#i love getting automated emails from book stores
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I simply don't think that's true eBooks.com but thank you anyway
#i love getting automated emails from book stores#about authors who have been dead for decades ajdbfkdjdj#i had to read nietzsche for my existentialism class. god what a pretentious dude
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Starlight 5
Summary: Amani is an orphaned heiress who’s spent most of her life raising her younger sister. T’Challa is a widowed King and Father. Neither of them is expecting much from their night at the Lotus. But the coming months have many milestones in store for these young adults. Will becoming a family be one of them?
A/N: Happy Thanksgiving y’all!
1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6
“Madiyson we’re going to be late!” Amani yelled at her friend who’d been doing her makeup for the past hour. The heiress sighed and buckled her heel shut around her ankle. She double-checked that her purse had her ID, insurance cards, some cash, and a portable phone charger. She threw in her lipstick de jour and shut the clutch. “Madiyson,” Amani yelled for her friend again. Her phone buzzed in her hand and she smiled glancing at her new message.
T’Challa: and I take it you aren’t particularly thrilled about having to work tonight?
Amani: Not even a little bit
Amani grinned. It’d been two months since she spent the night with T’Challa and Ada. Before she left the next day he’d made sure he’d gotten her number. They’d talked every day all day for the last 60 days. Unfortunately, T’Challa had been busy at home and didn’t know the next time he’d be in the states. That night while watching the movie she’d ended up wrapped in his arms and she missed him. They’d shared kisses on the couch, and one final one before she’d left the hotel the next afternoon. She couldn’t lie and say she didn’t really really missed him. “You ready?” Madiyson’s voice broke Amani’s daydreaming. “Huh?” Amani placed her phone in her clutch.
“Who are you texting?” A grin snuck its way across Madiyson’s face. “No one,” Amani mumbled trying to hide the blush sneaking on her face. She knew it wouldn’t show on her cheeks but her friends could read her like a book, Madiyson would know she was embarrassed instantly. “Um-hmm. It must be baby daddy from the restaurant that’s got you grinning like that,” Madiyson teased following her friend out of the house. Amani knew how to handle this. Just play dumb for long enough and Madiyson would lose interest relatively quickly. “Who’s baby daddy?”
“The fine man that came in with his daughter? You told me y’all reconnected at the last party and he spent the night over your house. Don’t act like he ain’t man up and finally get that number. If a dude stays at your house without trying to hit it, he likes you.” Madiyson shrugged. Amani locked the front door and unlocked her car. The two women piled in the car and Amani pulled off. “Or he just wants to be friends with me?” She spoke up a few minutes later. “Ah, so you admit that’s who you were texting?” Shit. Amani froze, “no he still hasn’t called.”
“You’re a horrible liar sis,” Madiyson chuckled. “New message from T’Challa,” the cars automated voice flowed out through the stereo. “Oh who’s T’Challa?” Madiyson smirked and reached for Amani’s phone. The heiress prompt smacked her hand away. “Leave it alone,” Amani whined. “Come on sis, I don’t know why you’re trying to hide that you like him.”
“I’m not trying to hide anything.”
“You’re really bad at lying we’ve gotta fix that soon,” Madiyson mock sighed.
“I just, I don’t know what we are right now if we are anything. I don’t want to go around telling y’all about him and we’re just temporary,” Amani relented and explained her feelings to her friend. “See was that so hard?” Madiyson teased. “Shut up,” Amani chuckled.
“In all seriousness I understand. And I respect that. I just want you to be happy. So if he makes you happy figure out what y’all are doing,” Madiyson shrugged. “Do you want to be more than friends?”
“I don’t know. I think I do, but he’s so far.”
“We’ll FaceTime is a thing for a reason,” Madiyson offered.
“Yeah. If it’s not the same as having him in my arms you know?”
“Woah Woah Woah! Time out! Flag on the play! blow the whistle! Y’all have been in each other’s arms?” Madiyson exclaimed. Amani sighed at her own slip-up. She and her big mouth. This conversation would never end now. “We may or may not have had a movie night in his hotel room a few months ago. “What! Why didn’t you tell me!” Madiyson pouted.
It isn’t that big of a deal. We just watched a movie and went to bed.”
“You spent the night!
Amani inwardly groaned. This big mouth just didn’t know when to stop. “ Yeah it was late and he offered me a guest bedroom,” Amani explained. Things didn’t exactly happen in that order, but what Madiyson didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. “Can we switch topics now?” Amani pouted.
“What else you’re wanna talk about then? And it better be good to replace this conversation.” Madiyson sassed. “How about we’re here?” Amani pulled her car into valet. “Sure but we will finish this conversation later,” Madiyson pointer at her friend before allowing the valet to help her out of the car.
“Thank you,” Amani smiles at the worker before handing him her keys. She walked around the car making sure to the train of her outfit off of the ground. Once Madiyson had Her train in hand as well, they headed into the event together.
Two hours later found Amani conversing with one of the board of directors. He was explaining the idea he was going to propose at the next board meeting. She knew that the gentleman truly wanted her feedback and approval, but Amani couldn’t help the fact that her mind was wandering. She decided that she would ask the gentleman to email her a copy of his proposal and she would offer the best feedback she could that way. It was true that Amani, nor Amare, had a heart for business, but they did truly care about their parent’s legacy. Amani had watched her parents struggle for too long to build this business. There was no way she was going to watch it fall. So even though she and Amare weren’t on payroll, she made sure to keep abreast of what management had in store for her parents’ company. Feeling bad for having virtually ignored this man’s whole spiel, Amani decided to politely interrupt and ask him to email her, when a familiar voice washed over her spine. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering If I may have a word with the lady,” the voice asked. The look on the board member’s face gave the king away. “Of course your majesty,” the man stuttered. Amani felt a genuine smile erupting on her face for the first time tonight. She didn’t bother trying to fight it when she turned to look at T’Challa. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” Amani turned back to the board member, “f you email me your proposal I’d be more than happy to provide my full opinions and continue this conversation soon,” Amani offered. “I’ll send it to you tomorrow,” the man smiled. “Have a good night Ms. Okeke, your majesty.” Amani watched him walk out of earshot before turning back to the man that had been occupying her phone and mind for the past two months.
“Perfect timing as usual,” Amani smiled up at the king. Her heart fluttered at the sight of his smile. “I was known for being quite the prince charming back in my day,” the king smiled. “Care to sneak away with me?” T’Challa offered Amani his arm. She glanced over at Madiyson who’d been talking to a young exec from a sister company. Seeing them now moving to the dance floor she decided she’d text her to let her know where’d she had gone. “Where did you have in mind, your majesty?” T’Challa smiled, “I’m afraid the balcony will have to stand in for some great adventure. I didn’t know I’d see you tonight.”
“Me neither, I thought you weren’t going to be back in the country for a while?” Amani asked as they strolled around the room towards the balcony. Her cape slid behind her as they moved around the hotel ballroom. “I didn’t plan on it. I was hoping to surprise you this weekend, I heard about this event from another company I’m looking to invest in. When you said you had to work, I didn’t know that you’d be here.” The king explained. “I guess we both got lucky then,” Amani grinned. They stepped out into the night air. T’Challa stooping to help Amani and her cape get settled on a bench stationed on the balcony. “Thank you,” the mocha-skinned woman blushed. “You look beautiful,” T’Challa smiled. Amani blushed and played with the beading on her gown. Her dress was a true nude for her skin tone, which was a rarity for black women. It was covered in a layer of sheer white fabric and delicately beaded all the way down. A sheer white cape hung down from her shoulders and created a simple but dramatic train. “You look very handsome yourself,” Amani smiled up at him. “I’ve missed you,” she admitted as they smiled at each other. “I’ve missed you as well love,” The king leaned closer. “I missed doing this too,” he smirked before engulfing Amani in a kiss. His lips took over her mind as she kissed him back.
T’Challa pulled away a few seconds later. She was glad someone was thinking straight. This was not the best place to get carried away. Amani placed one last peck on his lips before sitting back fully. She bit her lip and looked away. “I should probably text Madiyson and let her know where I am.” She pulled out her phone and sent a quick message. She felt T’Challa’s eyes staring at her as she placed her phone back in her clutch. When she looked up he pulled her into another kiss. “Last one,” he whispered as he pulled away. Amani couldn’t fight the giant smile that took over her face. Her heart was racing and her stomach was fluttering. Just the thought that he was just intoxicated by her as she was by him was a major confidence booster. “How’ve you been?” Amani asked, she let her hand rest on the bench in between her and T’Challa. She observed his profile in the city lights. The sound of traffic surrounded them while the stared at the city and her lights. She’d never felt more at peace. “Busy, but good. Mostly missing you. Ada misses you as well.”
“I miss her too,” Amani brightened at the thought of the little girl. “How have you been heiress?” T’Challa takes her hand in his own. He rubs circles along the back of her hand while she gathers her thoughts. “I’ve been good. Aching to get out of the country. I’ve been seriously thinking about starting my own event planning company. I think a little vacation could give me the time I need to finally put it into motion,” Amani revealed. “I think that sounds like a great idea,” T’Challa squeezed her hand.
“Really? You don’t think it sounds crazy?”
“No. I think distance can very well bring clarity. It sounds like you’re serious and putting a lot of thought into this. You aren’t taking it lightly and rushing it.”
“Thank you. I’m still a little nervous but I think it’ll be good for me to do something I love for once.”
“I agree. Where were you thinking about going?” T’Challa moved closer to her on the bench. “I’m not sure yet,” Amani thought, “I’ve gotta decide whether I want to stay domestic or go international. Maybe I’ll come visit you,” Amani teased. T’Challa grinned, “ You are always more than welcome.” The two fell into a comfortable silence once more. “I’m glad I saw you tonight,” Amani blurted.
“Me too Amani. Can I take you out tomorrow night? If you aren’t busy or don’t have plans,” the king asked. “Of course. Tomorrow is my off day, so I’m all yours.” Amani swore she saw something ignite behind T’Challa’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. “I have some meetings in the morning, but I’ll pick you up at 5:30?”
“I’ll be waiting.” Amani smiled, “How should I dress?”
“You look beautiful in anything,” T’Challa grinned. Amani rolled her eyes, “Really though, you always look so nice. I don’t want to wear jeans and then you show up in a suit.”
“It’s just a nice dinner and a surprise. Nothing Formal.” The king explained. Amani nodded. “Kumkani,” someone called from the balcony doors. Amani started to move away but T’Challa held her in place, with her hand in his lap. “Something has happened, we must leave quickly,” The woman relayed to T’Challa. Amani could feel the man tense and sigh. “No rest for the weary huh?” she teased in a whisper. The king offered her a small smile. “Go, I understand,” she reassured. The king nodded and stood, helping her up off the bench with him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he reassured. Amani blushed as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. She offered a small wave as he backed off of the balcony before following the woman away. She checked her phone and realized that she and T’Challa had been on the balcony for a little over and hour. Ready to head home she spotted Madiyson talking to the same young man in a corner. She walked over and smiled at her friend. “Hey,” Madiyson smiled, “Marquis, this is my friend Amani. Amani this is Marquis. He works at Meridian Corp. We used to go to high school together.”
“Nice to meet you, Marquis,” Amani shook his hand. “Nice to meet you as well Ms. Okeke.” he smiled. “How’d you-” Amani started. “There isn’t a soul in this room who doesn’t know who the Okeke daughters are,” Marquis explained. “Oh. Well please call me Amani, a friend of Madiyson’s is a friend of mine.”
“Good to know Amani,” Marquis smiled, “I’ll leave you two alone. I really enjoyed seeing you again Madiyson.”
Madiyson blushed, “I enjoyed seeing you again too.” Marquis pulled her in for a hug, “I’ll call you soon,” he promised as he pulled away. With another nod at Amani, the young executive vanished into the crowd. “I didn’t know you were popular like that in these circles. You must be like the princess of Atlanta high society.” Madison gawked. “I guess,” Amani laughed. “You ready to call it a night?”
“Yeah girl, you were right. Marquis is the only remotely interesting person I’ve met all night,” Madiyson laughed. “I tried to tell you,” Amani joined in as they left the ballroom and got onto a balcony. Her phone buzzed in her purse. She took it out and smiled at the message.
T’Challa: I wish I didn’t have to leave, the emergency resolved itself before I could even get there
Amani: Aww poor baby. There’s always tomorrow though.
T’Challa: Indeed. I’ll be counting down the seconds until I can see you again.
Amani: Charmer.
T’Challa: Is it working?
Amani: You’re insufferable.
T’Challa: you seem to tolerate it pretty well.
Amani rolled her eyes.
Amani: Good night your majesty.
T’Challa: goodnight Amani.
“Amani!,” Madiyson’s shout pulled her out of her daze. “Yeah, sorry what’s up?”
“I asked where you vanished too earlier,” Madiyson asked. “Oh, T’Challa was here so we-”
“You saw him?! You promised you’d introduce me.”
“He had to leave early,” Amani explained. “What’d y’all talk about? I thought he wasn’t going to be in the country soon?”
“I’ll tell you all about it if you drive,” Amani chuckled.
“Can I spend the night?” Madiyson looked at her friend, her hand out awaiting the keys. “Of course.” Amani laughed.
“Then hand me the keys Mamacita! I’ll drive you anywhere you wanna go.”
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You And Me (And Your Friend Daisy)
Thanks for pushing me to finish this, Anon! This is a short, fun, and romantic story written in the verse of my other fics Bell, Book, and Candle and No Sin But Ignorance. Takes place some time post the ending of No Sin But Ignorance. That being said, this is probably very comprehensible without knowledge of those fics, so feel free to just view it as a no-apocalypse au. The majority of this was written while writing Feste - more accurately, when I needed a break from the crushing depression of Feste, so that’s why it’s so cheerful. :)
Yes, it’s named after that Garfunkel and Oates song, because that’s the plot.
The rest of the story is under the cut!
*******************************************
“Are you going to tell me where we are?”
“You have to guess! And no peeking!”
Jon sighed, slouching in his seat. He hated surprise vacations. He hated being forced to leave work and ‘take a break’ because ‘you’re contractually obligated to use your PTO hours’. And he did take vacations, he didn’t know why everybody acted like he didn’t. He and Georgie took Gerry to Blackpool once a year for Spring Break. That was a whole week off. That was enough for anybody.
But Martin had been pointedly sending him emails about ‘fun couple’s trips’ and ‘romantic getaways’ in an ultra-subtle act of subliminal messaging. Indeed, the three emailed promotional advertisements listing off fun, relaxing, and romantic things to do with your significant other were so subtle that Emma was forced to listen in on the automated JAWS voice reading them out and then call him a ‘fucking idiot’.
Whatever. It wasn’t as if Gertrude took any vacations, and nobody got on her back for it. Jon was willing to bet that Dekker never sent Gertrude any passive aggressive emails. He would have to ask him later - they got boba together once a month, he was an excellent conversational partner. He was, of course, slightly insane, both for his fervent adherence to the ancient religions and willingness to come within five feet of Gertrude Robinson for personal reasons, but all the best supernatural hunters were.
“Well, we’ve clearly been driving north for the past eight hours, judging from the angle of the sun,” Jon said, annoyed. The car radio was playing the Archers in a dull drone, which Jon had insisted upon, because he and Daisy never missed an episode. This confused and frightened Martin. A bag rustled, and Jon knew that Martin was fishing around in the plastic convenience store sack for more Jaffa cakes. “Combined with the time, that can only mean that we’re going to Scotland. I don’t have any close friends in Scotland and I’m willing to be you don’t either -”
“Hey!”
“ - so unless you assigned yourself the task of following up on the Scottish Slaughter Statement without me assigning it to you, and deciding to bring me along, I’m guessing that we’re going to stay in a hotel and do...touristy things.”
“Wrong again,” Martin said triumphantly. He liked keeping track of every time Jon was innocently incorrect about something, just to prove it to everyone else. “I mean, yes, we are in Scotland, you’re right about that, but we are not staying in a hotel. We’re staying in the country.”
“Darling, I would love to sit on the Scottish Moors and stare out into the endless, unceasing fog with you in complete silence,” Jon said lovingly, “but I thought you wanted to do something romantic.”
“That’s not romantic?” Martin gasped, horrified. “Have you even read Wuthering Heights?”
“You and Gerry are two peas in a goth pod.”
“He’s goth, I’m gothic. There’s a difference. And don’t tell me that you don’t enjoy gothic literature - you’re literally a Byronic hero.”
“Oh, here we go,” Jon sighed, as the car bumped over a speed bump. He hadn’t heard another car for hours now, and he knew that they had to be in the middle of nowhere. The weather had grown colder, more humid, and occasionally he could hear the bleat of cows. It was...calming.
Then Martin started listing off the very many reasons why Jon was a classical Byronic hero, then Jon had to remind him that none of that stuff had technically happened, then Martin began insisting that it happened in their hearts, then Jon got deeply engrossed into today’s episode of the Archers and felt the need to inform Martin about its illustrious and aged history, which prompted Martin to put on Hatsune Miku when the episode was over and indoctrinate Jon into whatever ‘Vocaloid’ was, and by the time the car transitioned to skittering over bumpy gravel they were both entering a heated discussion about the most superior of the ‘Vocaloids’.
“ - and she created Minecraft?”
“And she’s trans,” Martin said heatedly.
“Good for her,” Jon said, just bemused. The car engine quieted, and keys clinked and rustled. “Are we here?”
“Yep! Seven hours later.” Martin sighed and made a quiet, satisfied noise, probably stretching, and Jon didn’t bother to fight his smile. Man was like a cat. “I want to show you around and everything, but honestly that drive was exhausting and I might take a nap first.” He sighed happily. “Peace. Quiet. No coworkers.”
“I’m your coworker,” Jon pointed out, opening the door of the car as Martin did the same. He stepped onto gravel, grinding his trainer a little into it, and breathed in. The air tasted...fresh. Clean. Pure and just a little chilly. It was nice. It perked Jon up, as the wind lightly tousled his curls. He stretched his legs too, cramped from being knitted up in the small car. Martin popped the boot and started loading packages into his arms, and Jon walked over and held his arms out so he could help Martin carry the packages. Martin dropped a picnic basket filled with snacks in his arms, and handed him his own suitcase, as Martin dropped his own suitcase on the ground with a heavy thump. “How does a teenage girl create a video game? That’s very impressive.”
“This week you are my boyfriend,” Martin corrected him, thumping the boot down. “No Emma getting on my case about misfiling the papers. No Michael concern trolling me. No Eric judging me for my taste in tea. No Gertrude terrifying me every second of the day. I am free. I am not going to think about work, or anybody related to work, for a single second. No Entities. No fear demons. No monsters, besides my boyfriend.”
“Thanks,” Jon said wryly. “Aren’t we forgetting someone?”
“Oh, darn it!” Martin opened the back door of the car, and pulled out a carrier. The wire door of the carrier cinched open and Tiresias came bounding out, barking madly and running in little circles around Jon, his tail beating against Jon’s leg. Jon laughed, lifting his burden higher in his arms, and let Martin loop his arm around Jon’s and guide him towards what he had to assume was some kind of building. “C’mere, boy. Good boy! You were so good for the trip! You’re getting a hundred snacks as soon we get inside.”
“Are you going to tell me where we are yet?” Jon asked, exasperated.
Martin squeezed his arm happily as they walked up an incline, shoes scuffing dirt. “I got permission from Daisy to borrow it. It’s her cabin, just outside of Applecross. It’s really in the middle of nowhere, nobody around for kilometers. Just us and a great deal of cows. It’s really gorgeous, Jon, with such clean air and beautiful hills. I can’t wait to go for walks with you. You’ll get so much time to go through your audiobook collection. And we can snuggle, and I can cook for you, and we can listen to more radio dramas, and we can talk about our future, and you can pet the cows…”
“Sounds wonderful,” Jon said honestly, squeezing Martin’s arm back. They paused, Martin rustling his keys again, and Jon heard the grinding of metal before a door seemed to creak open. “I can’t wait to spend this week with you. I could use a little peace, I think.”
“Gods, me too. You have no idea how stressed I’ve been. It’ll be just you, me, and -”
That’s when Martin screamed, and Tiresias barked excitedly and ran forward, almost bowling Jon over, and a familiar voice broke the quiet of the rustic cabin.
“Aren’t you a good boy, Tiresias? Aren’t you a good boy?” Daisy Tonner’s grin was audible through her words, but it held a familiar tint of ferociousness. “Hullo, Jon. Blackwood. What are you doing here a week early?”
“Early!” Martin squeaked. “I said we were coming up the first week of September -”
“Really?” Daisy said, voice casual. Seemingly. “Because I have it down in my calendar as the second week. This is my vacation. And I’m not leaving.”
Silence stretched between them. Jon smiled happily towards the sound of Daisy’s voice, placing his burdens at his feet, and soon Daisy walked forward and enveloped him in a bone cracking hug.
“It’s so good to see you,” Jon said, hugging her tightly back too. “I’m sure we can share the cabin for the week. It’ll be fun, like a sleepover!”
“Oh, I think so too,” Daisy said, her voice tinged in a wolf’s grin. “Don’t you think so, Martin?”
“Good fucking christ,” Martin said.
****
True to his word, Martin was exhausted enough that he immediately made the bed and collapsed into it. Jon lovingly took off his shoes and socks and Tiresias even, adorably, pulled the comforter up around Martin’s ears. But Martin didn’t sleep: he seemed preoccupied in angrily muttering to himself about how he didn’t get the time wrong, she did, this was all her fault, and it was also completely on purpose, devil woman, everybody was trying to ruin everything -
“Love, if I ask her to go, she’ll go,” Jon said.
“No! Ugh!” Martin screamed lowly, muffled, and Jon realized with amusement he was screaming into the pillow. “It’s her house, she’s doing us a favor, I don’t want to be rude! I can’t kick her out of her own home!”
“Are you going to be passive aggressive at her until she leaves?”
Incriminatingly, Martin was silent.
“She’s more stubborn than you are. If you try to solve this with your usual methods she’ll outlast you.”
“I hate her so much,” Martin groaned.
“Don’t say that,” Jon said loyally. “She’s really come around to you, you know. She hasn’t threatened to chop your dick off in - oh, two weeks now. That’s a new record.”
Martin groaned again. Jon kissed him on the cheek, turned the light off - “Jon, you just turned the light on.” - turned the light off for real this time, and went into the living room/dining room/kitchen to start putting away all the food they had brought. He bent over his suitcase, withdrawing Tiresias’ harness, and whistled to call him over before snapping the harness on. Tiresias stiffened into what Georgie called ‘Buisness Boy Mode’, and Jon grabbed his handle with one hand as he loaded the groceries into the other.
“Here, let me help.” Daisy lifted the other load from the floor, leading the both of them into the kitchen and opening the fridge. “I know Georgie’s organizational system.”
Jon just sighed, slowly navigating his way to the fridge to put his own load away. They had clothing to unpack, things to set up, and arrangements to plan, but Jon had the sense that none of it was getting done immediately.
“What were your plans for this week?”
“I normally go up here to hunt,” Daisy grunted, sliding cans into the cabinet. At Jon’s raised eyebrow, she clarified, “with guns. They’re all locked up in the gun cabinet, as is my ammo and knives. Neither you nor Martin have the keys, but the cabinet is in a closet near the bathroom. That should be locked too.”
“Goodness, Daisy, I’m not an errant toddler. I won’t play with your collection.”
“You’re my errant toddler,” Daisy said loyally, giving him a noogie and making him scowl. “Say it. Say you’re an errant toddler.”
“Goodness, Daisy, leave me be -”
Then she lifted him up, like he was nothing more than a bundle of sticks, and held him in the air as he screamed and kicked his legs, trying to get down. Tiresias, the Traitor, the Serpent, the King of Lies, barked happily. “Let me down! Daisy!”
“Say you’re an errant toddler and I’ll let you down.”
“I shan’t. Daisy, stop -!” But then she started tickling him, which was extremely dangerous, and Jon was forced to cackle out in breathless laughter, “Fine, I’m a toddler, let me down, you crazy woman!”
She tossed him lightly onto the pull-out couch, putting away the rest of the groceries herself, and Jon let Tiresias sit on top of him and lick his face as he could almost audibly hear Martin pouting in the bedroom.
“This’ll be fun,” Daisy said, shutting the cabinet and rustling some familiar boxes. “Can’t believe Tim paid me fifty quid to do this. I would have done it for free.”
“Do what?”
“Never mind. I have your copy of Life, do you want to play?”
“Sure!” Jon sat up, feeling Daisy sit down next to him and set out the game pieces. Then something occurred to him. “Wait. What are you doing with my copy of Life?”
“Georgie lent it to me.”
“...why did Georgie -”
“I was going to leave it here for when you came up,” Daisy said easily, and Jon nodded in acceptance. “Spin the spinner to see whose turn comes first.”
Jon considered thinking deeper about this, but Daisy wouldn’t lie to him. She was the most trustworthy person he knew. She didn’t have a deceitful bone in her body. He shrugged and reached forward and found the spinner, giving it a good twist before rubbing his thumb over the braille. Something occurred to him.
“Maybe we can ask Martin if he wants to join -”
“I’m sure he would prefer his rest.”
“Okay!”
This vacation was going to go great. Why had Jon been worried?
****
That night they had a delicious barbecue outside, cooked by Daisy. Martin ate it in angry silence, which was quickly broken by Jon’s frequent nudges and directions for conversation. He wasn’t the most socially adept person at the best of times, but Martin and Daisy were two of his best friends and he knew how to get the both of them talking. He was even able to draw them into a spirited conversation about 19th century literature - Daisy preferred Russian novels, while Martin preferred Gothic romances and Hugo and Jon tended towards nonfiction. Afterwards Daisy grabbed her gun, kissed Jon on the cheek, did something that made Martin squeak in fear, and tramped off to go hunt deer or something. Jon waved her off with a blessing, his sixth sense thrumming with satisfaction for the Sacrifice.
He spent the night cuddled up with Martin, watching Beauty and the Beast on his laptop. Martin was obsessed with Disney movies in a way that explained a great deal about him, and Beauty and the Beast was his absolute favorite. Jon ran his fingers through his soft and feathery hair as Martin squeezed his hand, and Jon’s heart settled in complete contentment. The audio description voice droned gently about the heartwarming falling in love montages, but Jon wasn’t really paying attention: he just felt safe, and warm, and as if he wanted the moment to last forever.
Then his mobile rang, a clear automated voice saying “Gerard calling. Gerard calling.”
“Oh, I should get that.” Jon straightened, throwing out a hand on the coffee table where he thought he had put his phone, and Martin pressed it into his hand. He accepted the call quickly, putting it on speaker and holding it up to his ear just like, he was reliably assured, ‘an old man’. “Hello, honey?”
“Jon!” Gerry yelled. “Did you get the cabin okay?”
“Oh, so everyone knew but me,” Jon said, amused. “You’re on speaker, Gerry, so say hello to Mr. Blackwood.”
“Hi Martin! Are you guys having a good time? You have to take me next time, I want to see Daisy’s guns!”
“You will not see Daisy’s guns,” Jon said quickly.
“Hi Gerry,” Martin said, a smile clear in his somewhat strained voice. “Sure, you and Georgie should come up next time. Make it a party. Why not.”
“Told you she’d do it,” Georgie said, and Jon perked up. “Hullo, love. How’s your romantic getaway going?”
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Jon said, excited. “We’re going to walk down to the town tomorrow, check out some of their antique stores. I’ll let you know if we find any interesting art.”
“I’ve been up to Daisy’s cabin a few times with Melanie, it’s delightful. Great place for her to hunt and for me to practice my carrion photography. It’s always nice just to get away from it all! I hope you haven’t touched any work, Jon.”
“I haven’t,” Jon said loyally. He paused a beat. “Do Statements count? Because I was planning on listening to a few recorded ones as a sort of bedtime story?”
“That’s just self-care,” Georgie assured him. “Treat yourself, queen.”
“Thanks, honey. Make sure Gerry gets his homework done? Do you need any help? I have some time now -”
“I got it,” Georgie said, laughing slightly. “I can still help a fifteen year old with his English. I’ll make sure he brushes his teeth too. Just enjoy yourself.”
“Have a good time, Dad!” Gerry called, the affectionate nickname making Jon smile. “Bring me back a cow!” Slightly more muffled, Jon heard him say to Georgie, “Mum, when Jon goes on a romantic getaway, what do you think they -”
“Night, honey! Night, Martin! Love you!” Georgie called loudly.
Jon laughed, unable to stop himself from waving a little, as if they were there. “Night, you two. Love you too. Stay safe.”
“We will! Bye!”
The line clicked off, and Martin’s arm stretched across Jon’s shoulders squeezed a little tighter. Jon extended a foot and clicked the space bar on the computer, starting up the movie again.
“You’d make a really good dad,” Martin said, almost to himself.
Jon settled back against Martin, leaning his head against his shoulder. “I feel like one already, honestly. Obviously, I have far more experience with teenagers than babies, but they can’t be that hard. If I don’t drop them…why?”
Martin coughed a little, abruptly flustered. “No reason! No reason.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Can’t exactly have them biologically,” Martin muttered, before sighing. “Yeah, I’d love to...foster or adopt or something. I’ve had my - differences - with my parents, but I’m still glad they adopted me, you know? I’d like to pass that on. But...better. Much better.”
“Georgie is talking about fostering again once Gerard moves in with Eric,” Jon said quietly. The thought of Gerry moving out, of living full time with Eric again - it just seemed weird. Almost wrong, although it wasn’t - Eric adored Gerry, and he was a competent father. It was just that...well, technically, Gerry had been living with them since the beginning of the universe. On a purely literal level, they really had always had Gerry with them. It would be strange. “As a - recipient of the foster care system myself, I’d like to make a difference too.” He smiled thinly. “We’re very compatible, aren’t we?”
“Would it be...you and Georgie…?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
Martin sighed a little. “Is it dumb that sometimes it feels like you already have a family built in?”
Hm. Jon hadn’t quite thought about it that way. “You know those jokes about me and Georgie being married are just jokes,” Jon said reproachfully.
Martin moved away a little, leaning forward, slipping his arm from Jon’s shoulder. He abruptly missed the warmth. “But you’re partners. You’re raising a kid. And I know Daisy and Tim think of themselves as your overprotective big siblings, they aren’t even wrong.”
“Many people have siblings? And friends? Some even have kids, I’ve heard.”
“I don’t.” There was really nothing for Jon to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. “I don’t want my entire social circle to just be through you…”
“It won’t be,” Jon said firmly, reaching out a hand and brushing it against Martin’s arm. He squeezed it firmly. “You don’t have to be Lonely anymore, Martin. I won’t let you.”
“Is that a promise?” Martin said, as if he was joking, as if Jon wasn’t certain that he wasn’t. As if he needed the reassurance.
“How can you be lonely when I’m here?” Jon said, and trailed his hand up along Martin’s arm until he reached his neck and he could cup his face. He rubbed a thumb against his wispy stubble, light and thin. “I’m right here.”
Martin kissed him, and then the movie was quite thoroughly forgotten as Jon necked with his boyfriend on the couch like a teenager. They forgot everything, and for a small period of glorious time Jon forgot everything that he knew, in all of its entirety, and his Eye saw only the here and now.
Then the door thumped open, the wind blew into the cabin, and heavy footsteps thumped into the room. Something dragged behind the footsteps, something that sounded a bit...wet.
Martin, who was thoroughly on top of Jon and almost done unbuttoning his shirt, froze. Jon just craned his head, trying to hear the sounds of what was likely a dead deer being pulled in through the entrance way better.
“Hello Daisy!” Jon said, still pinned down. “How was your hunting?”
“Lucrative. We’re eating venison tomorrow.”
“Great! Need any help getting that put away?”
“No, I’m good.” Tiresias barked happily. “Here, boy, you can have a little. Good boy. I’ll probably skin and clean it outside, I just wanted to get my gloves.”
“Take your time!”
Martin sighed and got off Jon, straightening his own clothing. “Yeah, Daisy, take your time.”
“Oh, am I interrupting something?” Daisy said blithely. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You’re fine,” Jon assured her, fixing his own hair from where it had grown tangled. “Want to finish this movie with us?”
“Sure, let me gut this animal first.”
“Great! Scooch over, Martin.”
“You know,” Martin said, “maybe we want to move to the bedroom?”
“If we stay in the living room I can hook up your laptop to the television and we can watch the movie that way,” Daisy said innocently.
“That sounds good,” Jon agreed. He patted Martin’s hand. “Is that alright with you?”
Martin sighed. “Yeah. Of course.”
That night, Jon curled up next to Martin on the creaky wooden bed, listening to the flies buzz around them and the crickets hiss their lilting song outdoors.
His earbuds were still nestled in his ears, the soft hum of his Walkman cutting the quiet night, his own pre-recorded voice reading out a story. Martin sat next to him, and occasionally Jon could hear the soft shift of the pages of a book turning. Every so often Martin would gasp, or make a little noise at some exciting event in his book.
Jon rolled over, throwing out an arm and pulling Martin in close, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder as he let the earbuds roll gently out of his ears. Martin was soft and warm, the cotton of his t-shirt rubbing up against Jon’s cheek, and Jon let his mind gently bliss out and drift away.
He thought about the breakfast he wanted to make the next morning, and of the soft beat of Scottish sun on his face. He thought about the creak of cobblestones as jumped-up jalopies rolled over them, and of the shifting and groan of old wood. He thought of the bright, sharp summer smell of the highlands, and the sinking and sticky marshland.
“We should visit the antique store in town tomorrow,” Jon murmured. “Georgie’s been looking for a new lamp, and I think they should have a nice Rococo one for cheap.”
“Oh? Maybe I can pick something up too.” Martin gently scratched Jon’s scalp, making him bliss out even further. “Nice of you to always loop us in on the best deals, you little shopping catalogue.”
They, of course, had not been to the town yet, and there was no reason for Jon to know of the antique store, or the Rococo lamp. Jon hadn’t even thought about it, the information as available and easy as the layout of the convenience store down the street and a left turn from his childhood council flat.
Martin’s voice broke the quiet, cutting through the buzz of insects. “You know I love you, right?”
“I know everything,” Jon yawned, snuggling into Martin’s side closer.
“Not what I meant.” Martin hesitated, almost awkwardly. “You’re a literal mind reader and everything, but I’m not, so…”
“Oh, Martin.” Jon reached a hand up and cupped Martin’s cheek. “I built this world from the bedrock of my love for you.”
“Uh - wow! That’s - it’s kind of weird how you can just say that and have it be true!”
“Our lives are weird,” Jon agreed, brushing his thumb over Martin’s lips, and he carefully leaned his head up to kiss him, and they passed the long silent minutes just like that.
Several hours later, Jon found himself jerking awake. Martin was snoring beside him, and he couldn’t feel any sun on his face, so Jon figured it was likely still nighttime. He carefully slipped out of bed, reaching out a hand and trailing it along the wall until he managed to leave the bedroom, navigate down the hall, and enter what he was fairly sure was the living room.
“Jon?” A voice broke the night. Daisy, who had taken the pull-out couch. “You looking for the loo?”
It was only then that Jon realized that he didn’t know why he had gotten up. Tiresias snored loudly in the kitchen, adding a subtle undertone to the noise from outside, and Jon found himself shrugging helplessly. “I don’t think so. Did I wake you up?”
“Nah. Hold tight, I’ll help you to the couch.” Sure enough, after the almost silent footsteps echoed through the main room Jon felt a soft hand on his back, and she led him towards the couch. Jon lightly kicked it, testing its height, and gently lowered himself onto it, the springs of the pull-out bed breaking through the night. “What has you up?”
Jon just shrugged again. The bed creaked beside him, and he felt calloused fingers carding through his hair with gentleness that would have been surprising to most people.
“Am I a bad boyfriend?” Jon asked, surprising himself. He hadn’t even known he was thinking that.
“Did Blackwood tell you that you were?” Daisy asked sharply.
“No! No, not at all.” Jon sighed. “I just...I just have different needs than him.” He could already tell what Daisy was thinking, and he shook his head. “Not about the - the you know what thing. I just...I know how much he loves me. I know what he thinks of me, I know his dedication to me. Sometimes I just assume that he’s - capable, of what I’m capable of. Do I not tell him I love him enough? Am I not affectionate enough?”
“You aren’t as perceptive as you think you are, Jon,” Daisy said, amused. “I think you’ll find that Blackwood has quite a few more secrets than you think he does.” She untangled her fingers from his hair and squeezed his arm. “Blackwood’s insecure. All insecure people want mindreader boyfriends. But you force him to use his words and ask for what he needs, Jon. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s good for him. He needs to learn to speak up for himself.” She hummed slightly. “He reminds me of Basira, a little. She’ll never tell you that you bothered her, and she just lets it pile up and up. But then you go just a little too far, and then she explodes all of that pent up anger and frustration on you. She likes to pretend she’s a real robot, but she’s just as human as the rest of them.”
“I’m so terrified of Basira,” Jon said miserably. “Remember when I dropped a plate and she told me that the reason why my gran didn’t love me was because I was an attention seeking nine year old?”
“She’s so mean. I love her so much.” Daisy patted Jon on the back. “Buck up. I’m working on Blackwood. You focus on enjoying your vacation.”
Jon let himself lean to the side, resting his head on Daisy’s shoulder. “I’m worried that Martin will realize that I’m not capable of expressing romantic affection in a socially typical manner and leave me.”
“God, shut up, whiner.” But the bed creaked and Daisy’s head gently slid out from under his shoulder, and Daisy gently helped Jon to his feet. “I’ll get you back to bed. Bitch about your imaginary relationship problems to me in the morning.”
Translated: I love you, I’ll always be here for you, and goodnight. Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Aren’t the lights off? How can you see anything?”
When Daisy spoke again, a quiet bass growl echoed underneath her words, and Jon grinned with her. He Knew, like how he Knew that he loved Martin enough to destroy the world, that Daisy’s eyes were flickering yellow in the darkness. “Don’t be fooled by appearances, Jon.”
She helped him back to bed, and when Jon slept through the rest of the night he dreamed of nothing but Martin’s weight on his.
****
“What a beautiful morning!” Martin said loudly. “The birds are chirping, the Scottish highlands are beautiful, I am here on my romantic vacation away from everybody with only my lovely boyfriend for company - and Daisy Tonner!”
“Glad to be here,” Daisy said affably.
“This is so much fun!” Martin said, still loudly.
“I think so too!” Jon said enthusiastically.
Tiresias barked.
After a breakfast pointedly prepared by Martin, they all got dressed and saddled up to go walk into the village. It was a quick walk, only about twenty minutes, and Martin and Daisy enjoyed the scenery as Jon enjoyed the warm grip of Martin’s hand in his and the breeze on his face.
When the trail began sloping further downhill, and their footsteps began to slide against the incline, Jon pulled what Gerry would have called a ‘pro-gamer move’ and moved his grip up until he was clinging to Martin’s arm. Martin sprayed a hand out, resting it against Jon’s back, and helped him down the trail.
“Whoah! You alright, honey? Careful of your step!”
“Jesus christ,” Daisy muttered.
“It’s hardly Jon’s fault -” Martin began heatedly.
“Yeah, Daisy,” Jon said, delighting in setting them against each other like the cold, uncaring god he was, “check your privilege.”
Then they were off, because despite Daisy was allergic to social consciousness, and Jon whistled a jaunty tune, composed in the 15th century and unknown to all but its lonely shepherd creator, as they navigated their way downwards.
The village was small, nothing more than two streets with cheerful wooden facades and swing porches set out on the decks with wizened elderly people sipping from bottles of Irn Bru and smoking down cigarettes to the dregs. At least, as narrated by Martin, who seemed to already be mentally writing his small-town murder mystery in the Scottish highlands (Martin’s poetry needed work, but his fiction held a certain massmarket appeal). Knowing Martin, the protaganist would likely be either a grandmother with his own personality, or a thirtysomething gay man who had twelve counts of arson on his record and was running from the cops.
Wait. Wait, Jon should use his words. Ask instead of look. Display interest in Martin’s inner life - which, granted, seemed to be a waste of time when Jon could just Know and not waste his breath, but Georgie had been coaching him in this.
“You should give the ex-con narrator a boyfriend,” Jon said supportively. “Maybe bring back the gay bar owner from the last book?”
Martin almost tripped over the gravel. “How did you know I was thinking of - Jon, I told you not to read my mind!”
“Lay off, you know he doesn’t do it on purpose,” Daisy said uninterestedly, growling at what Jon guessed were passerby on the street.
“Daisy, stop telling me how to talk to my boyfriend -”
“Oh, he’s your boyfriend now, is he?”
“Yes! Yes, he is!”
“Let’s get some ice cream!” Jon said loudly.
“How did you even know there was an ice cream - fine! Fine, of course!” Martin sighed loudly. “Why not!”
As it turned out, they were right in front of ice cream. Jon loved it when things worked out.
****
Twenty minutes later, after Martin laboriously reading out all of the entirely too many flavors to Jon, Daisy growling at everybody at the store like an errant dog, fighting with the owner of the store extremely politely about his actual dog existing, and finally taking their ice cream outside to sit at a picnic bench and attack their waffle cones, Jon felt content.
He indicated this by telling everybody everything he knew about emulsifiers, which were extremely neat and a lot of fun! Because nobody was stopping him talking by saying ‘let’s talk about something else, Jon’ or ‘isn’t that a bit boring, Jon?’ he moved onto the history of waffle cones, safe in his assumption that everybody was as interested in the topic as he was.
“I love you so much,” Martin said, somewhat dazed, when Jon stopped to draw a breath. “Did you know that this is the second time this has happened?”
That stopped Jon short, when nothing else did. “Really? Has it?”
Martin’s spoon scraped his small paper bowl. “Yep. Uh - for my birthday, I think. Me, Tim, and - and Sasha, and you. You ordered rum raisin. I was thinking...did you actually like rum raisin? Or did you just panic?” He laughed, somewhat self-consciously. “You didn’t remember about it even before the whole apocalypse thing, so no sweat, but…”
“Oh.” Jon realized, for probably the fifth time, that Martin held years and years worth of memories in him, and that Jon had only fragments and impressions. He knew that he had everything important, that everything he needed was within him, but - did he? What if he was missing the key to everything, the key to Martin, and all he needed was to just Look deeper? “That’s - I could remember it, if I wanted.”
“It’s fine, Jon,” Daisy said quietly. “Don’t go giving yourself a migraine.”
“I could,” Jon insisted. “I’d like to remember something like your birthday, Martin. Precious memories, or - or something. Give me a moment, I can send a quick prayer, and -”
“You know,” Martin said, and he squeezed Jon’s hand. “I’d rather make new memories right now. Where we are right now, that’s - that’s the most important place, innit?”
Jon smiled at him, and he knew, in the most mundane of ways, Martin was smiling back. “I like to think so too.”
“Ugh,” Daisy teased, although perhaps to an outsider it may have sounded mean, “get that sappy shit outta my face.”
“You’re just as bad with Basira,” Jon shot back, smiling. “You two are in love -”
“Take that shit back,” Daisy hissed.
“You want to get married -”
“Who told you!”
Jon tapped the lens of his glasses smugly. “A little Eye told me.”
“Beholding cuck.”
“No, that’s Peter -”
“Martin would know all about Peter, huh?” Daisy sneered, and the pressure on Jon’s hand intensified for a brief second before it withdrew completely, leaving his hand cold and empty.
“Jon, can you give me and Daisy a few minutes of privacy, please?” Martin said pleasantly.
Jon raised an eyebrow, licking the ice cream dripping down his hand. It was Vast flavor. Tasted like...ozone. “Why?”
“He doesn’t know the area, you can’t send him off alone,” Daisy shot back, strangely smugly. “Come on, Blackwood. Whatever you want to say to me, you can say it in front of him.”
“You know what, fine. Fine!” Martin thumped the table, making Jon start and Tireasias stiffen. “I have done nothing that warrants this kind of treatment from you. You are disrespecting me, disrespecting my relationship, and you are insulting my fucking intelligence. I appreciate you loaning us your cabin, but if I knew that it would come with strings attached then I would have paid for my own bloody hotel! Why are you doing this!”
“Tim gave me fifty quid,” Daisy said, like the wolf that had caught the canary. “Plus it’s fucking funny.”
“Done what?” Jon asked, confused.
“I want you out of my vacation, Daisy,” Martin hissed. “If you won’t leave the cabin, then I am booking my own Air BnB and that’s fucking final! I don’t care if I have to - to fight you in the street about it, I can and I will, you don’t want to mess with me -”
“Sure.”
Martin stopped short. Jon licked his ice cream, fascinated by the drama. “What?”
“I said sure,” Daisy enunciated clearly. “I was waiting for you to fucking say it. I told Basira I’d be home by tonight, anyway. Knew you’d snap.”
“I - what! What! What?!”
“You’re a pushover, Blackwood,” Daisy said. “Your coworkers, your friends, everyone - they just walk all over you. It’s fucking stupid. You are the archival assistant who survived the apocalypse with memories and sanity intact. You lasted longer on the position than anyone since Emma Harvey, and you didn’t have to lose your soul to do it. You looked Elias in the face as you burned his Archives down. You’re not a pussy. And I was sick of seeing you act like one. It’s fucking annoying.”
“I hate you so fucking much,” Martin whispered, somewhat in shock.
“Well, I hate seeing my best friend date a passive aggressive loser, so we’re both unhappy.” Daisy stood up, feet shuffling against the cement, and Jon felt her press a kiss against his forehead. “You two have a nice day out. I’m going to go hunt things, and head back to London. Take care of yourself, Jon. And cut out the PDA, it’s gross.”
Suddenly, violently, with a crushing realization, the entire vacation was recontextualized.
“I don’t appreciate any of this,” Jon said crossly, scowling in her direction. “Honestly, Daisy, you don’t -”
“Blame Tim. Love you, Jon. Love you, sweet puppy. See you later, Blackwood.”
Jon and Martin sat in silence as the sound of footsteps receded from Jon’s hearing, and the low murmur of the small village set in around them. Martin still seemed to slightly be in shock, his ice cream slowly melting, and Tiresias yawned sleepily in the sun.
“I hate her so fucking much,” Martin whispered.
But Jon just smiled, and reached out to brush a thumb over Martin’s close-cropped hair. He leaned in, whispering into Martin’s ear. “Hearing you yell at the scariest woman I know who isn’t Gertrude Robinson was pretty fucking sexy, love.”
“I hate her so - wait, it was? Really?” Martin coughed awkwardly. “Well, she really had it coming, and it’s not a huge deal, and I know she’s your best friend and I should be nice to her, but -”
“ - but she was right,” Jon said firmly. “An arse about making her point, but she was right. I’m working on using my words. You should too. All of the books say communication is key in a relationship. So let’s communicate, alright?” He faltered a little, uncertain if Daisy would want him to say this. “And - and it was obvious, from what she said, that Daisy respects you. It’s a very difficult thing, to win Daisy’s respect. I think she was trying to help us, in her own - unorthodox manner.”
“I hate her so much,” Martin groaned.
“It was very sexy,” Jon hinted.
Martin leaned in and kissed Jon lightly, and Jon could feel his smile against his own. “How about we finish our food,” he said quietly, “walk around town for a bit, buy some souvenirs for your family, and then go back to the cabin and snog and cuddle for a very long time? If that’s okay with you?”
“I’d like nothing more,” Jon said.
And he was right. It was messy, and weird, and painfully uncomfortable.
It was perfect.
#Bell book and candle#immortal with a kiss#no sin but ignorance#my writing#the closest thing you will ever see me write to a safehouse fic#jonmartin#the magnus archives#jonmartin fanfic#the magnus archives fanfic#tma#*bangs pots and pans* i am ace and sex-repulsed like jon so this is the bible how of how to write ace and sex-repulsed relationships#this is my 10 page apology for sidelining jonmartin in my 500 pages of tma fanfic
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Who Do You Love by John Doran
Who Do You Love?
We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire.
You’d think that by travelling that distance around a country you could get the measure of it. Especially if the country was only 361 miles from top to bottom and even less from East to West. You’d be thinking reasonably but not accurately.
Despite journeying the equivalent of one fifth of the circumference of the entire Earth in 31 days, all we got to see was the road itself. England endless. What we experienced was just a percentage of a splodge, a smidge of a blotch on the coastal fringe of Europe that deserved neither the sobriquet Great, nor the title United. How did such a small area of land contain such extravagant lengths of major road? In the same way that a human body could house a tapeworm 33 metres long. Probably not comfortably but hopefully not fatally either. Undoubtedly, in May 2015 - general election month - England had beauty to spare: it’s just that none of it was visible from the motorway.
We met on the forecourt of a petrol station near an airport. Heat haze was already starting to rise from the tarmac. The Driver was dressed immaculately in a tight-fitting black suit, shades and wide-brimmed black hat. His concession to non-monochromatic decoration was silver chains carrying cocks and crosses. He looked like Asa Hawkes, the “blind” preacher from Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood - but much thinner. He tipped the brim of his hat hello. This was not his stage hat but his everyday hat. His stage hat, the kind of prairie Stetson featured in the opening scene of Holy Mountain was massive and kept in the kind of box that suggested it was an essential part of a drum kit. It had its own carefully allotted slot in the back of the van with the tons of amplifiers, speaker cabinets, guitars, synthesizers, boxes of books, suitcases full of clothes and bags and bags of oranges we were taking with us. There was only one way to fit all of this stuff into the vehicle, and packing it correctly was like 3-D Tetris. All it took was one giant, impractical hat in the wrong place and then everything had to be taken out again and reloaded in the correct position.
He was the colour of milk, which made the angry red scars up either side of his neck all the more vivid. He looked like the missing link between human being and some future race of Lovecraftian eel-men who would be able to breathe via gills under water.
As well as me and the Driver, there was the Passenger. She looked more like she had stepped straight from the set of Bladerunner than a Jodorowsky or John Huston movie. This was to be their last tour as boyfriend and girlfriend as they were headed straight to a deconsecrated church in rural Sweden to get married as soon as the trip ended. I was merely a temporary guest in their world. A road voyeur with a month long pass.
Within minutes of setting off we hit the M25 we became enmeshed in May Day traffic. I realised that most of the month was going to be spent looking at slow moving traffic on motorways.
But just as driving to Brighton was slow and painful, leaving it the next day was a dream. On the motorway, time stretched and contracted simultaneously in temporal doppler effect. The days seemed longer but time blistered, popped and broke apart pleasantly as the brain switched down a few gears into a near pure experiential mode. There was little to worry about. All I could do was count the pylons and pretend I had a flamethrower to aim at UKIP billboards and hoardings; to luxuriate in motorway sign typography and listen to Maggot Brain as loud as it would go. Miles Davis’ Agharta was the soundtrack to us speeding out of the south up the M1 towards the Rainy City. Al Foster’s ringing, open hi-hat was our fuel. And then it was nothing but John Coltrane, Electric Wizard and NOMEANSNO until we reached our destination.
It started raining the second we hit Stoke. And then before long we were on the Mancunian Way heading for Piccadilly in torrential rain, parking the van under a tangle of flyovers.
When I planned this jaunt it was a thing of beauty. I took an AA road map and unfolded it until it covered half the floor space in my tiny living room. I took a sheet of stickers from my son’s Thomas The Tank Engine magazine and created a spiral of towns and cities, first round the edges near the coast and then spiraling in toward the centre. Our proposed journey looked like an occult temporal and spatial message only discernable from the god perspective.
What I planned was a perfect thing. But after you plan your perfect thing what happens is this: promoters start phoning you up or emailing you. ‘We’ve double booked you with a Stereophonics tribute act’; ‘There’s actually a bar mitzvah on that day’; ‘It’s Record Store Day.’ And then the perfect thing falls to pieces.
By the time we hit the road the perfect thing looked like that terrifying film of a spider on LSD trying to spin a web. And there was only one thing worse than a spider on LSD trying to spin a web and that was a spider on caffeine trying to spin a web.
We stopped for several coffees en route to Sunderland the next day. The weather was beautiful. Fields of golden rape seed glowed under a blue sky. But I gave up counting the UKIP billboards. There were just too many. The purple pound signs zipped past in a blur. We’d been on the road for five days and I hadn’t seen a single sign for Labour. It was almost a relief when we passed a huge hoarding in an arable field next to a broken tractor which proclaimed: “Prepare to meet your Lord!” We pulled in soon after to stretch our legs in front of a petrol station that shared a forecourt with a sex shop wrapped in a large tarpaulin hoarding, proclaiming: “Under new management!” Next door was a garden centre flying a row of ten confederate flags and two Union Jacks. There was a knackered and rusty jet stream caravan serving up plastic cups of filter coffee.
It became clear early on that the Travelodge was our friend. Every Travelodge the Driver, the Passenger and I shared was identical. A family room. One double bed, one fold out couch bed, minimal decoration, very interesting mass produced art, scant furniture, tea making facilities and a portable telly, often chained to the wall. The Travelodge may have had less furniture in it than the average bail hostel and may sometimes have smelled like a suburban pet shop from 1984 but it was totally fine as we were low ranking touring musicians and writers, not visiting dignitaries from Saudi Arabia.
After Leeds, our Travelodge was situated in a motorway retail park so the following morning we walked just a few hundred yards to the Toby Carvery for breakfast. Pushing open the double swing doors we were confronted by a man in stained chef’s whites, with hair pushed under a light blue plastic turban crowning a jowly and crimson face. He was methodically and noisily applying a large cleaver to a foot long cylindrical sharpening steel with a schnick-schnick sound.
“Hello!” said the Driver cheerfully. “Are you Toby?”
The chef looked up slowly and a pendulous and translucent bead of sweat swayed under his nose. His eyes were like drill holes in gammon. Bruised udders of flesh were hanging below each of his nicotine-stained ocular orbs. He was possibly the most hungover man I had ever seen. He jawed away silently, his eyes flickering dully with rage as he started straightening up. The BPM of metal on metal increased. The three of us circled round him gingerly and headed rapidly for the breakfast counter past tables rammed full of people who looked like they were about to die. I had never seen so many morbidly obese people in one place at one time. It was like God’s waiting room with unlimited fried egg.
Oh England, you are sick.
It was only £5 per head and you could eat as much as you wanted but the choice was only bacon, sausages, roast potatoes, black pudding, fried egg, fried bread, beans and mushrooms. The thrill of the open road. Unlimited roast potatoes and bacon for breakfast.
(We spent just one night at the supposedly more upmarket Premier Inn, and it was relatively more luxurious but due to its incomprehensible automated reception machine, it took us an hour and a long conversation with two angry Premier Inn employees to gain access to our room. “Getting into this hotel was like the opening scene from a new episode of Black Mirror”, said the Driver, a recent convert to the show. “There’s nothing like waking up in some shitty English town, before eating some shitty English breakfast before driving slowly down some shitty English motorway for 12 hours before loading into some shitty English venue and playing a shitty gig to ten people before going to some shitty Travelodge just to watch a really well made English TV series which explains to you exactly why everything is so fucked”, he told me gleefully.)
Any hotel room was actually very much like home as long as you had a laptop, a handful of Nick Cave CDs, some Right Guard and a copy of Threads on DVD, which happened to be the exact contents of my overnight hotel bag.
Waking up in another identical Travelodge on another identical Motorway retail park the next day I realised finally that this was literally the worst place for a writer to be during general election month. Nowhere had wifi that worked. It was like being in a bubble of ignorance for 31 days. We had to choose these parks to minimise the chances of the splitter van getting stolen with all of our gear inside it. Every Travelodge we stayed in was essentially the same, surrounded by a handful of other outlets - a Toby Carvery or a Harvester or, if you were really unlucky, both of them. Then maybe also a Costa, a Boots and an Esso petrol station as well. They were all accessible from a motorway roundabout that wasn’t really near anything other than either an airport, a prison or an industrial estate. A vague hangover from reading JG Ballard as a schoolboy led me to believe that there would be some kind of mind-expanding nourishment to be had from this aspect of the venture but these motorway retail parks were all identical. They were the most co-opted and least free spaces of all.
After breakfast, outside, sitting on a wall drinking a cup of tea in the sunshine, I looked intently at a semicircle of rooks surrounding a single bird of their own kind. They were slowly advancing in toward it. The bird in the middle was stock still and not moving. It didn’t look like a friendly encounter. The Driver and the Passenger came out and joined me. The parliament were just about to attack the accused in order to peck it to death but just as the corvine jury bore down, they were disturbed by a loud noise from above. The Red Arrows flew over the Travelodge in formation causing them to scatter It felt almost as if the Driver existed in a bubble of weird, uncanny, apocalyptic and esoteric events that moved with him wherever he roved. But it was also as if he barely noticed any of them. I stood pointing at the sky.
“Yes, yes” he snapped irritably as if he was sick of seeing this kind of thing. “Let’s get in the van and get off otherwise we won’t get to Digbeth in time.”
That night I dreamt that the solid iron core of the Earth was about to slough us all off until the planet stood raw and bleeding in space, just roiling magma with no skin to contain it. The utter indignity of being born between waves, the scions of a pusillanimous age we were all about to be cast into the void with the filthy scab of a country we called England. A flat and unmagical land. A depressing and tawdry place. When I opened my eyes Toby was stood in the corner of the room, sharpening his cleaver, schnick, schnick, schnick, schnick. Empty eye sockets carved out of rancid, fly-blown gammon.
“We have to stop eating lunch at the Harvester!” I sprang out of my fold out bed and shouted at the Driver and the Passenger, waking them from their sleep. “The full rack of ribs is fucking killing me!”
Fuck the Harvester. Fuck Toby Carvery. All of the clothes that were hanging off me on May 1 were now snug and it was only May 12. My ears were ringing with the premonition of some future blue cheese dressing related pulmonary event.
It was easy to see how ruinous life on the road could be, even when you didn’t drink or do drugs. I felt sorry for younger bands who felt they had to go out partying every night after shows. After a couple of weeks it must end up hellish.
The road to Hull was paved with UKIP signs. Only Necrosis by Cadaver played at ear disrespecting volumes kept us sane. It was dark as we drove into town and ghosts lined Ferensway waiting to greet me. The cinema where I’d had my first date in town, the pair of us just turned 18 - watching Shirley Valentine no less, saying, “Imagine being that old” about Pauline Collins and Bernard Hill - was now a bingo hall. The war memorial that I regularly drank sherry in front of on a bench. The Welly nightclub where I saw a punter swan dive off a balcony and go headfirst through the corner of a formica table. When they took him out on a stretcher there was a blanket pulled up over his face. And then down past my old house on De Grey Street and into the car park of the Adelphi. And then the ghosts waved us back out of town.
The drive to Great Yarmouth was gruelling and 13-hours long because of traffic - we got stuck behind no less than three serious road accidents. Bodies strewn across baking tarmac. Bloodied travellers weeping in incomprehension at the hard shoulder. Slow moving the traffic might have been but at least we had plenty of long albums to listen to. Just like a mattress in a shared student house or the narrative flow of the Bayeux Tapestry - Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly sagged in the middle but it was very, very long, making it ideal for the van.
Eight hours later, after the show, we flew down the A47 unimpeded like we were clinging to a rocket, listening to Slayer albums sequentially at full volume, gabbling like a bunch of four-year-olds as we went. By the last day, I felt like I was about to die and constantly on the verge of tears. I didn’t want it to end. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times. It was genuinely the worst of all times. And yet I’d crawl over broken glass to be able to do it all again right now.
You know, if you really want to get the measure of a country don’t drive round it. Take a train or walk. Maybe buy a bicycle or a skateboard or something.
We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire and parked the splitter van by the roadside.
John Doran, Bangkok, Thailand, December 2017
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I’m jus’ gon do this cause why not I stole it from Here.
1: 6 of the songs you listen to most?
According to my last.fm in the last seven days:
1: ATEEZ: Wave
2: ATEEZ: Illusion
3: ATEEZ: Win
4: TxT: Run Away
5: ATEEZ: Precious
6: ATEEZ: Say My Name
Guys. I like Ateez.
2: If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?
My sister.
3: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 23, give me line 17.
Well I ain’t standin’ up so here’s line 17 from page 23 of Vale which is on my computer.
““Well then, Your Highness,” I say and crouch down, trying to get a look of her face”
4: What do you think about most?
Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad things.
5: What does your latest text message from someone else say?
From a real person that’s not an automated message from a bank or a website it’s from my co-worker from October 26th that says “Ok I’ll do it, print it then I’ll replace it”
6: Do you sleep with or without clothes on?
Well. PJ’s are clothes so.
7: What's your strangest talent?
I don’t think I have any.
8: Girls... (finish the sentence); Boys... (finish the sentence)
Girls not allowed. Boys also not allowed. Leave me alone. (My nb friends can come tho.)
9: Ever had a poem or song written about you?
If I did then the creator didn’t tell me :”D
10: When is the last time you played the air guitar?
I... can’t recall.
11: Do you have any strange phobias?
Frogs.
12: Ever stuck a foreign object up your nose?
Maybe as a baby?
13: What's your religion?
I don’t belieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve.
14: If you are outside, what are you most likely doing?
I’m not outside. But I’d probably be going to work or the store or the post office.
15: Do you prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?
Behind.
16: Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band?
Ateez!
17: What was the last lie you told?
“I’m okay!” #deep
18: Do you believe in karma?
god no!
19: What does your URL mean?
It’s a quote from Ateez’s Twilight.
20: What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength?
I’m very depressed. Strength is probably that I’m still alive? Idk
21: Who is your celebrity crush?
Idk. Find a lot of famous people attractive I-? I Don’t have just like The Celebrity Crush. Jeong Yunho’s cute tho.
22: Have you ever gone skinny dipping?
No.
23: How do you vent your anger?
I throw a temper tantrum.
24: Do you have a collection of anything?
Just a mason jar of my tears.
Also every Ateez album released so far.
25: Do you prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online?
Neither! Fucking email me, bro.
26: Are you happy with the person you've become?
God no :D
27: What's a sound you hate; sound you love?
Ambulance sirens hate. Fuckin... panflute I love.
28: What's your biggest "what if"?
What if I was a... giraffe.? Or a tardigrade.
29: Do you believe in ghosts? How about aliens?
I believe in things we can’t perceive scientifically or whatever. Not ghosts per se, like souls of dead people or whatever. Also yes to aliens.
30: Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Do the same with your left arm.
Nothin I’m jus sittin on my bed. If I move my arms up and down a bit then my blanket and a bottle of water.
31: Smell the air. What do you smell?
Nothin. Is just my room.
32: What's the worst place you have ever been to?
Uuuh a cemetery?
33: Choose: East Coast or West Coast?
In America? Idk which is less racist in general?
34: Most attractive singer of your opposite gender?
What’s an “opposite” gender? I know you mean male but I refuse to give into the cISSEXIST SCUm.
35: To you, what is the meaning of life?
I have no idea what that means.
36: Define Art.
the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.
37: Do you believe in luck?
Yes. But I’ve never been the lucky one unfortunately.
38: What's the weather like right now?
Uuuh I have to google it. Clear. 8°
39: What time is it?
21:30
40: Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?
No. But I probably would.
41: What was the last book you read?
Pfssssshhhh, one that wasn’t written by me? Fucks me, dude. Fault In Our Stars? The Death Cure? I can’t remember, it’s been years.
42: Do you like the smell of gasoline?
Yeah!
43: Do you have any nicknames?
Tia.
44: What was the last film you saw?
Uuuuuuuuhhh... UUUUHHHHHHHHH
How to Train Your Dragon 3, it was nice.
45: What's the worst injury you've ever had?
Had a bleeding spine! Kinda miss it tbh.
46: Have you ever caught a butterfly?
I probably haven’t tried, I’ve just tried to get them to land on me.
47: Do you have any obsessions right now?
Uuuh I’m into Ateez these days.
48: What's your sexual orientation?
I’m byesexual.
49: Ever had a rumour spread about you?
Yes.
50: Do you believe in magic?
Again, I do believe things could exist we can’t scientifically explain but idk. Not in the Harry Potter magic way.
51: Do you tend to hold grudges against people who have done you wrong?
No, cause I believe everything is my fault.
52: What is your astrological sign?
Aries.
53: Do you save money or spend it?
I save money TO spend. I think I found a healthy balance.
54: What's the last thing you purchased?
A fukin... bike. That’s like in your room. Not by accident but because it’s meant to be there.
55: Love or lust?
Like.. in what context? Love? Idk.
56: In a relationship?
Love.
57: How many relationships have you had?
None relationships.
58: Can you touch your nose with your tongue?
I can’t.
59: Where were you yesterday?
Like on average? Or 24 hours ago exactly. Cause I was at work for eight hours and then I was just on my bed.
60: Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you?
Yeah, my phone case.
61: Are you wearing socks right now?
Ye.
62: What's your favourite animal?
Cat? Idk.
63: What is your secret weapon to get someone to like you?
:DDDD If I had any then people would like me.
64: Where is your best friend?
????
65: Give me your top 5 favourite blogs on Tumblr.
I... I dunno? The ones I follow?
66: What is your heritage?
I don’t know what that means. Like what I’m gonna be remembered by? I whined a lot!
67: What were you doing last night at 12AM?
Cried.
68: What do you think is Satan's last name?
Choi.
69: Be honest. Ever gotten yourself off?
Why would I lie about masturbation. Yeah I did.
70: Are you the kind of friend you would want to have as a friend?
Fuck no.
71: You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do?
Save the dog, fuck off.
72: You are at the doctor’s office and she has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. a) Do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? b) What do you do with your remaining days? c) Would you be afraid?
a) I am telling everyone. b) Be paralysed by fear and waste all of it. c) Yes, very much.
73: You can only have one of these things; trust or love.
I feel like that’s stupid.
74: What's a song that always makes you happy when you hear it?
Illusion by Ateez these days.
75: What are the last four digits in your cell phone number?
4153
76: In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?
I wouldn’t know, buddy.
77: How can I win your heart?
Just be nice to me and I’ll probably be emotionally attached to you for life, sorry.
78: Can insanity bring on more creativity?
I don’t think insanity is the cause for any creativity. If an insane person is creative then they would be creative with a sound mind too.
79: What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?
Got into kpop, that was nice.
80: What size shoes do you wear?
42
81: What would you want to be written on your tombstone?
“Balled 2 hard lol”
82: What is your favourite word?
There are too many words.
83: Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word; heart.
Kokoro.
84: What is a saying you say a lot?
I don’t think there is one.
85: What's the last song you listened to?
Treasure by Ateez.
86: Basic question; what's your favourite colour/colours?
Pink and yellow.
87: What is your current desktop picture?
A picture of.. Ateez... sorry.
88: If you could press a button and make anyone in the world instantaneously explode, who would it be?
Donald Trump.
89: What would be a question you'd be afraid to tell the truth on?
Uh, I think I’m p truthful, yeah. Ask me anything.
90: One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren't really doing anything, they're just standing around your bed. What do you do?
Scream. Maybe scramble on the floor and push past them if I can.
91: You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what's even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What is that power?
Immortality!
92: You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?
Oh geez. I was on a carousel in Italy once, that was awesome.
93: You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?
The one that gave me depression idk which one it was but can it go away?
94: You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who would it be?
Ehh, I don’t want that. Like... I don’t know those people, they could be Awful in bed or just in general too. Like I need an emotional bond first and they don’t even know me and I only know the persona they show to the public. Plus it could potentially ruin the music for me later on, it’d be weird, no thank you.
95: You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?
UUUUUHHHHH I DUNNO Lyon cause Grenoble doesn’t have an airport. Well, actually my sister isn’t in Grenoble right now. Hm well if I grab my card before I go then I can just find a hotel there until she comes home.
96: Do you have any relatives in jail?
I don’t think so?
97: Have you ever thrown up in the car?
I had to throw up in a car and then asked the driver to stop the car so I can throw up outside the car.
98: Ever been on a plane?
Yes. Seven times. SEVEN TIMES? Yeah, holy shit.
99: If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?
Someone help me, I am so so so incredibly in need of help, please. Please. Thank you.
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How to Generate More Traffic with Google’s New Features
You’re probably already familiar with Google My Business.
If you aren’t, as a quick recap, Google My Business is a simple way to claim your office address or storefront on Google.
That way, when someone searches for your business, you’ll show up on the right side of a Google search like the image above.
Or better yet, when someone searches for a product or service you’ll offer, you’ll show up in the local pack.
What’s interesting, though, is Google has been making changes to it, which means it just got easier to generate leads and sales for you.
Best of all, very few marketers are even leveraging these features.
Welcome Offers
What’s one of the easiest ways to generate more sales?
By offering discounts and coupons, right? Just think of it this way, if it didn’t work, Cyber Monday wouldn’t bring in $7.8 billion in sales.
Google knows that people are looking for ways to save money and find good deals. With this new feature, businesses can reward their customers by giving them welcome offers.
By following your business, they can get first-time deals and always keep in touch to see when new deals are posted.
Not only will this bring you new customers but also repeat customers because people will be notified every time you have new deals.
To set up a welcome offer, open your Google My Business app and tap on your profile. Under “Turn followers into customers,” click on ‘Create Welcome Offer’ and hit ‘Create.’
You can enter the following information in your offer:
Once finished, you can preview your message and publish. For notifications on new followers, and editing or deleting offers, you can read more on Google Support.
Generate leads in just a few clicks
Google is now adding a “Request a Quote” button in your business listing which was discovered by Joy Hawkins and can also be seen on mobile when searching branded terms.
This is happening with businesses that have the Google My Business messaging feature on.
To enable messaging, open the Google My Business app and go to your listing.
Navigate to Customers -> Messages and turn on!
People will now be able to ask for quotes on cars, insurance, and pretty much any service out there.
You can even review these quotes and reply to them within the Google My Business App and connect with your customers easily for a quick sale.
Make sure you claim your URL
Businesses can now claim a Short Name and URL for their listing.
If you haven’t claimed your URL, make sure you do so before it gets taken by someone else.
Don’t get too crazy though as you can only change your short name three times per year. You can enable this by navigating to your locations page, click “Info” on the left-hand side, and see “add short name”.
You may not think this is a big deal, but if you have used Google My Business before, then you know it’s not easy to share your profile on business cards, emails, and text messages without posting a huge URL.
With short names, your landing page will show as g.page/businessname and can be easily shared.
A business can choose a name between 5 and 32 characters and it can contain the business name, location, and more. People can still flag a name for impersonating another business or if the name is offensive, fake, spammy, or contains inappropriate terms.
So, remember not to violate any policies with your name.
I recommend doing this as it will make it easier for your customers to refer back to your profile where they can read updates, post, make reservations, read/write reviews, and more!
And eventually, people will be able to search short names in Google Maps to find the businesses they love.
Google Assistant
Google is now letting customers order food from restaurants and stores via Google Assistant, which is delivered through DoorDash, Postmates, Delivery.com, Slice, ChowNow, and Zuppler, with other partners possibly coming soon.
Users can click on Order Now on the listing and can choose pick-up or delivery and if they want to order ASAP or schedule for later. Payment happens through the default payment on Google Pay. If they do not have one, they will be able to add credit card information through this too.
Additionally, customers can order food by using Google Assistant by saying “Okay Google, order food from [restaurant].” If the user has ordered before, it will let them see past orders.
Updating your menu online, as well as delivery service carriers and their apps will help get you started on this.
You’ll want to make sure your menus are consistent through all your service carriers to get the best orders to your hungry customers.
And of course, I know there is a good chance you don’t have a restaurant or aren’t in the food delivery business, but expect to see more ways Google My Business gets integrated with Google Assistant.
It’s better to be early than late.
And speaking of food, Google has also added the popular dish tab on your menu which features images and menu items that people love the most.
This scans reviews and images on your Google My Business profile to find the most commonly mentioned dish and adds it to your popular dish tab. Of course, if anything is wrong, you can suggest edits to these.
This helps if there are dishes without names, wrong names, or typos can be fixed.
Auto-generated posts based on reviews
Look, you are busy, but you have no choice but to create content.
Google has given you easier ways to generate posts… in essence, they are now creating auto-generated posts for you.
These recommended posts are suggested through customer reviews on your Google My Business profile and are similar to their Small Thanks program, which tried to get you to highlight reviews given by previous customers on social media and even being able to print it out and display it on your business walls.
You are probably wondering why should you use it, right?
This helps keep people engaged in your profile if you haven’t posted on Google My Business in a while and gives you fast and easy publishing. It even gives you options to customize backgrounds with images and colors.
This will pop up on your Google My Business dashboard and all you have to do is hit “Create this post”.
There’s no real way to pick other reviews for Suggested Posts, but you are always welcome to create your own. This is just a simple feature created to help engage your audience more.
Boost your conversions by controlling your images
Businesses can now set a preferred profile cover photo in your image carousel and have a place for logos at the top-right of your profile next to the business name.
This is an additional feature to the regular NAP (Name, Address, Phone Number) as well as business hours and will be prominently featured.
You can easily create offline material
Google is launching a website where businesses can order and get custom promotional items such as stickers and posters to advertise their business. This is in hopes that it will entice customers to follow places on your profile, add reviews, and create bookings.
You can even order signs like ‘follow us on Google’ and more for free (one shipment per location).
For posters, you can use the editor to create your own type of poster that can be downloaded and easily printed by yourself or a local printing company. If posters aren’t your cup of tea, you can even share these on social media.
This is currently free as it is a downloadable offer, but you may want to pay to have someone print this out in poster size or as stickers to put on your business windows.
Just think of it this way, people put Yelp signage everywhere because it works. Chances are, it will work on Google as well.
Place Topics
Google launched Place Topics which uses data based on reviews to help give information on what previous customers think about your business.
This can help users see themes of reviews at a glance for businesses and it’s all automated.
It’s kind of like a tag cloud.
This does mean that you cannot generate these yourselves or edit them. So, if you don’t have one, you may not have enough reviews.
Also, if you have a negative one, there’s potentially no way of removing this unless you get the review removed. So, make sure your happy customers are leaving reviews is very important.
Possibly entice them with a 10% discount the next time they come… assuming you aren’t breaking any policy guidelines.
Q&A Auto-Suggest Answers
This feature that Google updated uses previous answers to questions and Google My Business Reviews to answer new questions on the spot. As you start writing the question, different answers start to pop up to give you the best match.
So how can you make sure people get the most accurate answer?
Similar to place topics, encouraging your customers to leave detailed reviews of their experience really helps. The more detailed the review is, the better the question gets answered.
Of course, people who are searching for answers can potentially see negative reviews such as prices are too high, service takes long, very long waits on weekends, and more.
In other words, always encourage positive reviews from your loyal customers.
If you haven’t used Google My Business before, you should check it out. With their updates and new features, it is now easier to generate sales and collect leads.
In the future, you’ll see a much deeper integration between Google My Business and Google Assistant. This is going to be important as 50% of the searches will soon by voice searches according to ComScore.
Make sure you are leveraging all of these features and release Google is releasing because it doesn’t cost you money and if you get in early enough, you’ll have an advantage over your competition.
So are you using Google My Business to it’s fullest extent?
This content was originally published here.
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**Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now**
Summary: From your horrible job to the awful/abusive ex-boyfriend, you decide to come back to your old hometown after 5 years. Everything was just as it was when you left it senior year, except for your neighbor Josh Summers. The sixth part of Take On Me series.
A/N: It’s come to my attention that I never named this series with a lot of help from @move-im-indigenous it’s finally named Take On Me based off Take On Me by A-Ha. I finally made a mood board too and slowly working on a playlist! Keep an eye out for it. Tagging @move-im-indigenous @ifitstoogoodtobetrue @diehadess
I had taken a break from josh trying to wrap my head around had happened last night. I had left Josh hanging on uncertainty. And how I left it was horrible. All I ever had known when in ‘love’ was verbal fights. That sign said it all. I had known what I wanted, but how I showed it was awful. The look of josh’s face hurted me. And knowing I had caused it made it worse. I went to my parents phone book and saw a hand written note that read Summers along with his cell number. I typed in his number and looked out my window gazing across the street. Josh’s car was no where to be found.
Maybe it’s best he doesn’t see you, I thought to myself taking a sip of coffee.
With a miserable sigh I hung up. I decided to drive into town checking out the newest shops. Coping with shopping didn’t make me feel any better, but at least I was out of the house away from my thoughts. As I waited for the cross walk signal to come on my phone vibrated with a text. A part of me hoped it was Josh another part of me didn’t. It wasn’t either but an email. I bit my lip indecisively as I typed in his phone number.
What if he leaves me on read?? Or worse tells me its over…
I sighed and locked my phone placing it in my pocket. I saw two couples passing by me, in each other arms laughing together. I internally groaned and walked forward. It was a constant tug of war raging in my chest.
Two lovers entwined pass me by
And heaven knows I'm miserable now
I walked across the street spying on a record/ book shop in the corner. Stringed around the outside was little fairy lights and posters of bands and classic authors. I made my way into the store seeing rows upon rows of books and music.
Slowly I made my way across the floor checking out anything that caught my attention. My fingers ran over the spines of books and I paused hearing my phone chime. I immediately took it out trying to and saw it was a text from a coworker. My nerves were so rattled about josh, I had to do something. If I didn’t my anxiety would get the best of me. I typed in his number and pressed call. A few more rings and soon an automated voicemail.
Oh, you've been in the house too long she said
And I naturally fled
I retreated to the corner of the store seeing an employee setting up more books behind me.
“Hey Josh, it’s Y/N. I wanted to give you a call to see if we could talk I didn-“
I suddenly heard a beep and a slight scuffle and then his voice.
“Hello??”
“Josh..it’s y/n,” I replied, “Can we talk?? Face to face?”
“Yeah, that’s fine, where are you?”
“I’m at this book shop downtown, off of first,” I explained as an invisible weight lifted off of me.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes,” he agreed.
“Alright, I’ll see you then.”
I ended the call and placed the phone in my pocket. I went back to browsing books and saw the employee from earlier stacking more in. I scooted away a bit hoping not to get in his way, “Sorry about that.”
“No, no you’re okay,” he dismissed as he glanced at me.
He was a tall man at least 6 foot and had a hulking figure. His long black hair drifted to his shoulders and his nose was aquiline. He wore a black flannel and dark denim jeans. There was something about him that struck me, a distant face. I shrugged it off and went back to browsing. I could feel his eyes then draw back to me curiously.
“I’m sorry but did you say your name was Y/N?” He asked peering at me.
“Yyea??” I answered looking back at him.
There is it was, that familiar sense. My mind ran through a million names but none seem to appear at the moment.
“It’s me Adam,” he answered, “Adam Paterson.”
A sudden memory came to live as I remembered him from freshman year. He was in two of the classes I had.
“Oh Adam,” I gasped, “Holy shit..hey!”
“Hey back,” he spoke tucking his hair behind his ear, “Wow, so- how have you been??”
“Good, just got a job and moved back here. And you?”
“Pretty good,” he chuckled, “Just taking it day by day. Are you here by yourself??”
“I’m waiting for someone. I shouldn’t keep you from doing your job.”
“Nah that’s alright, I own the place,” he smirked.
“No shit! Well it’s pretty nice, and a lot of customers too,” I admired.
“Yeah,” He noticed my shirt, “Black Sabbath huh? I hear they have cover band of them in downtown.”
“Really?”
He nodded, “They’re pretty good.”
Before I could reply a voice called his name from above us.
“ADAM!” Called a voice from above us.
We both looked up and saw a young woman poking her head out, “Hey Edgelord, It’s one of our vendors.”
“Thank you Daisy,” he grunted as he placed a couple books on the shelves.
I looked at the young who in return flashed a friendly smile, who I recognized was his cousin. She disappeared once again leaving the two of us alone.
“That’s daisy??” I gasped.
“Yup the pain in my ass,” he sarcastically remarked, “It’s good to finally see a familiar face. I legit thought you fell of the face of the earth.”
His honey eyes seem to shine a little brighter. Adam was handsome, there no doubt about it. His grin was playful and his black hair framing his face. He wasn’t the shy kid I had remembered now.
“If you’re ever free we should hang out? ” Adam rushed, “I mean that’s if you want to.”
“Sure.”
Adam pulled out his phone handing it to me. I punched in my phone number and handed it back to him. “708 is my number,” Adam replied as I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Before Adam could get another word daisy called his name again this time louder.
“Duty calls,” he sighed slipping his phone back into this pocket, “But I’ll see you around.”
“Yea,” I nodded giving him a little wave.
“Don’t tell me to fuck off okay,” he joked as he left, “That uh really hurt my feelings the last day of school.”
I winced as I remembered my teenage self, “God, I’m so sorry about that.”
“Don’t be, it made you more punk,” he smiled as he turned on one heel going up the stairs.
My eyes drifted behind him as someone entered the aisle. I felt my heart reach to my throat as I saw Josh. His eyes met mine.
****
Josh closed the trunk of his car and slumped his bag over his shoulder. He needed some time to clear his thoughts and what better way than to go to the gym. He rented out a locker and He pulled out his phone. His thoughts traced back to her and the awful way he had left things. Josh clicked on her house phone number and stared at the dial button.
You really think she’d wanna talk after last night?
He rubbed his fingers through his hair and cursed. He placed the phone back inside his pocket and closed his locker. Josh went to his usually spot and began to work out. His guilt was swimming in his stomach as he remembered the anger in her face. He worked on his good hand but the bruises were still there, just like his guilt. With a hard punch he whammed his fist into the punching bag repetitively.
‘Just call her, you got nothing loose,’ a voice in in head spoke.
No...I could loose her.
With another jab he stopped. He moved onto other equipment in the gym hoping to blow off the stress. But not matter what he did, he couldn’t shake off the feeling. He never felt so uptight before. And scared. Josh placed down the heavy lifting as he strung his thoughts together.
Was he in love with her?? He glanced himself up in the mirror and remembered the way she laughed with him. Her light touches on his forearm and how she looked at him through the dark, thinking he wouldn’t notice. But he did.
“Oh my god..” he whispered lowly, “I am in love....”
A loud chime echoed in his sweats making him jump. Almost too quickly he reached for it only to be flying the opposite direction.
“Sonofbitch,” he crused trying to catch it.
With one swipe he did and fumbled to answer it.
“Hello,” he managed to say out of breath.
He heard y/n voice call his name and his held his breath preparing for the worst.
“Can we talk? Face to face?,” she asked.
Although it wasn’t entirely a green light that things were good, at least they would see each other, that was all josh could ever ask for. Just a second chance.
*****
My gaze went to his hand that was now in bandages. A guilt feeling began to swallow me as I remember the look of hurt from him.
“Hey..” I softly greeted.
“Hi,” he replied, “You wanted to talk?”
“Can we talk in your car?” I asked.
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Josh soft spoken.
I followed him outside and I played with the fringes of my sweater trying to not to look to nervous as we walked side by side. From my side I could see a worried expression across josh’s face. He was parked a few feet away and unlocked his car. I climbed in and gathered my thoughts on what to say.
He dropped his gym bag in the back seat and rubbed his knuckles.
“Did you ice them?” I asked breaking the tension.
“Yeah, and they aren’t so swollen anymore thank god,” he stretched his hand, “I wanted to apologize about last night. What you saw wasn’t me. I should’ve stopped, but I was afraid that bastard was going to do something to you.”
I studied his face, seeing the unnerving guilt in him. He looked ahead then back at me, “I don’t expect you to forgive me right away, I just wanted you to know that.”
“I understand where you’re coming from. I know I’d be pissed if someone was close to you like that. I don’t know how to respond to..well aggressiveness. I tune it out and that’s all I know. It’s sad isn’t it??”
Josh frowned at the truth, my truth.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” his voice became soft almost in a tender whisper, “I never wanted to scare you..”
“I forgive you.” I felt his index finger lightly brush against my hand. “You didn’t deserve to be pushed away.” I gently placed my hand in his. I brought his bandaged knuckles towards my lips lightly kissing him. A soft smile formed on his lips.
“Wait, there’s something else we need to talk about.”
“What is it?” I shifted in my seat as he scooted a bit closer to me.
Josh inhale a breath, “Y/N, I really really like you. Something last night really scared the complete shit out of me. I was afraid I was losing you. You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. You said you knew what you wanted, I want t- need to know if this, me, is what you want.”
I looked at Josh taking in his features as though as though the world had suddenly stopped just for this moment. For a moment I believed it did. I gently stroked his cheek staring into his warm brown eyes. It was true, I wanted him.
“I want this,” I admitted, “I want you.”
Josh’s hand reached under my chin making me look up at him, “You mean it?”
“Every word.”
He leaned in and captured my lips in a kiss. There was sparks flying, It was soft and passionate. A burning euphoric state. His thumb ran across my cheek as we broke apart as our foreheads still touching.
“So are we item now??” I asked with a smirk.
“Yea I think we are,” he chuckled.
He kissed the bridge of my nose and I intertwined my fingers with his.
“Ow! ow! Bad hand! Bad Hand!” he hissed as my hands accidentally gripped on his bruised knuckles.
“Oh my god I’m sorry!!” I apologized.
I suddenly heard my phone ringing this time it was my mother.
“Hey mom,” I answered as Josh rubbed his knuckles.
“I got some bad news,” she sighed, “You’re pretentious aunt is coming over, I thought I’d give you a heads up.”
“You’re kidding me??”
“Oh I wish I was. I don’t have enough wine for this.”
“I’ll see if I can hide out somewhere, maybe for the next thousand years or so??” I spoke thoughtfully.
“Hide out??” Josh questioned.
“Well get out while you still can you have two hours kiddo. I’ll see you then,” Your mom made a kiss noise and hung up the phone.
I rubbed my temples together, “Oh boy..”
“I’m guessing you need a place to hid out from????” Josh question with a chuckle.
“An aunt,” I answered, “You think I co-“
Josh held up his hand, “Say no more.”
I smiled as he started the car.
“So this aunt, is she evil step mother kind??”
“Let’s just say that even the devil wouldn’t want her in hell,” I chuckled.
“That bad huh?”
“You have no idea.”
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Toll-Free, by Rudrapriya Rathore
fiction by Rudrapriya Rathore | runner-up for the 2016 Blodwyn Memorial Prize in fiction, sponsored by Book*Hug
Near the end of the year, the toll-free number flashes across my phone three, five, seven times a day. There’s an odd rhythm about it that orders everything I do. A buzz on the morning subway ride where the train surfaces long enough to get phone signal, like a metallic dolphin mid-leap. A buzz during my lunch break while I eat my cucumber-cheese sandwich at the receptionist’s desk. A buzz when I walk to the grocery store in the evening, or if it’s Friday, to the Owl to get a drink with Phil. And when I get home after dark, two or three more while I watch TV in bed, the phone lighting up my covers with its bluish glow.
I never pick it up.
“Why not?” asks Phil, sucking down his weekly dose of pub fries while they’re still hot.
“Why should I? It’s just a telemarketer.”
“You don’t know that.” We’re more than a year deep into Owl Fridays and the waitresses know us so well they give us the same window table every time. Phil likes the curvy girl with the ponytail, though he’d never admit it, and gives his usual order trying not to look at her chest.
“Who else would call me this many times? It’s a machine, I bet. Not even a real telemarketer.”
“What if it’s your bank?” He licks the salt off his fingers.
“It’s not my bank. My bank emails me.”
“It could be your insurance company, or your internet.” He glugs his beer. “What if it’s the government or something? CSIS?” We look at each other for a moment, thinking it through. Then he snorts into his pint and I laugh because he’s dripping on his shirt collar.
“Alright, I get it. I’m too boring for CSIS.”
“That’s true. You haven’t even had two beers in a row since college.” Phil wipes his face. He likes this. If I play along for long enough, he slips his arm around me on the walk back to the subway station. Once in a long while, he comes home with me. We have sex for half an hour and then he calls a cab, waving as it pulls up to the curb.
This began when I got the job at the reception desk. Phil’s a manager in the office, I think, or an agent. A buyer. A seller. They’re all something like that, the ten or twenty men and women that pass by me every day on their way to the coffee machine. They look the same: blandly content, middle class. They say the same things on a weekly rotation. Hump Day! Happy Friday! Nearly the weekend now! Ah, Mondays! Sometimes I play a game where I try and beat them to it. “Almost Friday!” I say as Marie turns the corner, her glossy pink lips just opening up to greet me. She pauses. I think I see a flash of irritation move across her face—or maybe it’s just a ripple in the sea of foundation-powder blush. “That’s right!” she replies, heels clicking by.
“If I’m boring, what are your colleagues?” I ask Phil.
He shakes his head and gets up to pay. “You should pick up the call. See who it is.”
The phone buzzes two more times that night, and each time, as I lay there in my pajamas watching TV, I look over hoping it’s Phil. CSIS agent here, Ma’am. We’re concerned about the dullness of your daily routine. He might say that, if he called. That sounds like him.
I think of calling him, but I can’t make myself do it, can’t imagine what I would say. That kind of spontaneity belongs to a different kind of person. Those people regularly surprise themselves with what they come up with. They find a new version of themselves in every phone call, while I agonize over how to sign off in work emails. Sometimes I sent documents I needed for the next day in emails to myself. I watched them leave and then land in my inbox, a virtual boomerang. Each one pinged, Look! It’s you!
But the toll-free calls were different. I liked knowing that someone or something had logged my number. There was an entity on the other end of the line, and it wanted something from me.
I roll over and turn off the TV show. It’s almost eleven o’clock. If I did call Phil, he might not answer. That would be the best scenario, I think, if he sat in the dark, too, watching the phone buzz, liking the feeling of being wanted.
***
Either the next day or the next week, I get a voicemail. I stare at it with my eyebrows furrowed over my cucumber sandwich before opening it. I almost want to walk to Phil’s office so we can listen to it together, but I don’t. It’s been so long since I listened to a voicemail that it takes me five tries to remember my password, and when I finally get it right, the perky automated voice sounds a lot like Marie. I listen hard, but the message is just silence. Not dead air, exactly, but a kind of quiet hum. When I listen the second time I think I can hear a slight shuffle. Clothes, maybe, rustling against each other.
I tell Phil later, when he walks by to get coffee, and he says, “That’s weird.”
“I know.”
“Pick it up! Next time. I’m telling you.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis.
That day I get home and tip over the potted plant on my windowsill while doing dishes. It spills fresh, black soil into the clean dishes on the counter, so I have to wash them all over again. Afterwards, I fix the plant and realize the windowsill’s dirty, so I clean that too, and it gets me on a roll, scrubbing the counters and the floors and the walls of the kitchen, where dirt has been secretly accumulating without my noticing. The top of the fridge where I keep the cereal boxes. The crack of space between the stove unit and the cupboards. I clean until my knees hurt and my nostrils burn from the soap and bleach, and then I listen to the silent message saved on my phone again, this time with earphones, so I can turn it all the way up. The shuffle is still there, hiding under a hum. Something human that does not speak.
It starts happening all the time. My voice mailbox fills up every two days, the mechanical-Marie alerting me loudly every time I punch in my password. The messages are always nearly silent, but one in every ten or so sounds slightly different. There’s a muted, tinny beeping through one of them. A sound that could be breathing, if you listen a certain way. A buzz like an air conditioner.
One night, I make a spreadsheet so I know how often the noises happen and colour-code it according to the time of day. I type the number into a search engine, but nothing comes up. I even search company directories online, trying to trace it to a corporation. Another night, I dream that something is watching me through the small camera lens on my phone, so I stick a little piece of green tape over it when I wake up.
Phil passes by my desk three or four times a day and we exchange nods. Friday at the Owl, he leaves early, after only one drink, so I go home and scroll through the spreadsheet, waiting for the phone to ring so I can make another entry. According to the numbers, I’ve been receiving more calls since that first voice message. It’s no longer three, five, seven times a day but thirteen, fifteen, seventeen. I cross-reference columns, trying to find a pattern, but there’s nothing there except for the fact that I never get the good voicemails, the human ones, more than once or twice a day.
It should be scary. I know this. It should make me feel anxious, like I’m under surveillance. But it makes work bearable, to have that phone constantly buzzing in my pocket where no one else can hear it. I suddenly like seeing Marie, because she doesn’t know that she sounds like the automated voicemail lady who greets me so fondly, and I wonder in my daydreams at the desk if Phil is actually the one making the calls, because maybe he doesn’t know how else to tell me he loves me.
My mother calls. I hear another call go through while she tells me about her new yoga class, and my hands shiver a little while I think about the new voicemail. She asks me if I’m dating anyone, and it slips out of my mouth: Yes, I am—actually, he’s here, I have to go. But of course she asks who, and I tell her, A man in my office, we get along great, it’s been a couple of months now.
“Well, well,” she says in a tone of voice that suggests she finds this difficult to believe, “What’s his name?”
Another call starts on the other line and my palms grow clammy. “Phi-Patrick.”
“What?” I resist the urge to hang up on her.
“Patrick,” I repeat. Maybe the voicemails have sharpened my ears somehow, because I can hear something that sounds just like if she was sucking on a cigarette. She hasn’t smoked since before I was born, though, and I refuse to ask her.
“It sounds like things are really looking up for you, darling. I couldn’t be happier. Just a little while ago you were telling me how bored you were, and terrified of never getting married. Is this Patrick—I mean, is he serious about you?”
My hand lowers the phone from my ear. There’s a translucent smear of sweat and beige makeup on the screen. Feeling as though my face is breaking down and sliding off me in wet little puddles, I half-cover the bottom half of the phone and call out to my empty kitchen, Patrick, hon, are you serious about me? and giggle.
“He says he’s not quite sure yet,” I say to her, laughing.
She laughs too. I hang up and wash my face.
***
I love it when Phil is nervous. This I realize at James’s retirement party, which I attend in a blue dress that makes my legs look longer than they really are. A big frosted cake has been ordered from the bakery in honour of James, his name piped over it in green and yellow, and a card that says, Now Real Life Can Begin! has been signed by everyone regardless of whether they spoke to James or not.
Phil gives a speech. It’s not clear to me why he is the one giving the speech instead of one of James’s friends. Maybe he is a bigger manager or agent or buyer or seller than I thought. He hands out glasses of champagne in the lunchroom and then takes a few index cards out of his pocket. He reads off them a few things about how lucky we have all been to benefit from the great attitude James brought into the office, and makes a joke about how some people think not working means being less tired, but others think it means being re-tired, tired again. Then he begins to talk about how much we’ll miss him. He must have copied the cards out wrong, because he reads the same one twice. He knows, too, but is too embarrassed to stop, and remains blotchy for minutes after everyone has toasted James and begun to chat again.
I watch from across the room, near the doorway, and he catches my eye and smiles. I gesture to him with my glass and point out the door, trying to ask if he wants to grab a drink later, but he shrugs and begins talking to someone.
Later on, at home, I watch the phone ring. For reassurance, I print off a copy of the spreadsheet, all eighty pages of it, and lay on my impeccably clean bedroom floor listening to the hum of the printer. I remember my favourite voicemails—the breathing, the definitely human shuffle. There will be someone, I tell myself, who can explain this to me. I smooth my hair and tuck it behind my ears before beginning to read over the notes on the spreadsheet again.
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On rejection, looking for a job, and numbers that boggle the mind...
(Long read, would mean the world if you read it and share it) I wanted to shed some light on the overall challenges I am experiencing in trying to find a full-time job right now. I am going to share the raw numbers and effort with you before I share my background and situation.
1. Of the now 317 creative jobs I applied to on various job boards and networks over the last 4-5 months, I only received 11 replies.
Yes, only 11 replies.
Seven of those replies were automated rejections due to my CV not making it through the tracking systems in place.
The other four replies were mainly that they felt I had a great CV but that the position(s) had been filled internally or otherwise.
2. Let's talk a little more about the automated systems in place that read your CV. The systems are widespread and meant to lighten the load of in-house recruiters.
Your CV passes or is rejected due to keywords and phrases. In the past, people apparently used to try to stuff their CVs full of keywords and/or essentially copy the job listing to pass the system. However, the systems have gotten more intelligent and also should you do that to your CV, it makes it a tad unreadable once it reaches the eyes of an actual human.
I am fairly positive that cold-applying to jobs is a futile process for the most part due to this factor.
3. Some listings aren't actually viable jobs. Companies leave listings up long after positions are filled or worse, there are CV harvesting services posing as regular listings that essentially are collecting CVs and data.
4. I even tried paying to in-mail hiring and talent managers on LinkedIn. I reached out that way with personal notes about 32 times.
People who replied from this effort: 4
One person who replied was from an agency I really want to work at and she replied to let me know she had just quit her job but wanted to wish me success. Another recruiter also replied to let me know that she moved on to working at a dog rescue and hadn't updated her profile.
The other two people replied that they loved my background and would get back to me while also admitting that they had a hard time keeping up with in-mails. I never heard back from them despite pinging them again just to re-establish a connection.
I should add that for every job I apply to via that job site, I also seek out the talent acquisition person(s) at the company and send a personal note to them. This hasn't actually led anywhere.
5. I compiled a list of 84 media/streaming/ad/design/PR agencies in NYC and cold-emailed them all with personalized emails.
Replies from this effort: 0
Not one response.
6. I reached out to over 12 recruitment/staffing people/agencies (also called half of them and was assured I would have someone 'get back' to me).
Replies from this effort: 0
7. I was referred to 4 recruiters personally who I reached out to.
Result of this effort: 3 of the recruiters ghosted me after talking to me, and the other one I never even reached in the first place.
8. I swallowed my pride and plastered myself all over social media publicly asking for leads (for reference, I have around 400,000+ people following me across networks, see below for my actual background if curious).
Actual responses that panned out: 1
One potential really great lead did contact me and we talked on the phone.
Perhaps that will turn into something.
Let that sink in though.
Only 1 person with a genuine lead appeared.
The rest of the replies were from people who didn't read any of my actual post (skipped over where I said I am specifically looking for a full-time job in creative/advertising/media/design related work)
9. I tapped into my network by posting a few private posts to specific groups of people. Truthfully, some people went out of their way. However, ultimately those leads haven't materialized into anything either due to a non-response despite having internal referrers.
In fact, I have exhausted all of the familiar networking advice typically given. I am a the point of not wanting to actively get the people in my network to resent me for all the times I have reached out already to them individually.
In the last decade, I have been to more networking and various industry events than I can count. I have a lot of thoughts on this that would be more suited to another lengthy post though. Just wanted to add that this is not something I haven't done.
Rejections:
Of the rejections I have received from agencies (creative/media), I keep hearing that I am not being considered because I don't have literal agency experience (meaning, because I never worked full-time at an agency, I am tossed out of the running even with my background which involves doing actual contract work for various creative agencies). This has been the most maddening part of the whole process to be honest.
This brings me to my background. Here's my formal background statement that I had to write out for a job months ago but covers quite a bit.
Having just spent the last decade building my art career from scratch resulting in a following of around 500,000 people across all social media, two passion projects that became a traditional book deal resulting in two internationally published and best-selling photography books, a multi-year financial sponsorship with a major imaging brand, and a wide array of experiences that have informed how I approach collaboration and creation, I am at the next step in my life. That step is to find a full-time creative home.
I truly believe that ideas are at their best when they are allowed to thrive alongside a diverse array of audiences and collaborators. Nothing excites me more than sharing an idea with utmost excitement knowing that the sharing of that idea is just the start of the story.
In fact, I truly believe that storytelling is at its heart a collaborative process and that everyone has the potential and ability to contribute to the storytelling process. Everyone has their own unique set of experiences and adaptive knowledge that they can contribute and I love nothing more than being the person that can synthesize all of these perspectives and ideas into something incredible.
I believe that everyone I have collaborated with, from the astronaut who chose me to tell the story of our trip to the Arctic together, to the teams I worked with to create creative campaigns, to the communities I was privileged to help in the Dominican Republic and Cuba, has changed me in a multitude of ways in terms of my perspective, and how I approach life, art, storytelling, and the process of creation. Every day, as humans, we learn and grow in a variety of ways. The ability to look back and call upon these experiences that help us learn is what truly helps foster a well-rounded view of what it means to be, at heart, a storyteller and synthesizer of ideas.
Now that I have hopefully regaled you with that formal statement, here are the last 10 years of my career put into a tidy format:
► Directed the creative process of all photography and writing projects from ideation to execution and distribution
► Managed all project assets, including project plans, data back-ups, uploads, photo-editing, photo-management, photo-shoots, disc storage management, file transfers
► Negotiated contract rates, terms of usage, and day rates while producing project requirements and timelines to consistently meet deadlines for events, exhibitions, and roll-outs of product releases
► Collaborated and executed many large-scale projects resulting in exhibitions around the world and even a featured collaboration with Astronaut Commander Hadfield presenting our collaborative art project to the Toronto Art Gallery of Ontario
► Expanded brand presence across multiple social media networks, resulting in 200,000 followers on Facebook, 115,000 followers on Instagram, 44,000 followers on Twitter, 195,000 followers on Tumblr, 1.8 million followers on Google Plus, and developed PR strategies for photography and books, including construction of a contact list of relevant press targets in the US and UK, production of press releases, and development of pitch
► My two books NY Through the Lens and New York in the Snow were the result of a traditional book deal. Both were published and released worldwide in stores (Barnes and Noble, Target, Walmart, the Strand, Watersmiths, WH Smith, and a host of other well-known stores and indie outlets offline and online) in 2014 and 2017 via Ilex Press, an imprint of Hachette UK.
► NY Through The Lens was based on the writing and art featured in my blog of the same name which had grown in popularity over the span of three years. The book was featured in the Guardian, on the Weather Channel, in the NY Post, on Yahoo News, as well as across many other news outlets.
► New York in the Snow was the culmination of a passion project that involved 7 years of taking photographs in every snowstorm in New York City. The book was featured in the NY Times in December of 2017 and had a major book-signing in London, England in January of 2018
► As a full-time Sony sponsored artist, my art was used in multiple national ad campaigns and I regularly collaborated with the Sony Digital Imaging, and Sony marketing teams
► Selected to speak on behalf of Sony at PhotoPlus Expo, the largest annual photography event in the United States and at WPPI, the largest annual portrait photography conference
► Ideated and executed exhibitions for gallery spaces and new media installations including a showing at the Park Avenue Armory and show at London's Somerset House during the Sony World Photography event
► Participated in a pop-up store event hosted by Wired Magazine in which Sony sponsored a photography gallery featuring black & white prints and 250 signed copies of NY Through the Lens were given to VIP guests
► Commissioned to write regular features for multiple entertainment and media partners representing the Sony brand
Why am I looking for a full-time job with this background?
I am looking towards a sustainable career future I can invest in. What I have loved the most about the last 10 years of my career has been working with various teams. I adore people and I excel in team environments. I also love structure.
When I say I am looking for a creative home, I mean it. I have a very strong work ethic as is hopefully evident by the career I built from scratch. I am looking to apply that work ethic and my creative output and vision towards a full-time job.
What do I want?
Jobs and roles I have been going after: creative producer, art director, brand strategist, engagement manager, creative strategist, various marketing positions, various social media positions, creative lead
I have mainly been looking at ad agencies, media (broadcast and streaming), and some marketing and PR agencies.
Icing on the cake:
To add to this, I am losing the lease to my apartment at the end of August. I have no safety nets which I know is hard for most people to imagine. I don't have family, I don't have a Prince/Princess Charming, it's just me and that's terrifying on tons of levels considering that I really want/need a full-time job right now to not only move on with my career/life but because of this time-frame.
Hope this helps some of you understand my plight. I have gotten tons of messages about this and wanted to answer all the questions generally.
---
Links for good measure:
My LinkedIn
Portfolio
Instagram
Twitter
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Atosa Araxia Abrahamian, Money for Nothing, New Republic (August 29, 2018)
Many jobs are pointless. Others are being automated away. In the future, who will still work for a paycheck?
Some years ago, I had a colleague who would frequently complain that he didn’t have enough to do. He’d mention how much free time he had to our team, ask for more tasks from our boss, and bring it up at after-work drinks. He was right, of course, about the situation: Although we were hardly idle, even the most productive among us couldn’t claim to be toiling for eight (or even five, sometimes three) full hours a day. My colleague, who’d come out of a difficult bout of unemployment, simply could not believe that this justified his salary. It took him a long time to start playing along: checking Twitter, posting on Facebook, reading the paper, and texting friends while fulfilling his professional obligations to the fullest of his abilities.
The idea of being paid to do nothing is difficult to adjust to in a society that places a high value on work. Yet this idea has lately gained serious attention amid projections that the progress of globalization and technology will lead to a “jobless” future. The underlying worry goes something like this: If machines do the work for us, wage labor will disappear, so workers won’t have money to buy things. If people can’t or don’t buy things, no one will be able to sell things, either, which means less commerce, a withering private sector, and even fewer jobs. Our value system based on the sanctity of toil will be exposed as hollow; we won’t be able to speak about workers as a class at all, let alone discuss “the labor market” as we now know it. This will require not just economic adjustments but moral and political ones, too.
One obvious solution would be to separate income from labor altogether, a possibility that two recent books tackle from radically different angles. Give People Money, by journalist Annie Lowrey, offers a measured, centrist endorsement of Universal Basic Income—the idea that governments should give everyone a certain amount of cash each month, no questions asked. The anthropologist David Graeber posits that the link between salaried positions and real work has long been tenuous in any case, since many highly paid jobs serve little purpose at all. In Bullshit Jobs, he tries to make sense of the peculiar yet all-too-common situations in which people are hired, after much fanfare, to do a job, then find themselves not doing much—or worse, performing a task so utterly pointless that they might as well not be doing it.
In the absence of a truly useful job, most people, Graeber considers, would be better off living on “free” money. Lowrey views UBI less as a way to eliminate useless work than a way to compensate invisible forms of labor, such as caring for a relative or doing housework, or to bolster underpaid workers. Cash transfers, she proposes, could also stimulate entrepreneurship and creativity. Either way, the idea of paying people just for being alive is now one that both a radical scholar and a reasonable Beltway journalist can take seriously—though neither author fully reckons with the social reordering that would arise from a world organized around love and leisure, not labor.
Graeber’s book expands on his viral 2013 essay “On the Phenomenon of Bullshit Jobs,” in which he took aim at “employment that is so completely pointless, unnecessary, or pernicious that even the employee cannot justify its existence even though, as part of the conditions of employment, the employee feels obliged to pretend that this is not the case.” Eric, who worked as an “interface administrator” at a design firm, found himself in such a job. His responsibility was to make sure the company’s intranet system worked properly, which sounded useful enough. But, it turned out, he was set up to fail. None of the employees used the system because they were all convinced it was monitoring them. It had been designed with the worst, buggiest software. A confluence of office politics and poor management had led the company to hire Eric, who had no experience working with computers. He was to oversee a system that was never supposed to work in the first place.
Eric ended up doing little. He kept irregular hours and explained to the odd employee how to upload a file or find an email address. He started drinking one, then two, beers at lunch; reading novels at his desk; learning French; and taking trips for nonexistent “business meetings.” If this sounds idyllic—a salary with no work and boozy lunches!—Eric didn’t experience it that way. Instead, he acutely felt “how profoundly upsetting it was to live in a state of utter purposelessness.” Graeber suggest two reasons for Eric’s despondency. One concerns social class: The first person in his family to go to college, Eric wasn’t expecting the white-collar world to be such, well, bullshit. Another reason is existential: When faced with it, “there was simply no way he could construe his job as serving any sort of purpose.
By Graeber’s metric, my old gig wasn’t quite bullshit, mainly because I rather enjoyed it and found it meaningful. The term is subjective: If someone thinks a job is pointless, it probably is. There are also many repetitive, grueling, or boring jobs that do not qualify as bullshit because they meet an essential need: If a cleaner or bus driver doesn’t report for work, it hurts other people. (These Graeber terms “shit” jobs.) His method for identifying bullshit is, by his own account, unscientific. He draws from a pool of anecdotes to produce an anatomy of bullshit workers, who fall into five categories: “flunkies,” “goons,” “duct-tapers,” “box tickers,” and “taskmasters.”“Flunkies” are the modern equivalent of feudal minions who make bosses feel big, important, and strong. Whereas they were once doormen and concierges, they now tend to be receptionists who do little besides answer cold calls and refill the candy bowl, or personal assistants who drop off their boss’s dry cleaning and smile when he walks through the door. “Goons” essentially bully people into buying things they don’t need: Marketing managers and PR specialists do this, as do telemarketers. “Duct-tapers” are employed to fix things that aren’t or shouldn’t be broken or do tasks that could easily be automated—data entry, copying and pasting, photocopying, and so on. “Box tickers” help companies comply with regulation (or offload responsibility for complying), and finally “taskmasters,” or middle managers, spread more BS by assigning it to others.
“The creation of a BS job,” one manager tells Graeber, “often involves creating a whole universe of BS narrative that documents the purpose and functions of the position as well as the qualifications required to successfully perform the job, while corresponding to the [prescribed] format and special bureaucratese.” She explains that her organization’s bureaucracy created odd incentives to retain employees whose work was inadequate. It was easier for her to hire someone in a new position than to fire and replace the incompetent employee. This, she notes, helped BS jobs proliferate.
Graeber attempts to quantify just how much—and after some back-of-the envelope calculations, he wagers that 37 to 40 percent of all office jobs are “bullshit.” He further contends that about 50 percent of the work done in a nonpointless workplace is also bullshit, since even useful jobs contain elements of nonsense: the pretending to be busy, the arbitrary hours, the not being able to leave before five. “Bullshitization” is even infecting the most nonbullshit professions, with teachers overloaded with administrative duties that didn’t use to exist and doctors forced to deal with paperwork and insurance firms that probably should be abolished.
There’s no sure way to verify Graeber’s estimates, but for white-collar workers, they seem basically right. Work backward: How much activity on social media takes place during work hours? How many doctor’s appointments, errands, and online purchases occur between nine and five? In other words, how many of us could stand to work half as much as we currently do without any significant consequences? And yet we insist over and over that we are terribly, endlessly busy.
This state of affairs seems to defy not just human reason, but also basic capitalist logic: Wouldn’t a profit-seeking organization tend to cull unnecessary compensated labor rather than encourage it? Graeber proposes that there is an explicitly irrational reason why such jobs exist—a system he calls “managerial feudalism,” wherein employers keep adding layers and layers of management so that everyone can feel their job is important or at least justified. (They’re “mentoring” young people. They’re helping others develop careers!) The bigger the staff, the more important the company and its leaders feel, regardless of purpose or productivity.
There might be something refreshing about the fact that capitalism has not yet gained full control over its means and ends, and that there are millions of people sitting around getting paid to do nothing all day. Graeber doesn’t buy it. On the contrary: He considers bullshit jobs to be a profound form of psychological violence, a scourge that’s fueling resentment, anomie, depression, and apathy. Patrick, an employee of a student union convenience store, mostly agrees with this judgment. He didn’t mind the work itself; what he resented was being assigned inane busywork, like rearranging things, after he’d finished his tasks six times over. “The very, very worst thing about the job was that it gave you so much time to think,” he tells Graeber in an email:
So I just thought so much about how bullshit my job was, how it could be done by a machine, how much I couldn’t wait for full communism, and just endlessly theorized the alternatives to a system where millions of human beings have to do that kind of work for their whole lives in order to survive.
Of course, some people can escape by focusing on creative pursuits during the hours they are idle. And it helps if everyone in said job acknowledges, if tacitly, that they serve no purpose by being there. But that’s hard, too, Graeber argues, because of the structure and nature of the modern workplace: the rules, the conventions, “the ritual of humiliation that allows the supervisor to show who’s boss in the most literal sense.”
The existence of bullshit jobs has, further, led to the devaluation of vital occupations. Workers in essential, nonbullshit jobs are constantly told by moralizing politicians that their work is noble and that they ought to be grateful for the often low pay they receive. Even though the middle managers and box tickers of the world can console themselves with the thought that they are “generating wealth” and “adding jobs” by virtue of their “economic output,” they secretly envy the real, human sense of purpose that useful workers—teachers, garbage collectors, care workers—share, Graeber writes, and end up vilifying them out of “moral envy.” This impulse plays out politically: Nurses, teachers, and bus drivers, for example, are constantly portrayed as “greedy” when they bargain for better union contracts, or they’re said to be “stealing” from the state when they make overtime wages. When voters in bullshit jobs hear these words over a campaign season, it can swing legislative bodies to the right.
Would it be better if those workers stuck in bullshit jobs could simply walk away? Graeber isn’t one for policy recommendations, but he does float UBI as a potential salve to our sad professional predicaments. A UBI would “unlatch work from livelihood entirely”: If, guaranteed enough money to live on, people could choose between bullshit or nothing, he wagers that they’d choose nothing and do something more useful and interesting with their time instead.
In Give People Money, Annie Lowrey is less concerned with dissatisfied professionals than with some of the world’s poorest (including those in the United States), who in addition to already being overworked and underpaid—if they are employed at all—will likely face the harshest economic consequences if or when menial tasks are automated. These workers are already up against weakened unions, corporations dead set on extracting maximum value from their workforces by scaling back benefits and slashing wages, the rising costs of education and health care, and other trends that wind up concentrating wealth at the very top. When the robots come, as Lowrey believes they will, there’s little that governments, companies, or other organizations can do to make them go away. The best shot for these people, she comes to believe, is unconditional money.
Lowrey makes a convincing moral argument for UBI, insisting that “every person is deserving of participation in the economy, freedom of choice, and a life without deprivation—and that our government can and should choose to provide these things.” She also points out to great effect the destructive moralizing that Americans, at least, attach to money. “We believe there is a moral difference between taking a home mortgage interest deduction and receiving a Section 8 voucher,” she writes, in a refreshing moment of indignation. “We judge, marginalize, and shame the poor for their poverty.” Gaining support for UBI would mean persuading people to reject those assumptions; convincing a majority to see, as Graeber and Lowrey both urge, that commanding a high salary doesn’t automatically make you a good person.
A further challenge for advocates of UBI today is the lack of definitive, long-term surveys “proving” the mechanism’s efficacy: There have been no truly universal cash transfers within one country for an extended period of time, and there are thus no narratives to follow or macroeconomic conclusions to draw. Thanks to increased interest in the phenomenon, though, there are more and more smaller-scale studies, and Lowrey visits one of them in Kenya with GiveDirectly, a charity that essentially hands out cash through mobile payments in poor places. There she meets a man named Fredrick Omondi Auma, who “had been in rough shape when GiveDirectly knocked on his door: impoverished, drinking, living in a mud hut with a thatched roof. His wife had left him,” she writes. “But with the manna-from-heaven money, he had patched up his life and, as an economist might put it, made the jump from labor to capital.”
More money, Lowrey reports, turns the villagers into good capitalists who invest their savings in education and supplies, start businesses, and help grow the local economy. Her observations recall the breathless and somewhat naïve boosterism that surrounded microcredit programs in the late 1990s and early 2000s. She even meets three sister-wives who plan to pool their funds and create a small bank to lend to women. In the United States, too, she finds clear-cut potential for success. In separate chapters, she illustrates the promise of cash transfers for the American poor with more clarity and purpose, visiting a family with disabled children and speaking to women whose jobs just don’t pay enough for them to get by. Simple cash could help teenagers finish school instead of working to support their families; it could adequately compensate women who stay home to care for sick loved ones; it could spare the elderly or disabled from the bureaucratic hell of waiting in line to plead for meager welfare benefits.
Ending poverty around the world ought to be a priority, and Lowrey makes a strong case that unconditional cash transfers can help do that. But in the wrong hands, a UBI can do more harm than good. It can serve as a pretext to further decimate social programs and put more blame still on the individual for any mishaps or shortcomings. As Lowrey notes, libertarians love the idea that UBI could replace the welfare state, shrinking big government—a move that could render the whole program ineffective, since it’s hard to imagine a UBI stretching to cover market-rate housing and exorbitant private health care. Meanwhile, cash payments can also reinforce social and racial divisions by throwing money at a problem without addressing its causes. Giving the individual residents of an over-policed neighborhood cash transfers won’t, for instance, make them any less susceptible to unreasonable searches or violence.
That’s why it matters who supports UBI and, more significantly, whose policies it gets attached to. Many of the people funding UBI research or advocating for cash transfers—Facebook co-founder Chris Hughes and Y Combinator’s Sam Altman, to name just two—are in fact among those who do best from the current distribution of wealth. A UBI would, after all, benefit corporations: For any company that depends on people having money to buy their products—whether groceries, prescription drugs, or driverless cars—the idea of a jobless, incomeless population presents a threat to its bottom line. Free money lets consumers stay consumers; it maintains the current system. And that’s without getting into the possibility that unemployment and poverty might add up to riots, class war, and mass unrest. In that situation, the CEOs would be the first to go.
Both Graeber and Lowrey struggle with the fact that—for all work’s miseries and for all the promise of UBI—work is deeply ingrained in American society. While many of us might hate our individual jobs, most of us love the idea of a job. Our world is constructed around the idea that a job is not just a paycheck: It’s a status symbol and a form of social inclusion. This, of course, supports the creation of bullshit jobs, which prop up the socioeconomic status quo. Now that a jobless (or less job-full) future may be within reach, the question is how to reimagine our relationship with work.
Lowrey appreciates the extent to which people identify with their work—even if it’s bullshit or shit (in her parlance, “crummy”) work. Having reported extensively on the psychological toll that unemployment can take, she insists that the culture (or is it cult?) of work is most likely here to stay. It might not be the healthiest approach—she dislikes moralizing around the virtue of work almost as much as Graeber does—but she realizes it’s something we have to build in to our short- and medium-term expectations because “the American faith in hard work and the American cult of self-reliance exist and persist, seen in our veneration of everyone from Franklin to Frederick Douglass to Oprah Winfrey.”
For his part, Graeber insists that there’s no value in working for the sake of just working. That often gives the impression that anyone who does want to work for work’s sake must be a bit of a sucker and that the compulsion to work is a manifestation of false consciousness or, worse, stupidity. He thus glosses over the strongly felt benefits, be they professional, social, or psychological, that many people get from their jobs. If Graeber’s unscientific assertions about bullshit jobs feel vital, urgent, and intuitively true, his dismissals of work’s inherent value—not moral, but social—feel incomplete.
With a compulsion to work so deep-rooted, UBI is a solution that will only go so far, even if implemented in a way that truly does alter lives for the better. Giving people money will not make us less moralistic about labor: People used to working will not necessarily know what to do with themselves or with their time. (I certainly wouldn’t.) Such measures represent only a fraction of the socioeconomic overhaul that will be needed to deal—if not now, then for future generations—with this twin utopia-dystopia: a world with less work and less money.
A solution that neither Lowrey nor Graeber spends much time dwelling on is perhaps the obvious: to split the difference. In a 1932 essay titled “In Praise of Idleness,” the philosopher Bertrand Russell noted that he had come to think of work not as something morally necessary, but as a means to enhance pleasures in the rest of life (after all, would you want to attend a dinner party you could never leave?). While acknowledging that he is a product of a Protestant work ethic and thus a compulsive worker, Russell suggests halving the workday to four hours, which would be enough for a person to secure “the necessities and elementary comforts of life,” leaving the rest of his time to do whatever he wanted.
“There will be happiness and joy of life, instead of frayed nerves, weariness, and dyspepsia,” Russell goes on. “The work exacted will be enough to make leisure delightful, but not enough to produce exhaustion.”
#work#capitalism#the way we live now#bullshit jobs#ubi#universal basic income#modernity#automation#labor#identity#david graeber
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3: “Who did this to you?”
link to ao3
first chapter on Tumblr previous chapter on Tumblr
Borna was still a bit weak and shaky, but he couldn’t afford missing a shift, so he made himself some extra soup and hoped that he won’t need any medicine. Mondays were always busy, though luckily he had the late night shift, meaning that the worst of the traffic missed him.
It was another cold and damp night, the neon signs of the carwash and gas station reflecting sharply on the concrete. He was dressed in his work uniform, a coarse but functional jumpsuit, hair tied back and stuffed under a beanie. Usually he’d roll his sleeves up, not wanting to wet them, but the bite was still looking fresh and he didn’t want anyone to pay attention to it. It was healing strangely fast, and the buts from the barbed wire were almost gone, though he had a feeling that the bite was going to stay on his skin forever.
A sleek black car drove in, spattered with mud. Borna made a face.
When it came to this sort of cars, they were never good news.
The driver’s window rolled down. A lady poked her head out. Her features were sharp, hair slicked back, and her eyes were cold in a way that had nothing to do with their colour. Borna suppressed a shudder and plastered on a smile.
“Hello, how may I help you?” he asked, words rolling off his tongue automatically.
She fixed him with her steely gaze. “I need my car washed,” she said. “I’d also like the chrome parts polished afterwards, if that’s possible.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. It will cost extra, though.”
He directed her to drive onto the conveyor belt and started the machines. As the automated machines were running, he grabbed the rags and polish for the chrome.
“Please drive there,” he said, pointing to an empty area to the side. The lady did as he asked and he went to work, trying to scrub as fast as he could. Usually he’d have a co-worker to help, but usually there was only two of them working the graveyard shift, and in its typical fashion the carwash was understaffed, leaving him alone. He cursed the incompetent boss under his breath and hoped that the woman won’t be mad because of how long he took.
After an uncomfortably long time, he finally straightened up, putting the rags and polish out of the way and brought the receipt, along with the credit card terminal. These types either had cash only in hundred dollar bills, or no cash at all, which seemed to correspond directly to legality of their occupation. Not that Borna ever saw anything illegal going on, but there were clues. He noticed them all and firmly decided that if he was ever going to become a drug dealer he’s going to be more careful than that.
“Cash or credit?”
“Cash,” she replied, pulling out a hundred dollar bill.
He suppressed a sigh. “Do you have any smaller bills?” he asked, trying to get his brain to calculate how much he had to give her back.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” She smiled politely, though her eyes remained cold and calculating. She looked him over.
“Who did this to you?” she asked, voice a bit softer. Her manicured finger trailed down his arm to the bite mark.
Borna swallowed a curse. He was too worn out to realize he automatically rolled his sleeves up. “A bar fight going wrong,” he replied, shrugging.
“You shouldn’t be working,” she said. “You don’t look well.”
He shrugged again. “Thank you for your concern, but I can manage.”
She took her purse and rifled through, producing a card. “We could use someone like you at our company,” she said, giving him the card. “Give us a call.”
He pocketed the card, feeling pinned by her gaze like a butterfly in a collection. “Thank you,” he said. He blinked after a moment, remembering he was still in the middle of a transaction and scrambled to get the bills he owed her.
“Keep the change,” she interrupted him.
His brown knitted. “That’s a lot of money,” he blurted out.
“I’m sure you’ll put it to good use,” she replied and rolled the window up, driving off.
He was left there standing and staring at the hundred dollar bill in his hands.
---
Dorian cursed the no smoking rule for what seemed a millionth time. He was sitting behind the cash register, scrolling on his phone. There was little to do - customers were rare and there was only this many times one can rearrange the shelves. Various packets of herbal mixes, “organic” food additives, random crystals and overpriced teapots were all arranged neatly, making the whole store look very put-together. The overwhelming smell of herbs was almost enough to overpower the stench of cigarettes on Dorian.
Doors opened with a jingle and Dorian quickly put his phone down. Then, seeing the figure, he relaxed.
“What do you want, Gary?” he asked.
The newcomer was a burly man, shaved head and big beard. He was dressed in fairly formal clothes, the look being completely ruined by the fact that anything he put on looked too small for his bulging muscles.
“Nice to see you too, Dorian,” Gary replied. “I’ve got a packet to leave for Samara later.”
Dorian nodded and accepted the wrapped package, putting it underneath the counter. “That all?”
“Nothing official,” Gary said after a beat. “But I think Madam Reid should be coming to check up on us soon.”
“Do you think she’s gonna hire anyone new?” Dorian asked.
Gary shrugged. “It’s been a while, but you never know with her.” He looked up and down Dorian’s body, wrinkling his nose. “If she does I hope they won’t be to sensitive to smell.”
Dorian rolled his eyes. “Same could be said for anyone working with you if you don’t learn to use a deodorant.”
Gary threw his hands up. “I can’t control how much I sweat!” Then he let his hands flop back to his side, sobering up. “In any case, be on the ready for a visit.”
Dorian nodded. “Note taken.”
“See you,” Gary said and then he was leaving the store.
Dorian watched him leave through the shop window, waited for a few minutes and then pulled out the package. It was about the size of a larger book, though not as heavy. He sniffed it carefully. Nothing seemed to catch his attention, so he put the package back down.
---
Steven had his earplugs in already, even though it’s been fairly early. The band playing that particular night had a saxophonist who was extremely fond of screeching notes. And then they called Steven’s music noise.
Another patron appeared at the bar. Another large beer.
Nothing builds resentment towards experimental jazz quite like working in a place playing nothing but that. Steven quietly prayed the saxophonist’s lungs would finally give up.
“One Manhattan, please.”
A woman appeared at the counter, looking way too put together to be in a dive bar that exclusively played experimental jazz for alcohol-addled miserable people who were falsely convinced of their intellectual superiority. Judging from the way she carried herself, she knew that too.
“Of course, ma’am,” he replied, setting to work.
He tried to focus on his work but there was something about her that made him always keep her in the corner of his eye. She seemed to be content to watch the people, not paying him any mind.
“Your drink, ma’am,” he said, placing the glass next to her.
She turned around, looking at him again. “Thank you,” she said politely, taking the glass and trying a sip.
Steven looked around. There didn’t seem to be anyone wanting for a drink yet. Mondays were usually quite calm and while he didn’t get much in tips, he did prefer them to noisy and frantic weekends. He looked at the lady again.
“Waiting for someone?” he asked, making sure that his tone was as conversational as possible. She looked too sharp to tolerate any unwanted flirting.
Her eyes fixated upon him and he immediately regretted speaking up. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t think I’d be here if I didn’t have to.”
He chuckled nervously. Her stare was way too intense for his comfort. “Experimental jazz can be… An acquired taste,” he said awkwardly.
She kept staring at him.
“If you want some earplugs I’ve got extra,” he offered.
Lips twitching into something that was almost a smile, she shook her head. “As much as I’d love to, I have to decline,” she said. “Thank you for offering, though.”
Steven nodded in acknowledgement and watched her turn back around.
---
Borna was staring at the clock. He still had a few hours until the end of the shift, but he didn’t know how was he supposed to stay awake for that long. He already emptied his container with soup and now the night cold was finally seeping through his sweaty clothes. He was probably running a fever.
He did not like that.
There wasn’t much he could do aside from getting a coffee or a cold sandwich from the gas station, but neither really appealed to him. What he really needed was a warm bed, but that was almost three hours away.
He pulled out the business card he was handed earlier. The lady’s presence was… striking. She intimidated and scared him in a way and yet he felt compelled to please her. There was little else one could do under her steely gaze.
Aside from the swoop in his stomach in her presence, Borna didn’t really notice anything that would point to her being involved with any shady business. He got used to seeing all sorts of methods such people avoided detection by law, from extra dark windows to straight-up stolen plates and stolen cars, nothing of the sort seemed to apply to the lady’s vehicle.
He read the business card.
He frowned.
Words “NORTHWEST HOLISTIC NATURAL REMEDIES” were staring right back at him.
She didn’t seem very keen on herbal teas or healing crystals. She looked entirely too sharp for any of that nonsense.
But then again, he wouldn’t have been too surprised if the store chain was just her noticing an extremely profitable business niche and deciding it would be a great method of exploiting people. Whatever was the reason for her throwing herself into that line of work, it couldn’t have been passion for natural and spiritual medicine.
There were a few emails and links listed on the card. He pulled out his phone, typing in the official website link. It took him to a minimalist store website, all greens and “natural” textures and a barely acceptable version of the font that every hipster store used. Absolutely nothing about it corresponded to the image of that woman.
He read the business card again. The name of the CEO was MadamReid. Googling her name produced a few unremarkable photos and articles, confirming her identity.
She did express concern over his wellbeing. He unconsciously trailed his fingers down the trail where her fingers went.
He opened his email account. The carwash job sucked too much for him to turn down an opportunity like that.
---
A man in a suit made his way to the icy lady, greeting her. Steven watched them from the corner of his eye, noting how extremely awkward and clumsy the man acted. He clicked his fingers in an attempt to look authoritative and cool. The attempt was not successful.
“Good evening,” Steven said smoothly. “What would you have?”
“One martini, dry,” the man replied, trying to sound dismissive.
“Anything else?” Steven looked at the lady who mostly just looked bored.
“No, thanks.”
The band, especially the blasted saxophonist, were too noisy for him to hear anything from the pair. He put the martini on the counter. “Your drink, sir,” he said. The man didn’t even look at him, just taking the drink.
Steven resumed to cleaning and sorting out things, making sure that there was enough beer on hand. The band was playing what seemed like a crescendo of their concert and he needed to be prepared for the inevitable flood of people coming for their beers afterwards.
The annoying man clicked his fingers again.
“The bill,” he said. “I’ll pay for both our drinks.”
Steven mumbled his assent and got the bill. “Cash or credit?” he asked automatically. The man whipped out a credit card. Not even taking the receipt, the man left. Steven suppressed a grumble about the lack of tip and took the empty glasses to be cleaned. A finger stopped on his hand as he moved to take the lady’s glass. He looked up.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
The lady gave him a rolled bill. “It looks like you and your friend could use some money,” she said and left.
“My friend?” Steven repeated weakly. He unrolled the bill. Benjamin Franklin’s face was staring back at him.
---
Sharp ringing of a phone tore Borna from his sleep. He groaned, barely able to open his eyes.
“Who the fuck is calling you at this time,” Steven grumbled from the opposite side of the room.
Borna made a vague sound and finally grabbed the phone, blinking blearily at the caller’s ID. It was a number, local one but unfamiliar.
“Hello?” he answered, failing at sounding awake.
“Is this mister… Bourney Kouzzuh?”
“It’s Borna Kožuh,” he said wearily. “Yes, that’s me.”
“We’ve received your resume. When would you be available for an interview?”
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