Connor

by Daryl Banner

  Everyone keeps calling me that. “Got it, Lexicon!” I assure him cheerily.

  “So what’s your job?” he asks. “Let’s hear it.”

  I take another sip. “It’s an internship.”

  “Intern—?” Lex’s eyes grow double. “Those pay for shit, if at all. Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Not this internship! My college professor has a friend in high places—my boss, Irving Wales, of Wales Weekly, do you know who he is?—and got me an internship.”

  “An internship at Wales Weekly?” Lex looks me up and down. “Country boy from Kansas …?”

  “I’m really great with words. My degree is in journalism. I mean, this is a dream job for me. Heck, if I do well enough, I could work my way up to becoming one of their senior editors someday! I’m really great with words. Did I mention that already? To land an internship like this is something everyone in my class would’ve killed for. And at such a smart and daring publication as Wales Weekly, no less.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Are we talking about the same Wales Weekly I know? The greedy suits who buy out and suffocate every smaller publication, magazine, or website that steals their spotlight?”

  I proceed to leave Lex behind in the dust of my excitement, barely acknowledging his words. “I will be compensated well enough to live on, trust me.” I shoot him another wink. “Nope, Brett won’t have a thing to worry about with this one.”

  He studies me dubiously, then shrugs and lifts his own glass. “Phew. If you’re wrong, then it was nice knowing you. I just didn’t take you for a sell-your-soul type. Ugh, this vodka tonic is flat.”

  “Did you know they hold the record for having interviewed the most now-deceased celebrities?” I point out after taking a sip. “Not to mention how many awards they’ve won for their incredible feats of journalism. Including the ever-coveted Phoebe Wordsmith Honor eleven years in a row … with the unfortunate exception of last year. I could clearly talk about it all night. Should I? No, never mind. You can tell I did my research though, right? I mean, I have to have a few intelligent things to say on my first day …”

  “Oh.” Lex stares up at the stage. “Fuck me. I thought he was off tonight.”

  “Who?” I ask, following his gaze.

  On the main stage past the half-naked sailors, a third dancer has emerged. He’s slender, but ripped, and his black ball cap casts his face in shadow. The colorful stage lights pour down his tatted fair skin, making him look like ten neon lights. His low-rise jeans hang under his hips, showing off the bright white waistband of his underwear, and the bottoms of them bunch up upon a pair of bright red high-top sneakers. His chest is bare except for an opened tuxedo vest, which he grips, with a black bowtie squeezing his tatted neck.

  “Fourth lesson,” Lex adds snappily, his eyes on that dancer. “Don’t go anywhere near that guy.”

  “Why? Who is he?”

  “Trouble. That’s who he is. An asshole, too.” Lex sighs, then leans toward me so he doesn’t have to shout to be heard. “Sorry we brought you here. I honestly thought he was off tonight.”

  I keep my eyes on that third dancer, who does his moves on the main stage. Every time he almost pulls off his vest, he somehow sneaks it right back onto his body.

  It’s like his striptease will never end.

  “He doesn’t seem that bad to me,” I point out.

  “Don’t even think about it. Avoid him. You’re gonna see him now and then, too, as he lives right across the hall from you.”

  I peel my eyes off the dancer and stare at Lex. “He does?”

  “His name’s Zak. And if I catch you anywhere near him,” Lex warns me, “you’ve only got yourself to blame. Drink up. We’re going after this round.”

  I frown thoughtfully as I drink and stare at that third dancer between the legs of one of the sailors. I always keep my ears open because it’s important to listen to whatever you’re told.

  But I keep my heart and mind just as open, because everyone deserves a fair chance.

  “Now tell me everything about this airport cutie,” says Lex. “An Uber all the way from out there sure isn’t cheap.”

  I smile and face Lex. “He was back from a trip to P-town, wherever that is. He’s half Chinese on his mama’s side. And he hates his dad. Well, kinda. And …” I add, lifting my phone up and giving it a wiggle. “He wants to get a bite with me sometime.”

  Lex’s eyes turn wistful. “Young love,” he sings, shaking his head slowly. “You’re so doomed, my pretty-faced friend. You’re so, so doomed. Here.” He pulls out his own phone. “Let’s get out of this joint, and I’ll give you a lesson in all the gay cities of America you must know—especially P-town.”

  And with that, we ditch our half-empty glasses, join Brett and Omar at the bar for one last bro-ish hurrah for our night out, then head for the door. I make sure to sneak one last peek at Zak the dancer before we go, curious what his big dark mystery is.

  We make it back to our building. After saying goodnight to Lex and Omar on the first floor, it’s halfway up the stairs with Brett that I realize I never texted my mom like I promised, telling her I’m settled in. I unlock my phone … only to then be horrified by the ghost of the reply I’d drunkenly sent my new friend Alan earlier.

  A text that reads: Alaaaaan! You’re so fucking sexy! I’m watching strippers and thinking of you. Sure, let’s grab a bite! Let’s do anything! Luv you! Kiss, kiss.

  [ THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN ]

  The weekend passes in the blink of two hung-over eyes. Sunlight strikes mercilessly through the window, cutting horizontal lines across Connor’s sleepy face. When he wakes, the noises of the city around him tell him it never went to sleep. His new bed creaks uncomfortably under his body as he stirs and struggles to sit up, and with a glance at the clock, he realizes today is the first day of his internship.

  And he’s already late.

  5

  I thrust on my dress shirt with such conviction, I nearly tear the sleeve off. Then I’m hopping into a pair of shoes while trying frantically to manage a simple double Windsor with my tie in the mirror.

  Brett is in the living room with his feet propped up as I dash for the door. “Oh, it’s your first day already?” he calls out. “Grab a bite before you go! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”

  “No time,” I say, out of breath. “I slept in. I’m gonna be so late.”

  “Where’s this internship thing at again? Didn’t you say it’s Uptown? Take the Q train to the P, go up three blocks, hop on the—”

  All his directions fly right out of my ears by the time I’m squeezed onto the crowded subway train. Despite ample warnings, I miss my stop, tediously backtrack a few blocks aboveground, get turned around by confusing signs, and eventually find the right street, racing down it toward my destination.

  By the time I finally stand before the building—Wales Weekly—I’ve sweated through my shirt, and I’ve loosened my poor tie past the point of looking anything like the perfect knot I achieved back at the apartment. My stomach is tied in a worse knot, and I think there’s sweat in my eyes.

  A cool blast of air swallows me when I enter the building. The interior is vast, cold, and full of reflective tiles. Every suit, tie, and parted head of hair that passes me is more intimidating than the last. The only thing I hear is the click-clacking of dress shoes and heels. It even smells cold in here.

  My eyes needlepoint toward the set of elevator doors ahead, one of which I promptly enter.

  Two guys squeeze in right after me, one of them carrying several orders of coffee. They are heading for the same floor. “Seriously, the first day, and already I’m the office bitch?” mumbles one of them. “Oh, I know,” the other says back. “We’re basically the scum that sticks to the scum on our boss’s shoe.” The first one sighs. “I’d hoped we would at least get to sit in on a meeting.”

  “Are you interns, too?” I can’t help but ask.

  They turn to me. “Coffee gofers for life,�
�� the one on the left answers. “Are you interning for Ms. Opal, too?” asks the right. “Or Mr. Whitaker?”

  “Oh, uh … no.” I smile. “I’m interning for Mr. Wales himself.”

  “Well, yeah, he’s everyone’s boss here, we’re all interning for him technically, but—”

  “Wait,” the one on the right cuts him off. “You mean you’re a top-level intern? One of Mr. Wales’?”

  I blink. I didn’t realize until this exact moment that there were different levels of interns. “Uh … I don’t know. My internship is with Mr. Wales and the editors. I did a phone interview with a Brenda.”

  The two of them look at each other. At once, they adopt cold smirks, then turn and stare ahead, having lost all interest in speaking to me.

  I frown, confused by their reaction, then hook a thumb into the strap of my—

  My thumb finds nothing there. My jaw drops.

  I forgot my laptop bag at the apartment.

  The elevator dings right then. When the doors slide open, a sea of colorful desks and cubicles fills my eyes. People rush around with earpieces, coffee mugs, and tablets from station to station. The room is brightly lit from the floor-to-ceiling windows that line it, inviting the life of the very city itself inside. Each person has the urgency of commitment, work ethic, and passion burning in their souls.

  And I can feel it at once.

  Stars of happiness flood my eyes, making me forget all about my laptop—or these interns’ moods—entirely. The madness of this floor speaks to me. The exhilaration. The buzz. The fervor. The life …

  One of the interns taps a button to a higher floor, then shoots me a look. “This is where you’re heading, upper-level boy.” The other one carrying the coffee gives me just as much of a sneer. “Good luck … and riddance.” And the pair of them are off.

  The doors slide shut. Silence swallows me as the elevator hum fills my ears, carrying me higher.

  Ding.

  The doors slide open again, revealing a very different atmosphere. A long hallway stretches on before me with doors on either side. As I make my way, I catch glimpses through the windows of the doors, peering into stark interiors of offices as well as boardrooms with tables big enough to seat fifty, yet I only seem to ever count four or five faces.

  With a gasp, I narrowly avoid crashing into a woman walking by, who shoots me an annoyed look before disappearing down the hall. “S-Sorry,” I say a moment too late, then wince as I continue my way into a lobby-like area with a few chairs, water tank, and a large display case with awards, plaques, and portraits lining its sleek, steely shelves.

  “Are you Connor Hill?”

  I turn to find a woman at a desk, her straight hair cropped at the chin. I smooth my tie out and smile. “Yes!” I answer her brightly. “Nice to—”

  “You’re late.”

  “I … I’m sorry, I was—”

  “No, you’re not sorry, you’re late,” she cuts me off. “I’m Brenda Markowitz. Count yourself lucky that your professor who recommended you knows Mr. Wales personally. Or else I’d fire you. There is a waiting list of far more qualified candidates.”

  I swallow hard. “It’s my first time coming here,” I explain, “and I missed my stop on the—”

  “Mr. Excuses,” she decides, her half-lidded eyes appearing bored as she folds her arms on her desk, leaning forward. “That’s what I’ll call you, if you’d prefer. Do you like that name, Mr. Excuses?”

  I put on a smile. This is my dream job. If I play the game a little, it could set me for life. “No more excuses,” I insist with a nod. “I’m late.”

  “Good boy. You’re learning already. Now …” She fetches a tablet, rises, and saunters around her desk. “Let’s get you up to speed. And it is a very fast speed, so no time for questions. Just hit the ground running, know everything before I say it, and you’ll make me one happy manager.”

  6

  From that point on, my day becomes a series of sweating, lip-shutting, and half-asked questions I’m probably not allowed to ask anyway. The first thing I do is sneak in (late) and sit in on a meeting, which makes me think about the two interns I ran into on the elevator. I’d swiped a tiny spiral pad and a pen from a supply room, and it’s on those tiny pieces of paper that I take notes, listen with my wide eyes, and absorb. I would be lying if I said I don’t notice the other interns giving me strange looks, as they’re studiously typing on their laptops or lightly tapping on their tablets. I don’t care; my focus is a bit strained trying to play catch-up as it is.

  There are only ten of us. I am one among ten in this intimate handful of upper-level interns. That notion might have made me feel special back in Kansas, thinking about it from a distance, but here in the actual Wales Weekly building full of suits, ties, and cold stares, it’s making my fingers sweat.

  Have my fingers ever sweated before?

  Is that even possible?

  Brenda takes us all around the building, from the graphics design studio, to several different copy rooms, to a writing boardroom, and to something called a “big plan room”. Three hours go by before I even know it, and when I lean in to one of the interns to say, “I hope we break for lunch soon,” he responds with a haughty snort, and: “If you came here to eat, you’re in the wrong business.”

  I don’t get much warmth from the other interns either when we’re sent to an empty boardroom to brainstorm ideas on a mock “civilian hero” project. “Dartmouth,” answers an intern named Bree when she’s asked where she went to school. “Yale,” says Dave, another intern. “Princeton,” adds another.

  “I went to Harvard, like my father,” answers a tall and impressive intern named Jay, whose stiff, thin lips look incapable of bending at all, even for the benefit of a smile. I’m not sure why, but the others seem to respect him, their backs stiffening and their eyes tracking him whenever he speaks, as if he’s been nominated as the top intern of us all, the greatest competition, the example, the leader.

  After Jay’s answer, his aloof gaze turns on me. “You look like you’re a Columbia grad, if I had to guess. Or is it Stanford, perhaps?”

  The eight other interns look at me expectantly.

  “Y-Yep,” I answer vaguely, smiling.

  No one else smiles. They wouldn’t dare. They probably wonder what’s wrong with me, curious why anyone would ever actually smile in here.

  He stares at me. “Well, which is it? Columbia or Stanford?”

  I open my mouth.

  Nothing comes out.

  Why did I lie in the first place?

  I’m saved by Brenda entering the room at that very moment to check on our progress. And I’m once again just another listening face among the interns, whom I’ve quickly realized are in a totally different economic league than my own.

  But my professor believed in me, and he stuck his neck out to get me this opportunity. I have to believe it was worth it, that I belong here, that I’ve got as much to prove as the other interns.

  Even if I’m quite sure their parents’ income is about fifty times whatever my parents could ever hope to make in their lifetimes.

  It’s hours later when I’m back in the elevator, every ounce of my energy spent. The day I’ve had is evident in my tired reflection, which I stare at in the shiny metal surface of the elevator door.

  I look different, but can’t say how.

  One of the other interns is also taking the elevator down, the lone female. Bree. Short-haired, tanned, and freckly, she gives me the tiniest smile of acknowledgement before proceeding to mindlessly stare at her own tired reflection, right next to mine.

  We don’t say very much at first.

  “Long day,” I mutter, breaking the silence.

  “Sure,” she agrees mildly.

  “To be honest, I thought our internship was … going to be a little different. I thought we’d—”

  “That Jay needs to pull the stick out of his ass.”

  I glance at her. He definitely has a way about him, I reason
. “Maybe he was some kind of leader where he came from. He learned to be the way he is for a reason. I think we should give him a chance … at least for a little bit,” I add with a chuckle.

  My chuckle is returned with a roll of her eyes. “Alright, that’s more than enough fucking Pollyanna I can stomach for a day, thank you.” She thumbs through her phone, squinting agitatedly.

  I return to staring at the door, leaving her be.

  Serendipitously, the door opens on that other floor on our way down, and I am gifted another brief glimpse of the glorious madness of journalists working hard to capture that perfect story. Three guys board the elevator, relegating myself and Bree to the back, and the doors shut. The guys are in a heated conversation about font sizes, of all things.

  Bree stuffs away her phone with a huff and gently pinches the bridge of her nose, appearing to nurse a headache.

  I can’t ever let someone suffer near me without saying something. “The work might be unforgiving at times,” I say privately to her, “but who else in the whole big city can say they’re being paid to do what they love?” I give her an encouraging smile.

  She frowns. “Paid? We’re not being paid.”

  I stare at her. Maybe she’s confused. “Of course we are. The program pays for its … I mean, I was told that Mr. Wales …” My heart skips three beats in a row. I feel a pinch of doubt. “Mr. Wales said he—”

  “We’re not being paid,” she repeats, cutting off my stammering. “They cut spending to the intern program last summer. Like, everyone knows.”

  The floor of the elevator falls away.

  I’m floating. Weightless. Uncomprehending.

  Bree shrugs lightly, not noticing my reaction at all, then lowers her voice to add: “Thank God for loaded parents, am I right?”