This piece was written for an assignment in my nonfiction class that required I relate a personal essay to one of our assigned readings and I chose to reflect the feeling of being passionate about something only for it to ultimately not go as planned that David Sedaris wrote about in his piece The Drama Bug. Where Sedaris detailed his early experiences with theater, I wrote about my first job. The names in this piece have been changed for privacy reasons.
I used to live on Main Street. I could walk into the “historic downtown” area of Summerville and pass by small businesses owned by people who called me “Dana’s daughter”. As the summer of 2017 approached, my friend Brianna and I popped in and out of just about every building in “downtown” submitting job applications, but there was really only one place we wanted. Nestled between a dance studio for toddlers and a coffee shop that was home to at least 80% of first dates in my hometown (including my own) was a photography studio. Prestige Portraits took the yearbook pictures for senior high schoolers all over South Carolina, and this was their base of operation.
A photography studio seemed the only logical option for my first job, as I had such extensive experience with the one camera our school newspaper shared and messing around with the green sheet in our classroom that could make it look like I was standing on the moon. Somehow my portfolio, which consisted of some pictures of my yard and a video I made for my school’s morning show of my friends and I acting out the Scooby Doo intro, landed me a job.
We were officially hired around spring break time, and Brianna quit her job at Cracker Barrell so she could commit fully to Prestige, a place where we would finally be able to hone our creative skills while being paid.
Except, we didn’t start out as photographers, but rather customer service representatives, which was an incredibly roundabout way of saying receptionists.
When I arrived at the studio on my very first day, the sun hadn’t risen yet. The sign above the building’s emerald green awning had “Prestige” written across it in white cursive letters that had yellowed with age. I had a desk, with a laptop, a printer, and a little notepad on which I wrote customer requests and complaints that I would pass to my bosses after work and hope they read. Past my desk were the photo setups. Sometimes people would ask me which one was my favorite, and I’d glance to the back of the studio at the very last backdrop that consisted of some rusted metal hung on the walls with hay bales in front of it.
“They’re all pretty good,” I’d say, “Only the best at Prestige.”
We had two bosses, both named Katie. Katie Number One had wild wiry hair and eyes so wide that I was afraid that one day she’d blink and they’d just pop right out. Katie Number Two had choppy copper hair, played loud Christian music in her office at all times, and did not like to be spoken to.
Katie Number One took a liking to Brianna and me right away. She said she was impressed by our ambition, and she was sure we could be promoted to photographers soon. She was so impressed by us when we came into the job that she didn’t feel the need to explain to us how to do anything on our first day. We were adults, we could figure everything out on our own. And we did.
By about a week in I had just started to get used to getting up at 4:00 in the morning, getting in to work at 4:30, then piling into the back of a work van with Brianna. It was a white van, the kind my mom would warn me about when I was little. We’d stack camera equipment in the trunk and then slip into the dingy backseat, where we’d stare out the smudged windows at miles and miles of pine trees, swampland, and various McDonald’s until we reached our destination: yet another South Carolina high school.
There was a cage behind the seat that kept the equipment from coming forwards and crushing us during the drive. It rattled and creaked every time the van moved. Once, I got trapped behind the cage and the trunk door wouldn’t open. We had to call a locksmith, and then I had to pour myself out of a window like a limp old snake.
Since neither Bri nor I could drive, there was always an adult Prestige employee who piloted our work van. Sometimes it was Anna, who had cherry-red hair, was heavily pregnant, and immediately told us about her time spent in jail for drinking and driving. Other times it was Bella, who was also heavily pregnant and had also been to jail. She told us her boyfriend at the time had been caught with marijuana and she told the cops it was her’s.
“Never cover up for a man’s mistakes,” she told us.
Our favorite driver was Alicia, she always had wild stories to tell us. On the way home from Beaufort High School she told us about the last time she worked that school and caught the valedictorian and her boyfriend having sex under the stage. According to Alicia, when the couple was discovered by herself and the ancient woman from the school’s front office, the boy stood up, fully naked, declared “I’m not done!” and slammed the door on them.
There was yet another possible driver, though, the worst of them all: Katie Number Three. On only her first time driving us she was already threatening to crash the car. When we returned to the office that day she cast a sad look in my direction and said something that wasn’t an apology but I think was her version of one. I didn’t quite hear it, I was so busy being thankful I’d made it back alive.
“Do you think I’m a bitch?” she asked me.
I figured saying “absolutely” would be unprofessional.
Katie Number One quickly lost her enthusiasm for Brianna and me, but at least she maintained her positivity. Or, more accurately, she laughed a lot. No matter what I said to her, she would laugh. She had the kind of laugh that belongs to someone who has smoked many things for many years. She would come into work and lock herself in her office, refusing to come out even when dissatisfied parents were screaming at me to get a manager. When she’d emerge, she’d be twice as loud as before and half as useful. She’d shoot rubber bands at me while I was on the phone, or waltz through our lobby chatting with students instead of doing anything I needed her to.
Katie Number Two rarely showed her face unless that kid selling bibles came by; she liked to talk to him. The only time she spoke directly to me, she had me stay an hour after work because she was trying to “prove” that I was stealing money from the cash box. I spent that whole hour explaining to a middle-aged woman how addition worked.
Katie Number Three quit. I can’t say I missed her much.
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