want this place to be wacky. I want to roll my eyes, take sneaky photos of millennial hijinx, and laugh with my friends about how much more adult we are. I guess I could make fun of the sleek blue couches, but even they’re starting to grow on me.
I cross my arms and am immediately thwarted by the world’s hugest book. Sigh. Scan the room. Act like I’m ridiculously interested in the vaulted ceilings. Sigh. Finally, I pull my phone from my pocket and mindlessly try to scroll my nerves away. It’s not working. Nothing is working.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve been new at something. I’d rather I discovered that it got easier because I’m a little older. Or, at the very least, I was more mature about the whole thing. But, as I stand here, sweat soaking through my shirt and about to throw this fucking book across the room, I realize not having to try new things was exactly what I liked about getting older.
Wanting to try new things, sure. Reuben drags us to pottery classes and cooking classes and weird exercise classes all the time. But I’m not going to receive a performance review for how I did at Candlelight Yoga.
I’ve lived in the same area my whole life, done the same job since the d
ay I walked into that first newsroom at seventeen years old. Hell, even my music playlists are filled with songs I know most of the words to.
Bloom is brand new in every way. And as I step in deeper—as I have to step in deeper—I live in fear that all my anxieties will suddenly be on public view and the values of the company, the pace, the expectations of their employees, the work itself, and the culture will remain about as clear to me as if they were in hieroglyphics. And that this raw, off-balance, emotional shitstorm I’m living in will become just another day at the office.
All of the first-day-at-school sensations flood my nerve endings. Each second drags on with a lovely combination of battling hysterias: everyone is looking at me but I’m completely invisible.
What would it have been like to stand in this lobby as a journalist for The LA Times … no, The New York Times? Observing the surroundings, recording little asides in my voice recorder. Noticing details. Going over my notes and reviewing interview questions. Assessing the workforce, maybe trying to get a quote from one or two particularly emblematic Bloomers—a name I’d coin for the Bloom workforce. The story would go on to win a Pulitzer—an arch, unflinching look at the tech industry, the wide-eyed child army of drones and the boy kings who rule them. The book I’d write as a follow-up (multiple offers, sold at auction) would be made into a gripping indie film (“A modern-day All the President’s Men!”).
“Jesus,” I say aloud to no one. I sound so delusional.
It didn’t sound delusional at seventeen. Oh, you’re going to college and then maybe law school? Fun. Me? Pulitzer. New York Times. Book deals. Nellie Bly. Martha Gellhorn. Sky’s the limit, they’d say. They could see it. I could see it.
We were all going to do big things.
Clearly in some kind of fugue state, I make eye contact and attempt a breezy smile with each person who walks through those front doors. The replies range from civil to confused to patronizing to downright surly. After a guy in neon sunglasses returns my expectant smile with a snide sniff, I have to force myself to take a deep breath.
“I don’t think we’ve met.” He’s wearing an untucked blue gingham button-down shirt, low-slung khaki pants, and Vans. Disheveled, light brown hair and, as he takes off his sunglasses, a face that is disarmingly youthful.
“Joan Dixon.” I tuck a chunk of rogue sweaty hair behind my ear, shove The Golden Notebook under my arm, and extend my hand.
“I’m Chris Lawrence,” he says, waiting for his name to register. A slight lip curl flickers, but disappears just as quickly as it takes me a second too long to realize I’m shaking hands with one of the cofounders of Bloom himself.
“Lovely company you’ve got here.”
“Oh.” Chris scrapes his hand through his already messy hair, sputtering a half laugh. “Just once I want to introduce myself to someone and have them not know who I am.” What an odd thing to say. Chris clears his throat. “So, what is it that I can help you with?” That constantly scanning gaze is now fixed on me. Unblinking. Solemn. Clenched jaw.
“Today is my first day at Bloom,” I finally say.
“Well, welcome…” Chris trails off. The lag tugs at the bottom of my stomach as I realize he’s forgotten my name.
“Joan.” Chris nods and smiles.
“Well, welcome, Joan. Hopefully you can—”
Thwack. Chris lurches forward. “We’ve got a meeting in Scooby Doo in five, Chrissy.” Asher Lyndon. The other cofounder of Bloom. His overtly tousled black hair, pressed dark jeans, “vintage” Journey concert T-shirt, and distressed leather jacket reminds me of when your friend’s divorced dad bought a new hip and cool wardrobe to get “back out there” and now insists you call him Brian, because “his father is Mr. Patterson.”
Asher doesn’t acknowledge me in any way. “Git along, little doggie,” Asher yells to Chris as he continues on without looking back. I look from a disappearing Asher to a now stooped Chris.
Chris and I stand in Asher’s wake. I cut into the silence with one final question.
“What was it you were going to say? Before? Hopefully, I could—”
“Right. Hopefully, you’ll add some much-needed age and wisdom to our team.”
“Ah, good. Yes. Perfect,” I say, my face flushed.
“It was a compliment,” he says. Chris pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“Welcome to Bloom, Joan.” He swipes his phone open and continues after Asher, eyes downcast.
6
No Such Thing as a Stupid Question
I give it a wide berth. I’m not ready to approach. Bloom employees weave around me, undeterred. My breath quickens. My mouth waters. My fingers twitch.
“You in line?” An Asian man with long black hair awaits my response. “You in line for coffee?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, shuffling behind the girl closest to me. She looks over her shoulder with a sustained glare of disdain. Her poorly dyed blond hair is wet from the shower. She’s wearing mirrored sunglasses, which just makes it easier to see the sad bewilderment in my own eyes.
“I haven’t had enough coffee to figure out how to stand in a line yet,” I say to her, my voice unrecognizably sweet. The guy behind me laughs. I look back at him and envy how at home he looks. The chasm between his demeanor and mine could not be wider.
How quickly I slip back into old habits. All of a sudden, I’m fifteen again and walking into high school, using bland civility to slide under everyone’s radar.
I used to fantasize about going back to high school, armed with everything I learned in the years since. Kicking the door open, slinging blistering one-liners, and finally earning the respect and awe of my classmates. No longer would I need to weaponize my niceness so even the most sadistic mean girl would think I was far too banal to target. And yet, here I am, seconds away from yelping, “Working hard or hardly working!” to any po-faced millennial who glances my way.
This is going super.
But then the rest of the world falls away and it’s just me and it. Eyes darting around the monolith with a growing panic. This is what I came here for.
Me versus The Bloom Coffee Machine.
It’s as big as a vending machine. Swirling colorful graphics of coffee pouring and bags of espresso beans spilling into awaiting burlap sacks. Steam rising from crisp white mugs. And one by one Bloom workers step up to the machine, place their mug onto the drip tray, press an arcane maze of buttons—their fingers moving across the keypad like a dragonfly skittering across the water—and out pours everything from fresh steaming coffee to lattes with steamed milk, thick hot chocolate, hot tea, and spicy chai.
“Where’s your mug?” the blond woman asks. She waits as I struggle to answer the world’s simplest question. “Hello?” She whips off her mirrored sunglasses and locks eyes with me. “Do you even have a mug?”
“I … no, I don’t. So sorry.” I start to get out of line. That’s it. My face is hot. I want to go home. I want to go home and make coffee in the normal way people make coffee. I could just eat the grounds if someone would tell me where they are? I scan the open shelving. They only have espresso beans. Of course they do.
“Hey, wait—” The man with the long black hair gestures for me to stay right where I am. He looks from me to the blonde. She steps closer to him, flips her wet hair over her shoulder, and smiles. She’s just about to say something when he steps forward, ignoring her completely. She angrily jerks her eyes from him over to me, shoves her mirrored sunglasses back on her face, and turns around.
The man pulls a basic white mug with the Bloom logo from one of the shelves and presents it to me like a prize in a game show. A whimpering burst of relieved laughter shoots out of my throat. Sweet Jesus, I am hanging on by an emotional thread.
I reach for the mug, but he pulls it back. Can’t he see how fragile I am? Dear god, I just want my coffee. He sets the mug down on the edge of the counter in a line of other mugs.
I scan the counter. In my delirium, I failed to notice the little coff
ee cup line right in front of me. He sets his mug just behind mine. I smile at him so openly it’s downright erotic. He smiles back and steps in line behind me. I look at my coffee mug, now happily standing in line.
“Thanks,” I say, gesturing to the mug.
“Not a problem.” We fall into silence. I steal a glance at the man who helped me. His beard and mustache are tidy, as are his worn-in jeans and black T-shirt. Intricate tattoos lace up his lean arms.
“It’s my first day,” I say, my voice choked and gravelly. He leans down. I say it again. “It’s my first day.”
“Cool, cool.” He swipes his hands on his faded jeans and extends a hand. “Thornton Yu.” I take his hand.
“Joan Dixon.”
“Oh, hey. Wait a minute. You’re my new junior copywriter.” We shift our coffee mugs closer. “I’m your manager.”
“That’s great!” My mind is a riot. This man—my new manager—couldn’t be more than twenty-four, mayyyybe twenty-five? But he’s kind and helped me and didn’t make me feel like an idiot. I’m relieved, but also horrified?
“You’re up,” Thornton says, gesturing to my mug. I’m next. I gulp and nervously scan the growing line behind me. Everyone waiting. Watching. Judging. Why are you guys not staring at your phones or taking selfies? Look away! I want to shout.
I pull my coffee mug from the line and place it on the coffee machine’s drip tray.
“Do you”—Thornton reaches for my book—“want me to hold that?”
“Oh … oh. Sure,” I say, handing him the book. He takes it with ease. “Thank you.” He nods.
I turn back to the machine and spin my mug around so the handle is toward the front. “Come on, Joan,” I mutter to myself, lifting my hand to touch the Main Menu. The pictures of steaming coffee and spilling beans disappear and in its place appear three buttons: Coffee. Hot Beverages. Gourmet Drinks.
Okay. Let’s keep it basic. I push Coffee. That wasn’t so hard. I bend down a bit and wait for the coffee to pour into my mug. I have this vision of not placing the mug just right and the stream of coffee spilling all over the concrete floors. A long pause. No whirring or clunking. Nothing is happening. I stand back up and look at the Main Menu. Where there once were three buttons, there are now five new buttons.
