The sunlight peaks through the windows and wakes me up. Not as idyllically as it reads though, more like jolts me into forced mind-numbing consciousness. I glance at the phone screen that screams the time in neon green at me.
8:06 a.m.
My heartbeat accelerates and last night is flashing right in front of my eyes. Kent... Alcohol... threesome...
"Focus on the right now mia!" inner voice harshly snaps me back to reality.
I bully my body into standing up tout de suite, and at once I am dizzy. There is darkness enveloping my eyes and I blink frantically for it to pass. The swift movement also made my already pounding headache ten times worse. Why was I out drinking with Kent last night right before my first day at work?
I have to be at substance magazine at 9 a.m. sharp. I put the location on my GPS, and it's 28 minutes away by Uber, which I am of course taking. Fuck the subway.
I wash my face, abandoning the idea of showering; perfume will have to do. My hair is wild and untamed as usual.
"Braid them in the car." Inner voice suggests.
I throw my makeup in my big black tote as I brush my teeth. I dampen my beauty blender and throw it in. I will also do my makeup in the car.
I quickly change into my white high waist jeans, glad that they can hide my bloat from last night. How many calories did I even consume? I wish I could remember much of anything.
Instead of my tight-fitting black top, I opt for a beige overflowing satin shirt that I don't tuck in. I wear my nude pointed toe leather pumps and grab my chunky black bracelet. I don't have time to look at the mirror, and I lock the door with one hand as I try to put on my lace white blazer, discarding the floral one on the floor.
While walking the stairs, I apply my primer and call for an Uber. It's 8:27 on my clock.
"Careful or you'll become a New Yorker faster than you will realize." Inner voice remarks and I think she too is proud of my lightning speed.
I don't make it to work at the exact 9 a.m. Rush hour traffic delays me by 7 minutes, but given how many people are just entering the lobby with me, I am not flustered. Okay, I am a liar. I am petrified at the idea of being late on my first day at a job I know nothing about.
Everybody in using their Q card to enter the building and I have no idea what to do. I pull up Linda Jone's email that states I should go to the lobby's help desk on the first floor. Wow, fancy schmancy. I have no idea how to get to the first floor.
The lobby, in case I haven't mentioned, is colossal with 4 different exits and people rushing to get to wherever they are going. I look for the main desk, which I think is on the left but I am not sure. There are 3 people sitting behind the long rectangular white marble table wearing black.
"Excuse me, do you know where the help desk is?" I ask, my voice trembling. Why is this place so intimidating and icy?
"Who do you want to meet?" The man with a thick Jamaican accent in the black suit asks me.
"Sub... Substance Magazine," I spit out, nervously.
"Ma'am do you have an appointment with someone?" he spells out for me, irritation dripping from his lips.
"Yes, of course. Umm... Linda from HR, Linda Jones. She called me, and I filled out an application and..." I abruptly pause. What the fucking fuck is happening to me? Thank god I stopped myself from blurting my life story out to this even more exasperated man.
"What's your name?" He asks impatiently. I look behind me, and it's not like I am holding up a line or something. Isn't this his job? Why is he treating it like a formality?
"Don't let him get to you queen, tell him who the boss is," the inner bitch says taking off her sleeping mask. She pours herself some morning coffee and crosses her legs on the throne, waiting to pounce at him.
"Mia Harriet Dawson," I say firmly. I learned early on that as a female, one way to be respected in a professional setting is to say my complete name confidently. If I act as if I belong here, maybe I will feel like a belong here.
"Can I see a form of identification?" he asks, and I dip in my tote to locate my wallet. I frantically scavenge through my 2 concealers, 4 lipsticks, multiple mascaras, and nutrition bars. I have every piece of makeup I ever own, a variety of granola bars, even instant coffee and I don't have my fucking wallet. Fuck.
"I... I don't have my wallet; I left it at home while I was in a rush... I can pull out my email for you if you would like," I quickly suggest. Please let that be enough; I beg the universe.
"Ma'am we can't let you enter without a form of state-issued photo ID," he reiterates my worst nightmare. Can I be any more humiliated? Oh yes, I can be. I will now have to call Linda Jones from HR to come and get me like a little kid. The fucking email says I must carry my proper Photo ID.
I call her up, and it is already 9:27. She picks up the call on the first ring.
"Hello, this is Linda Jones from Substance Magazine," she says in her annoyingly sweet yet almost automated feeling well-rehearsed voice.
"Hello Linda, this is Mia. I left my wallet at home, can you let the front desk know I am expected to see you today?" can she hear the pleading in my voice? Please don't fire me for being late and disorganized and such a mess.
"Of course, Miss Dawson, I will call them and let them know. Take a left from the third door." She instructs me coolly, in her nauseatingly robotic voice.
As I walk up, I realize why she asked me to take the third door. There are multiple doors and each lead to premier sports, fashion, beauty or lifestyle magazine in America. They are all under the umbrella of panache, the parent company of the best 50 magazines in the world.
What have I just gotten myself into?
I enter the third door, and there is a tall woman in a black dress with blonde bob cut looking directly at me. Is she Linda? For a Linda, she is gorgeous.
"Miss Dawson?" she asks, in her icky voice and I nod. I can bet my ass she gets laid with that monotone voice and spread on the boardroom and peal the bodycon dress off.
"Let's talk in the conference room," she says and starts walking. I follow her, mesmerized by the beauty and gay men around me. Do they have a height and weight limit to work here?
45 minutes later, I was signing additional boring paperwork that I did not understand much of but still was pretending to read. The content I create is a property of substance magazine should I leave was the one thing I was clear of.
Okay, I guess.
I sign.
"The entire staff is in conference room 4D, going over the ideas for the week and our goals. We have weekly goals and briefings in the morning every Monday that every member of the staff is expected to contribute to. After which each team meets and discussed their targets." she educated me, and I nod. Thank god I missed today's briefing.
Large groups of people bouncing off ideas about things I have no idea about is nerve wrecking enough, and I am glad I got to dodge that on my first day.
"I can wait in the lobby until they are done, and then I can talk to Charlotte Clark," I suggest to her. Charlotte Clark as I have been informed is the person I directly report to. She is the assistant editor for the dating, sex, and relationship vertical. There is one more writer who too has recently graduated and does the same job assigned to me, and we all are supposed to write the articles that are edited by Charlotte and then published by the dating editor Amanda Barringer. I've read some of Amanda's work, and it's vulgarly tasteful. Like J.K Rowling writing Fifty Shades of Grey type and I think she's also written 3 books, but it could be 2. I should read them to make a good impression on her when I meet her.
"Amanda wants to meet you and introduce you to the team. She's waiting in the conference room. Let me show you where it is," Linda says, and my heartbeat quickens
THE AMANDA BARRINGER!?